Chapter 19
Angela
The morning sun hit the Chicago skyline like it was trying to ignite the glass. It was brilliant, blinding, and unapologetic.
I sat on the windowsill of the hotel room—the suite Elijah had insisted on getting because it was "our first night as a real couple"—wrapped in a plush white robe, watching the city wake up.
I felt... light.
The heavy stone of shame I had carried for three years, the weight of being "The Thief’s Daughter," was gone. It had dissolved somewhere between Joe’s Diner in Utah and the General Manager’s office in Chicago.
Elijah was still asleep. He was sprawled across the king-sized bed, taking up fully seventy percent of the mattress. One arm was flung over his eyes, the other was resting on the empty space where I had been.
I watched him breathe. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand—the injured one, now free of the brace while he slept—curled slightly.
We had survived.
It sounded melodramatic, but it was true. We had survived his father. We had survived the lies. We had survived my fear and his pride.
"Stop staring," a raspy voice mumbled from the bed.
I smiled. "I’m not staring. I’m admiring the view."
Elijah moved his arm from his eyes and cracked one blue eye open. "The lake is that way." He pointed vaguely toward the window.
"I wasn't looking at the lake."
He grinned—a slow, sleepy smirk that made my stomach flip. "Come back to bed."
"We have to check out in an hour," I reminded him. "And we have a flight. And then... we have to face the music back at Sterling."
"Music can wait," he groaned, reaching out blindly for me. "Come here."
I laughed and hopped off the sill, crawling back into bed. He pulled me against his chest, burying his face in my hair. He smelled like hotel soap and sleep.
"Are you scared?" he asked quietly, his hand tracing circles on my back through the robe.
"About going back?" I thought about it. "A little. Your dad is going to be furious. The Board is going to be scandalized. People are going to talk."
"Let them talk," Elijah said, kissing the top of my head. "We control the narrative now. Remember?"
"Mutually assured destruction," I quoted.
"Exactly. It’s the Vance family motto."
"I thought the motto was 'Win at all costs.'"
"That was the old motto," he corrected. "The new motto is 'Don't piss off Angela.'"
I laughed, snuggling closer. "I like that one better."
"Me too."
We lay there for a few minutes, soaking in the peace. It felt fragile, like a soap bubble, but also surprisingly resilient.
"Elijah?"
"Hmm?"
"What if... what if it doesn't work?" I whispered. "What if your dad calls your bluff? What if he leaks the photos anyway?"
Elijah pulled back to look at me. His expression was serious, devoid of the playfulness from a moment ago.
"Then we deal with it," he said firmly. "If he leaks the photos, we own them. We say, 'Yeah, we’re in love, and we helped each other out.' The world loves a love story, Angela. Especially one involving a misunderstood bad boy and a struggling ballerina."
"You’re hardly misunderstood," I teased. "You’re just grumpy."
"I’m complex," he argued. "But seriously. If he burns us, we rise from the ashes. Together. I meant what I said to Markham. I’ll play in Europe. I’ll play in a beer league. As long as I’m coming home to you, the rest is just noise."
I looked at him. I really looked at him.
The anxiety that had been lurking in the corners of my mind finally retreated. He wasn't just saying the right things. He believed them. He had shifted his center of gravity from "Success" to "Us."
"Okay," I said, leaning up to kiss him. "Okay. Let’s go home and burn it down."
Elijah
The flight back to Colorado was uneventful, but the car ride to the university felt like approaching a war zone.
Angela held my hand the entire time. Her grip was tight, but her palm wasn't sweaty. She was ready.
We pulled up to the Sterling Athletics complex. There were news vans.
"Of course," I muttered. "Cyrus doesn't do anything quietly."
"He tipped them off?" Angela asked, looking out the tinted window.
"Probably. Or the rumors just hit critical mass. 'Champion Captain Disappears for Three Days.' It’s news."
I turned to her. "You ready?"
She took a deep breath. She smoothed the skirt of her dress. She lifted her chin.
"Ready."
We got out of the car.
The cameras flashed instantly. Microphones were shoved in our faces.
"Vance! Vance! Is it true you’re leaving the team?"
"Who is the girl?"
"Is there an investigation?"
I didn't stop. I put my arm around Angela’s waist, pulling her flush against my side. I kept my head up, staring straight ahead. I was the Iceman, but I wasn't cold. I was protective.
We walked through the gauntlet and into the building.
We went straight to the Athletic Director’s office.
Coach Miller was there. So was the Dean. And, sitting in the corner like a gargoyle in a bespoke suit, was my father.
The room went silent when we walked in.
"Elijah," Cyrus said, standing up. He looked calm. Too calm. "You decided to return."
"I told you I would," I said, keeping my arm around Angela. "I had business to handle."
"Is this the business?" Cyrus gestured to Angela with a dismissive wave. "The liability?"
"Her name is Angela," I said, my voice hard. "And she is my fiancée."
The word hung in the room.
Angela squeezed my waist. We weren't officially engaged—I hadn't bought the ring yet—but the title was a shield. It elevated her from "girlfriend" to "family."
"Fiancée," the Dean spluttered. "Mr. Vance, surely you realize—"
"I realize that engaged couples often share finances," I interrupted. "I realize that supporting a partner through a family medical crisis is not a violation of NCAA policy, provided it is disclosed. Which I am doing now."
I looked at Miller.
"Coach, I apologize for the distraction. I apologize for the secrecy. But I do not apologize for loving her."
Miller looked at me. He looked at Angela, who was standing tall, meeting his gaze without flinching.
He sighed, rubbing his temples.
"You’re a headache, Vance," Miller grunted. "But you’re the best damn player I’ve ever coached. And you brought us a trophy."
He looked at Cyrus.
"The team stands with him," Miller said. "If the Board wants to launch an inquiry into his personal life, they can do it without my support. As far as I’m concerned, the season is over, and what Elijah does with his money is his business."
Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. He hadn't expected Miller to side with me. He had expected the "Old Guard" to close ranks.
"This is reckless," Cyrus said tightly. "The optics are terrible."
"The optics are fine," I countered. "The Blackhawks drafted me this morning. Markham called. Third overall pick."
Cyrus froze. "You spoke to Markham?"
"I did. He knows everything. About Angela. About the money. About you."
I took a step forward, leaving Angela’s side for a moment to confront my father.
"He doesn't care, Dad. He wants a player who can handle pressure. I proved I can."
I leaned in closer, dropping my voice so only he could hear.
"The file is encrypted on a server in Zurich. If you leak one photo... if you make one phone call to the press... it goes live. Every email. Every bribe. Every offshore account."
Cyrus stared at me. His face was a mask of fury, but beneath it, I saw a flicker of something else.
Respect.
Or maybe fear.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, son," he whispered.
"I learned from the master," I whispered back.
Cyrus held my gaze for a long second. Then, he straightened his tie. He looked at the Dean. He looked at Miller.
"Well," Cyrus said loudly, putting on his public face. "If Chicago is happy, then I suppose we should be celebrating. The Vance legacy continues."
He walked past me. He stopped in front of Angela.
He looked her up and down.
"You’re expensive," he said.
"I’m worth it," Angela replied, cool as ice.
Cyrus let out a short, bark of a laugh. "Perhaps you are."
He walked out of the office.
The tension in the room snapped.
Miller let out a long breath. "Jesus, Vance. You took ten years off my life."
"Sorry, Coach."
"Get out of here," Miller waved us away. "Go celebrate. And for the love of God, don't get arrested."
"No promises," I grinned.
I grabbed Angela’s hand. We walked out of the office. We walked past the reporters, ignoring their questions. We walked out to my car.
We got in. The doors closed.
We were safe.
Angela turned to me. Her eyes were wide, shining with adrenaline and joy.
"You just stared down Cyrus Vance," she said.
"We stared him down," I corrected.
She laughed. "I can't believe he folded."
"He didn't fold. He calculated the risk and realized he couldn't win. It’s business."
I started the car.
"Where to?" she asked.
"Home," I said. "Phase Three."
Angela
The penthouse felt different.
The last time I was here, it had been a prison. Then a battlefield. Now... it felt like a sanctuary.
Elijah had called a cleaning crew on the way over to fix the damage he had caused in his rage. The broken glass was gone. The furniture was upright. There were fresh flowers on the table.
But the energy was different. The cold, sterile vibe was gone. It felt lived-in. It felt warm.
Elijah locked the door behind us. He threw his keys in the bowl. He turned to me.
He didn't say a word. He just picked me up.
I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively. He carried me down the hallway, not to the guest room, not to the master, but to the living room.
He sat on the sofa, keeping me in his lap.
"We did it," he whispered against my neck.
"We did," I breathed.
He pulled back to look at me. His eyes were intense, blue fire.
"I missed you," he said. "Those two weeks... I was a ghost. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I just played hockey and hated myself."
"I missed you too," I admitted. "Salt Lake was awful. Beige and lonely."
"Don't ever leave me again," he commanded. It wasn't a request. It was a primal need.
"I won't. You’re stuck with me."
"Good."
He kissed me.
It started slow. A reaffirmation. A tasting of victory. But it quickly spiraled into something hotter. The adrenaline of the confrontation was still coursing through our veins, and it needed an outlet.
"Take this off," he growled, tugging at the strap of my dress.
"You take it off," I challenged.
He didn't hesitate. He found the zipper and pulled it down. The dress pooled at my waist.
He looked at me. His gaze was worshipful.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "My chaos."
He leaned down and kissed my breast, over the fabric of my bra. His beard scratched my skin, a rough, erotic friction.
"Elijah," I gasped, arching into him.
"I want to celebrate," he said against my skin. "I want to make you scream again. I want to know that you’re real."
"I’m real," I promised. "Show me."
He unclasped my bra. He tossed it aside.
He took me right there on the sofa. It wasn't like the first time—hesitant and awed. It wasn't like the second time—desperate and sad.
This was joyful. It was triumphant.
He entered me slowly, watching my face.
"Mine," he whispered with every thrust. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Yours," I echoed, meeting his rhythm.
We moved together perfectly. The friction was electric. The connection was absolute. There were no secrets between us anymore. No contracts. No debts.
Just love.
When the climax came, it was explosive. A release of weeks of fear and tension. I cried out, digging my nails into his shoulders. He groaned, burying his face in my neck, shaking with the force of his own release.
We lay there for a long time afterward, tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin.
"Phase Three is going well," I murmured sleepily.
Elijah chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "I told you. Lots of sex."
"And the apartment?" I asked. "In Chicago?"
"I already put in an offer," he said. "Markham recommended a realtor. We close next week."
"You work fast."
"I’m efficient."
He kissed my forehead.
"Angela?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For saving me. For loving the parts of me that are broken."
I lifted my head to look at him. I traced the scar on his eyebrow. I touched the bruise on his jaw from the fight.
"You aren't broken, Elijah," I said softly. "You’re just put together differently. And I love every piece."
He smiled. It was the smile from the cabin. The real one.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
We stayed on the sofa until the sun went down, watching the city lights come on one by one.
The world outside was still loud. The press was still speculating. Cyrus Vance was still plotting. The NHL was waiting.
But in here, in the penthouse at the top of the world, everything was quiet.
We had won the game. And this time, we got to keep the trophy.