Chapter 3
brULES (JOY)
Rockefeller Center at Christmas is a glitter bomb.
Lights everywhere, the tree punching the sky, crowds pressed to the railings.
The air smells of roasted chestnuts and hot pretzels, and somewhere “Carol of the Bells” is blaring.
Kids shriek, couples grip each other’s hands.
The rink glows so bright, it looks staged.
Our Defenders charity skate sits right in the middle of it—jerseys, Santa hats, chaos on ice.
The crowd spots our guys and goes wild. Phones up. Screaming. Holiday mania with blades.
I check my shot list. I need seven short clips and two stills: Dmitri with kids, Wesley steadying a skater, Novak being obnoxiously charming, a team-wide “we love you” shout-out, and a slow-mo group skate-by that makes our TikTok comments turn into heart-eye emojis.
My phone buzzes. Mother.
I consider letting it ring out, but hiding from her is pointless. She’d find me eventually.
“Darling,” she says crisply. “I saw Bennett at the Whitneys’ dinner last night. He asked after you.”
“That’s generous of him,” I say, keeping my voice light while framing a shot of Dmitri teaching a kid to hockey stop. “Tell him I’m thriving.”
“He’s from a good family. Solid, grounded. He’d make sense.”
“So does gravity, Mother. Doesn’t mean I have to fall for it.”
A pause—a chill even the rink below can’t match. “You’re really willing to throw away twelve million dollars to prove a point?”
“I’m not proving anything. I just don’t want to marry or get engaged to Bennett Vance the Fourth. Honestly, Mother, it sounds terribly depressing. I’d wither from lack of stimulation.”
“Darling—”
“Mother, please. I don’t like this guy. There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I watch Wesley across the rink, patient and solid as he helps a teetering skater find their balance. “I don’t know. Technically, I don’t need the money. Grandma was a tyrant, and I won’t let her boss me around from her grave.”
Mother exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled. “Don’t confuse ideals with income, dear. You have ten days. I suggest you use them wisely.”
Then she’s gone.
For a moment, the noise rushes back—tourists, traffic, the faint ring of blades carving the frozen surface. I think of my students in Harlem, of heat bills and dance shoes, the trust that could turn into scholarships—if I can just hold onto it.
The wind lifts my hair. Ten days. Twelve million reasons to keep my balance.
I pocket my phone and refocus on work.
Wesley’s in a beanie and gloves, expression bright. There’s a kid clutching his forearm. He talks the kid through tiny pushes, patient, smiling.
I zoom in. He’s ridiculous. Alaska shoulders. Alaska calm. A face that looks carved when he’s serious and softens when a kid tries to stand without falling. He was born for this kind of content, even if he hates that I call it that.
A ripple runs through the crowd as Finn O’Reilly slides past backward, defying physics.
He winks at a row of tween fans, spins to a stop, then reaches for the hand of the woman gliding in behind him.
His wife, Jessica. She looks at home here.
They cut a neat line through the chaos—him cocky, her laughing, both of them smooth.
“Show-offs,” I grumble, and aim my lens.
“Jealous?” Finn calls, because of course he heard me.
“Of your ego? Never.” I wave him off and keep moving.
“Joy!” Dmitri bellows from center. “Ris is making a spin!”
I pan left and spot her. Dmitri’s daughter Amneris—Ris—seven going on seventeen, wearing a tiny blue practice dress with sparkles and a serious face.
She does a little two-foot turn, arms out, knees bent, tongue sticking out in concentration.
She lands it, listing like a drunk penguin, then flashes a triumphant grin.
“You’re a star,” I yell. She beams. Dmitri might burst into tears from pride, and I hold my phone ready, because that would definitely break the internet.
Jessica glides backward in front of Ris and nods at her feet. “Edges,” she says, kind and firm. “Knees soft. Good. Again.” Ris tries and gets it cleaner. Dmitri claps his giant mitts together so hard that three pigeons probably take off in Jersey.
Found-family content. Check.
“Jellybean.”
The voice rolls through the noise, warm and unmistakable. I turn.
Uncle Julian stands at the rail in a charcoal coat and scarf, every inch the owner.
I drift closer, lowering my camera. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you. And yet.”
“I work here.”
“Funny.” His mouth twitches. “Your mother seems to think you’re wasting your Harvard degree.”
“My mother thinks a lot of things.”
He studies my face. “She called me. She’s worried.”
“I bet she is.”
“Bennett Vance?”
“Not happening.”
“Then what is happening? You have—”
“Ten days. I know.” I exhale. “I’m working on it.”
His brow lifts. “Working on it how? You could just say yes, wear the ring for a few weeks, then quietly call it off in January.”
“Uncle Julian, no. An engagement like that would be all over page six before I even finished saying yes. And the breakup? Blood in the water. Every photo agency in Manhattan would dig up old shots of me, and suddenly the whole city knows exactly who I am—including everyone here at work. That’s not happening. ”
He nods slowly, conceding. “Then what?”
I hesitate. “Maybe I’ll hire an actor. Someone with a clean background. They play the part, collect the check, everyone’s satisfied.” I pause. “Except my mother, of course; she wants boring and suitable.”
His expression hardens. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Too risky. One NDA leak, one text out of context, and you’re the girl who faked a relationship for money.”
I swallow. Everyone would know who I am then too. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say finally.
“Jellybean—”
“Uncle Julian, I adore you. Trust me. And”—I tip my chin toward the stands—”disappear before someone decides the owner plays favorites.”
He sighs, amused despite himself. “Bossy.”
“It runs in the family.” I wink. Out of arguments, he tips an invisible hat and melts back into the crowd.
I exhale and refocus on my shot list. Wesley’s still with the kid, who’s now attempting an unsteady glide on his own. He slides backward, arms open, ready if the kid tips.
My chest does an inconvenient flip. Damn it.
I ignore it and keep filming.
Finn slides up to the rail and smacks it with his glove. “Get in here, Joy. Show us your legendary footwork.”
“I have actual work,” I say. “You have...whatever this is.” I wave at his obnoxious excellence.
Jessica glides over, cheeks pink. “Come out with us.” It sounds so simple when she says it. “I’ll keep you upright.”
Dmitri hears the word upright and immediately yells, “JOY SKATE! JOY SKATE!” which the kids pick up because small children love a chant.
I reluctantly tug on my rental skates. “Fine,” I mutter. “Ten minutes.”
Jessica gives me her hand at the gate, and I step on. The ice is not a floor. It’s a trap dressed as entertainment. My ankles try to hold me upright. My pride considers options.
Wesley appears next to me. “Bend your knees,” he says, barely moving his lips. “Weight forward. Glide.” He takes my hands, spreads my arms a little, positions my hips. It takes approximately one second for my entire body to announce that it knows exactly where his hands are.
“I don’t glide,” I say. “I lurch.”
“Not today.” He smiles. It’s quick, but it hits me in a flare. “You’re going to glide.”
We move. The ice feels less of a trap and more of a road when he sets the pace. Jessica carves backward ahead of us, calling out, “Knees! Don’t lock them. Good. Better.”
Dmitri passes with Ris, who’s executing a tiny spin. “Joy is doing it,” he declares. “No falls. I am proud.”
“Okay, you’re not terrible,” Wesley declares. A compliment? From him, yes. I hate that it’s a warm thread in my spine.
“Wow. High praise.” I carefully shift my weight. The skate moves. “Is this...gliding?”
“Now it is.” His fingers tighten at my waist for a second, steadying me. “You’re fine.”
Finn swings by, skating backward with obscene ease. “She’s got heart,” he declares to Jessica.
“She’s trying. Point for effort.”
“This is hazing,” I mutter. “I will inform HR.”
“It’s bonding,” Wesley corrects softly, and my composure unlocks at the same moment my ankle shakes and I pitch forward. He catches me effortlessly, his hands strong on my waist, pulling me into his chest.
For one long second, we are pressed together, breath to breath. His heart thuds against my palm where it’s landed. He smells of cold air and clean skin, warmed by snow and sweat. This close, I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate slightly.
“Hi.” He grins, and it’s entirely unfair that he can sound amused and gentle at the same time.
“Hi.” On the other hand, I sound ridiculous. My face is probably the color of Dmitri’s Santa hat. When I realize my mouth is near his throat, I rocket backward in panic, flailing once, twice, and latching onto his forearms again. “I hate this.”
“You hate not being in control. There’s a difference.”
He’s right. I try to glare so he doesn’t get addicted to being right.
“I’m done,” I tell Wesley. “I could cause a scandal if I fall and take out a sixth grader.”
He laughs, guides me to the gate, and helps me off. When I unlatch the door and feel solid ground again under the mats, I exhale so hard my hair moves.
“Not terrible,” he says once more, testing the weight of the words. He’s close. The faint smudge of stubble on his jaw catches the light.
Don’t look at his mouth, Joy.
I yank off my gloves and pretend my hands aren’t shaking. “I’m never doing that again,” I announce.
Someone shoves a thin paper cup of hot chocolate into my hand. It tastes of sugar and comfort and exhaustion. A snow flurry starts, because of course it does. The universe is laying it on thick today.