Chapter 13
JADE
I get back to Cayden’s villa, hang my coat in the entryway, and the sheer scale of the place hits me all over again. The ceilings are so high the recessed spotlights lose their fight against the dark before they even touch the mirror-finish marble floors.
I hurry up the wide staircase. My heels sink into the hand-knotted runner, my footsteps vanishing into the wool.
“Parker?” I call out, pushing down the handle to his room. “Doing homework?”
My voice echoes in the cavernous space. His backpack is dumped carelessly on the carpet, zipper wide open, a comic book resting on unruffled sheets.
A sharp sting pricks my chest. Parker doesn't usually leave his room in a strange place without texting me first. I pull my phone out, pressing his number so hard my thumb turns white. It rings three, four times before the voicemail tells me he’s unavailable.
The massive dimensions of this estate start to feel like a trap. Panic rises. I head back to the hallway, hand skimming the smooth wood of the banister as I nearly sprint down the stairs.
In the kitchen, I find Helena at the sprawling marble island. The rhythmic, steady thwack of her knife on the wooden board is a bizarre contrast to my racing pulse.
“Helena, have you seen Parker?” I ask. I force a deep breath to hide the tremor in my chest. “He’s not in his room. He’s not answering.”
The housekeeper pauses, sweeping vegetable scraps aside with the flat of the blade. “The young man asked me for some old sticks about half an hour ago. I believe he’s over at the training hall at the back of the property.”
I nod quickly, exiting through the terrace doors into the sinking afternoon sun.
The Montreal air tastes of damp earth and coming frost. I follow the winding gravel path past old trees, their long, thin shadows stretching like fingers across the manicured lawn, until the metallic frame of Cayden’s private training complex looms ahead.
I shoulder the heavy steel door open. Immediately, that unmistakable scent hits me—a mix of frozen water, shaved rubber, and the cold, metallic bite of freshly sharpened blades. It’s a smell that catapults me eleven years into the past without warning.
I step into the dim spectator walkway and freeze. My fingers claw at the fabric of my coat pockets.
Down on the bright, white surface, Parker is skating laps. He’s wearing borrowed gear that looks a size too big for his slight shoulders, handling a black puck with a focus that makes his face look years older.
And he’s not alone.
Cayden is leaning casually against the boards.
He’s in a charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, tracking my son’s every move with a watchful, almost eerie intensity.
There are several yards of physical distance between them, yet an invisible, vibrating wire seems to stretch from the man at the edge to the boy in the center.
“Your center of gravity is too high, Parker,” Cayden’s voice echoes through the empty hall. It’s not a scold; it’s a clinical, precise instruction. “You’re standing on the blades instead of driving them into the ice. The power comes from your thighs, not your shoulders. Get deeper.”
Parker stops hard, a fine spray of white crystals hitting the red line. He nods, wiping sweat from his forehead with a glove, and drops noticeably lower. He builds speed, draws the stick back, and snaps a shot. The puck hits the back of the net with a loud, satisfying thud.
“Better,” Cayden comments with an approving nod. “Your wrist was steadier. Adjust the angle by two degrees next time, and the goalie won't see it until it’s behind him.”
I stand in the shadows of the walkway, unable to move forward or back.
A dull ache spreads behind my breastbone, stealing my air.
I watch them, seeing Parker tilt his head slightly as he listens—an exact copy of the gesture Cayden makes when he’s thinking through a strategy.
I see the man’s broad, tensed shoulders and the boy’s narrow, eager ones.
They share the same posture, the same instinctive drive toward the net, that inexplicable, deep-rooted connection to the sport.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper. I’ve spent over a decade trying to protect Parker from this man’s cynicism. And now here they are, separated by my web of lies, communicating in the only language they both speak fluently.
I am stealing their years together, the natural father-son bond, the Sunday mornings on frozen ponds—all to keep my laboriously constructed lie alive.
But I have no choice. Do I?
Parker carves another arc, his stick gliding fluidly over the ice. Cayden watches him, and for a split second, the billionaire’s hard, unreachable mask slips. He looks down at the boy with a kind of silent respect, an honest recognition of the raw talent blossoming in front of him.
No, I can't tell them. It’s too dangerous.
If Cayden knew whose blood ran through Parker’s veins, he’d either tear this hall apart to claim his son, or he’d flee from the responsibility in a panic, dragging us all into the abyss.
I take a slow, deep breath, square my shoulders, and step out of the shadows into the harsh glare of the overhead lights. My footsteps on the rubber flooring announce me.
The puck cracks against the boards one more time. Cayden turns his head. His features shutter instantly, the soft approval replaced by the cool vigilance he wears like a second skin.
“Mom!” Parker calls out, sliding toward the boards at incredible speed. His face is glowing with effort. “Did you see that? The wrist shot works way better when I shift my weight. Mr. Miller showed me exactly how to calculate the angle!”
I force my lips upward, even though the muscles in my face feel numb. “I saw it, honey. You’ve gotten so fast.” I pointedly look away from Parker and fix my eyes on the man standing a few feet away. “I didn’t realize skating lessons were part of the contract for the feature.”
Cayden leans his forearms on the boards.
His gaze is unfathomable—a deep lake giving nothing away.
“The boy has an impressive grasp of the game. It would be a waste to let him stumble around the ice without a proper coach. His balance is remarkable. Have you ever thought about signing him up for a regular club?”
“He plays for a school team,” I dodge, burying my hands in my pockets. “We don’t have the time for expensive elite programs. Besides, school comes first.”
Cayden arches an eyebrow—a silent challenge. He knows raw talent shouldn't rot in a mediocre school league. “Time can be found, Miss Sterling. It’s just a matter of priorities.”
I ignore the jab and step closer to the plexiglass. “Parker, that’s enough. You need to shower, and we really need to work on your German essay.”
Parker lets out a long, audible sigh, shoulders slumping as he taps his stick against the boards. “Ten more minutes, Mom. Please. I just got the hang of it.”
“Now, Parker,” I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the cooling units, leaving no room for negotiation.
My son mutters something under his breath, turns, and glides reluctantly toward the locker rooms at the back of the complex. The metallic clank of the door echoes through the arena, leaving Cayden and me alone.
“You keep him on a short leash,” Cayden observes, leaning motionless against the rail. “The boy wants to burn. If you keep dampening the flame just to keep him in your cozy little bubble, it’s going to blow up in your face eventually.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. The sheer arrogance of him dissecting my parenting hits the exact nerve he intended.
“You don’t have the slightest clue about our lives, Cayden.
You see a boy hitting a puck, and you see dollar signs, endorsements, and pressure.
I see a kid who deserves a normal childhood.
Far away from the media circus that nearly tore you apart. ”
His jaw works before he pushes off the boards and steps close to me.
“A protected childhood? By parking him in cheap motels in front of a TV while you chase a job you loathe? Don’t kid yourself, Jade.
You keep him small because you’re afraid he’ll slip through your fingers one day. Spoiler: it’s going to happen anyway.”
The hit lands so deep I literally lose my breath for a second. He doesn't even realize how right he is. I force my feet to stay planted on the rubber floor and tilt my chin up defiantly.
My fingers fumble blindly in my pocket for my small leather notepad. I cling to the smooth material like a lifeline in a storm.
“We are definitely not discussing my qualities as a mother,” I state, my voice snapping back into professional journalist mode.
Smooth, untouchable, distant. “I’m just here to remind you of the schedule.
The next interview block starts in exactly one hour.
It would be nice if you’d be less of a know-it-all, otherwise the readers might think you’re even more of a prick than you actually are. ”
Cayden studies me. A slow, mocking smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as his gaze falls specifically on my white-knuckled grip on the notepad.
“Promptly in one hour, Miss Sterling,” he smiles, the formal ‘Miss’ returning like a drawn weapon.
“Bring your notepad. You’ll get every detail you need for your story.
But don’t have any illusions. Your professional distance won't work as a long-term solution. Especially not while you’re sleeping under my roof. ”