Chapter 25
JADE
The energy of Sainte-Catherine Street hits me full force, drowning out the incessant humming in my own head. Honking taxis, the metallic squeal of braking buses, and a wild tangle of conversations envelop me completely.
Hailey is already waiting for me outside a chic boutique. She’s wearing a bright red wool coat that stands out against the gray cityscape like a flare, waving a small shopping bag in the air.
"There you are!" she calls out, grabbing my free arm and pulling me without warning into the overheated store. The heavy scent of expensive suede and fashion far beyond my price range greets me as we enter.
"Thank God you rescued me," I mutter, sinking onto one of the sofas at the back of the shop.
Hailey instantly shoves a pair of knee-high black leather boots into my hands. "Try them on. Now. I need your okay before I finally make my credit card cry."
I study the smooth leather, running my thumb over the fine stitching, and stare at the price tag—the string of digits nearly finishes me off.
My vision blurs. Instead of soft boots, I suddenly see Cayden again, standing in the library, hands balled into massive fists, accusing me of driving a knife into his back.
"Jade?" Hailey snaps her fingers right in front of my nose. The sound jerks me back to reality. "You’re staring at those shoes like they just ran over your pet. What’s up?"
She drops onto the soft velvet sofa beside me, crosses her legs, and locks her eyes on mine. Hailey’s radar for my mood swings has functioned almost flawlessly since our college days.
I set the boots on the floor, lean back into the cushions, and close my eyes for a second. "Collins literally tore me apart on the phone this morning. He wants a watertight draft by tomorrow afternoon. Three thousand words. Minimum."
"Then write him those three thousand words," Hailey retorts, arching an eyebrow. "You’ve been shadowing my brother for a week now. You must have notebooks full of stuff."
" I do," I sigh, massaging my throbbing temples. "But Collins doesn't want PR fluff about stadium capacities or sponsor deals. He wants the abyss. He wants the real Cayden Miller. The guy who ruined the national team back then."
Hailey inhales sharply. The casual shopping vibe vanishes. "Banff."
"Exactly. Banff." I take a deep breath. "I brought it up last night because I wanted his version of the story.
He shut down completely, we fought, and he stormed out without a word.
I have no idea how to build an article out of these ruins by tomorrow that satisfies Collins and doesn't cost me my job. "
My best friend rests her elbows on her knees, staring at the black boots on the floor. The cheerful lightness falls away from her. In this moment, she looks hauntingly like Cayden—the same stubborn jaw, the same thoughtful crease on her brow.
"Banff is his trigger," she says quietly. "He came home from that camp and didn't say a single word to anyone for a month. My father was livid; reporters were literally camping in our flowerbeds. Cayden just sat in his old childhood bedroom staring at the wall."
"He told me the association lied," I interject, watching Hailey’s reaction closely. "That he wasn't out drinking, but that he was in bed with the head coach’s wife and got caught."
Hailey snorts contemptuously. "Yes. Evelyn Davis. The wife of our revered national coach. The press jumped on the party-lie like a pack of hungry wolves, and the association happily let Cayden bleed to protect the coach’s reputation. You know what the most absurd part is?"
I shake my head silently.
"Cayden took the entire blame on himself," Hailey continues, her fingers clawing into the red fabric of her coat.
"He stood there and kept his mouth shut so that woman's life wouldn't be torn apart in public too.
Evelyn Davis never said a word. She just vanished, while my brother had to watch his World Championship dreams and his entire reputation go up in flames. "
I listen, and with every word, an invisible key turns in my head. Cayden kept quiet. He loaded the scandal onto his own shoulders and took the hit. He didn't defend himself, not even when the press branded him an unprofessional playboy.
"He protected her," I whisper almost inaudibly, a massive lump forming in my throat. The untouchable billionaire who supposedly doesn't care about anything threw himself under the media bus for this woman's dignity.
"Exactly," Hailey confirms bitterly. "And that’s exactly why he reacts so violently when you dig this up. It reminds him of how much he was used."
She shifts on the sofa and grabs my shoulders. Her grip is firm, her eyes flashing with pent-up energy.
"Jade, you’re a journalist," she says. "Why are you constantly banging your head against my brother’s concrete wall? If Cayden won't talk, let him sulk. You don't even need him for those three thousand words."
I blink, totally confused. "What do you mean?"
"Go to the source!" she urges, shaking me lightly.
"Ask the people who were there. Find Evelyn Davis. Find that cowardly ex-coach. They have to live somewhere. Don't sit in Cayden’s library waiting for him to serve you perfect quotes on a silver platter. Dig out the truth yourself. Show Collins what you’re made of. "
Adrenaline surges through my veins. The morning’s exhaustion is wiped away. Hailey is right. If I want to save this article and put the facts on the table, I have to look at the other side of the coin.
I need to know what really happened that night in Banff. Not from the perspective of the victim who stayed silent, but from the people who led him into the trap.
I hug my friend and leap up from the velvet sofa.
"You’re a goddamn genius, Hailey," I cry, fumbling for my phone in my coat pocket.
"I still have my old access to the press archives. If I scour the divorce papers or old address registries for Coach Davis, I’ll find that woman.
I can write Collins a draft that isn't just based on Cayden’s statements but illuminates the background of the scandal. "
Hailey grins wide, leaning back satisfied. "See? Shopping therapy always works. Even if I probably won't buy the boots now because you’ve totally thrown me off."
"Buy them," I say, pulling her up and giving her one last quick, firm squeeze. The weight of the lies still sits heavy on my shoulders, but for the first time in days, I have a clear plan. "I have to get to my laptop right now."
I storm out of the boutique before she can even answer and enter a small, crowded café on the next corner. I snag a tiny wooden table right by the window.
I flip open my laptop, ignoring the noise of the espresso machine behind me, and log into the national newspaper and court archives via the Chronicle server. The cursor blinks demandingly in the search field.
I type three words.
Evelyn Davis Banff.
The search engine rattles for a split second before hundreds of articles from the year of the scandal flood the screen.
I swipe away the fat sensational headlines about Cayden’s alleged party night and filter specifically for gossip columns, social news, and public registers from the time that followed.
If Evelyn Davis really went underground, she must have left tracks somewhere.
A divorce. A name change. A new professional existence.
My journalistic instinct has taken command. I click through old register excerpts from the city of Calgary, where the coach was registered back then.
Divorce proceedings Davis vs. Davis. My pulse quickens. I open the attached PDF. The lines shimmer on my screen. The marriage was officially dissolved barely a year after the Banff incident. Evelyn Davis reclaimed her maiden name after the divorce.
I scroll further down, my eyes flying over the fine print of the law firms. There it is.
Evelyn Rice.
I open a new tab and hunt the name through current databases for Montreal and Toronto. The hit list is manageable. A few LinkedIn profiles, a mention in a local charity report. My gaze hooks onto one entry.
Evelyn Rice. Owner of Rice Fine Arts Gallery, Old Montreal.
The gallery is less than twenty minutes' drive from here.
I click on the gallery website—professional but understated. Under 'Contact' is a phone number. I don't hesitate for a second. If I start thinking now, I’ll lose my nerve. I grab my phone, dial the number from the screen, and press it to my ear.
It rings three times before a woman’s voice answers.
"Rice Fine Arts, Evelyn Rice speaking. How can I help you?"
I inhale deeply and square my shoulders, even though she can't see me. "Good afternoon, Ms. Rice. My name is Jade Sterling. I’m a journalist for the Montreal Chronicle."
Sudden silence on the other end.
"The Chronicle?" she repeats, the friendly warmth vanishing from her voice. "We have no new exhibitions planned for this quarter, Miss Sterling."
"It’s not about your art gallery," I interject immediately, pushing into the tiny crack of her attention before she can hang up. "It’s about Cayden Miller. And the training camp in Banff eleven years ago."
Even though she says nothing, I can almost hear her mind racing.
"I have nothing to say about that," she says.
"Cayden is building a new stadium here in Montreal," I throw in hastily, the words nearly tripping over each other.
"He’s back in the public eye. The old stories are all boiling over again.
The association's PR machine spread a lie back then to protect your ex-husband.
Cayden stayed silent all these years to keep you out of the line of fire.
But the truth will come out, Ms. Rice. With or without your side of things.
You have the unique opportunity to tell your version before the media pounces on the old rumors again. "
Seconds tick by as I stare at the passersby outside, waiting to see if my bait worked.
A sigh comes through the phone.
"You don't know what you’re getting into, Miss Sterling," she finally whispers. "The truth about Banff is much more complicated than a simple hotel room affair."
"Then explain it to me," I say. "Let’s talk. No microphones, no hidden cameras. Just us."
"This afternoon," Evelyn Rice says finally, her tone turning businesslike again. "Three o'clock. Come to my gallery. We’ll go to my private office. And if I don't like your questions, I’ll have my security show you the door immediately."
"Three o'clock," I confirm instantly. "I’ll be on time. Thank you, Ms. Rice."