Chapter 16
Camila
The snow was falling harder now. It covered the windshield of my car faster than the wipers could clear it, turning the world into a blur of white noise. It was fitting. My life had just dissolved into static.
I drove aimlessly for twenty minutes after leaving the penthouse. My pink trunk rattled in the backseat—the sound of my displacement. I had nowhere to go. Sloane wouldn't take me in; I had betrayed her trust. Cameron had kicked me out.
I was alone.
But I wasn't done.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, smearing mascara across my skin. I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I looked like a ghost. Hollow. Haunted.
I had one card left to play.
I turned the car around. I wasn't going to a hotel. I was going to the source of the infection.
I drove toward the Sterling Estate. My father’s house.
The house loomed out of the darkness like a mausoleum. It was a sprawling Victorian mansion on the hill overlooking the campus—close enough to control everything, far enough to remain untouchable.
I punched the gate code. It opened.
I parked in the circular driveway. I didn't take my trunk. I just marched up the steps and threw the heavy oak doors open.
"Camila?"
My father, Richard Sterling, was standing in the foyer. He was wearing a smoking jacket and holding a tumbler of scotch. He looked annoyed, not surprised.
"I assume you've seen the news," he said dryly, taking a sip. "Your little charity project has imploded."
"You did this," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "You leaked the photos. You paid Trip to film me."
"I didn't have to pay Trip anything," my father scoffed. "Trip Halloway is a petty, jealous boy. He did it for sport. I simply... facilitated the distribution."
He turned and walked into his study. I followed him. The room smelled of leather and old money—the scent of my childhood, the scent of my cage.
"Why?" I demanded. "Why destroy him? He's the best player you have. He's the key to the funding."
"He was," my father corrected, sitting behind his massive desk. "Until he became a liability. The scouts don't like drama, Camila. And you? You are a walking, talking telenovela."
He set his glass down.
"Baxter called me. The Canadiens are out. Chicago is out. No one wants to touch him. He's radioactive."
"Because of a lie!" I screamed. "I wasn't buying his silence! I was protecting him from blackmail!"
"It doesn't matter what the truth is," my father said coldly. "Perception is reality. And the perception is that Cameron Vance is a weak man who needs his girlfriend to fight his battles."
I sank into the chair opposite him. My legs gave out.
"He's going to lose everything," I whispered. "His mom... the debts..."
"Yes," my father agreed. "He will likely end up exactly where he started. In a trailer park. Coaching pee-wee hockey for beer money."
I closed my eyes. The image of Cameron—broken, defeated, back in the darkness I had tried to pull him out of—was unbearable.
"Fix it," I said.
My father raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You're the Commissioner," I said, opening my eyes. "You control the narrative. You have contacts in Europe. You can make calls. You can get him a tryout. You can bury the story."
"I could," my father mused. "But why would I? He insulted me. He defied me."
"Because I'm asking you," I said. "Because I'm your daughter."
"You ceased being my daughter the moment you chose that boy over your family," he said cruelly.
"What do you want?" I asked. "There's always a price. What is it?"
My father leaned forward. His eyes were hard, calculating.
"You want me to save him?"
"Yes."
"Fine. I can make a call to Zurich. The Lions need a goalie. It pays well. Six figures. Signing bonus. Enough to clear his mother's debts."
My heart leaped. Switzerland. It was what we had talked about.
"But," my father held up a finger. "There is a condition."
"Anything."
"You stay here," he said.
I froze. "What?"
"He goes to Zurich. Alone. You stay in Wickfield. You finish your degree. You get an internship at the museum. You resume your life as a Sterling."
"No," I shook my head. "We were going to go together."
"That is not the deal," my father said. "If you go with him, the story follows him. 'The Sterling Heiress and her Pet Goalie.' The circus continues. He will never be taken seriously."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the snow.
"If you want him to have a career, Camila, you have to let him go. Completely. You break up. You tell the world it was a mistake. You let the story die."
He turned back to me.
"You can have the boy, and watch him fail. Or you can let him succeed, but without you."
The room went silent. The clock on the mantle ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick.
It was the choice Cameron had feared. Ambition vs. Affection. But now, I was the one holding the gun.
If I stayed with him, I dragged him down. I was the anchor, but not the kind that steadied the ship. The kind that sank it.
If I left him... he would hate me. He would think I abandoned him. But he would be safe. He would be solvent. He would be the Wolf again.
I looked at my hands. They were trembling.
"Do it," I whispered.
"Speak up," my father commanded.
"Do it," I said, my voice breaking. "Call Zurich. Get him the contract."
"And you?"
"I'll... I'll end it," I said. "Permanently."
"Good," my father smiled. It was a shark's smile. "I knew you were a Sterling. We always do what's necessary."
I didn't stay at the estate. I couldn't breathe the same air as him.
I drove to the one place I knew Cameron would be.
The arena.
He wouldn't be at the penthouse. It was too quiet there. When Cameron hurt, he sought the cold. He sought the ice.
I parked the car. The arena lights were off, save for the security floods.
I used my key card—the one Cameron had given me weeks ago—to open the side door.
The hallway was dark. I walked toward the rink. My boots echoed on the concrete. Click. Click. Click. Like a countdown.
I rehearsed the speech in my head.
I don't love you.
It was fun, but I'm bored.
My dad offered me my trust fund back if I dumped you.
Lies. All lies.
I had to be convincing. I had to be the Brat one last time. I had to make him hate me so much that leaving for Switzerland would feel like a victory, not a loss.
I reached the tunnel. The air got colder.
I saw him.
He was sitting on the team bench. He wasn't wearing pads. Just jeans and a t-shirt. He was staring out at the dark ice, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He looked small in the vast, empty stadium. He looked broken.
I stopped. I watched him.
I remembered the cabin. The way he had held me. The way he had confessed his fears about the dark.
“You’re my pond, Mila.”
I stifled a sob.
If I did this, I was draining the pond. I was taking away his safe place.
But I was giving him the ice back.
I took a deep breath. I hardened my heart. I put the mask on—the cold, haughty mask of the girl I used to be.
I walked out of the tunnel.
"I knew you'd be here."
My voice rang out in the empty arena.
Cameron flinched. He lifted his head. When he saw me, his face twisted. It wasn't anger anymore. It was exhaustion.
"I told you to get out," he said hoarsely. "I told you to leave."
"I did," I said, walking toward the bench. I stopped at the glass partition. "But I forgot something."
"What?" he scoffed. "Your conscience?"
"My key," I said. I pulled the key card and the penthouse key from my pocket. I placed them on the ledge of the glass. "I don't want to owe you anything."
He stared at the keys.
"Is that why you came?" he asked. "To return a piece of plastic?"
"And to tell you the good news," I said. "My father called me."
He went rigid. "And?"
"He made some calls," I said lightly. "Zurich. The Lions. They want you. A two-year contract. Six figures. You leave on Monday."
Cameron stood up. He walked to the glass. He stared at me through the partition.
"Zurich," he repeated. "How?"
"Daddy has friends," I shrugged. "He felt bad. About the misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding," Cameron laughed bitterly. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Look, Cameron," I sighed, checking my nails. "This whole thing... it got messy. Too messy. I like drama, but I don't like losing. And today? We lost."
"We lost because you lied," he said intensely. "We lost because you didn't trust me."
"Maybe," I admitted. "Or maybe we lost because we were never going to win. Come on, Cam. Be realistic. You and me? It was a fun semester. A nice rebellion against daddy. But forever?"
I laughed. I forced the sound out of my throat. It tasted like bile.
"I'm a Sterling. You're... well, you said it yourself. You're the help."
He recoiled as if I had slapped him. The hurt in his eyes was visceral. It cut me deeper than any knife.
"You don't mean that," he whispered. "In the cabin... you said you loved me. You said I was the only one who saw you."
"I was emotional," I dismissed. "It was the altitude. Or the trauma. Take your pick."
He gripped the top of the glass. His knuckles turned white.
"Look at me," he commanded. "Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't feel it. Tell me the last two months meant nothing."
I looked him in the eye. I looked at the blue ice I loved so much.
I killed the part of me that wanted to scream the truth.
"It was a game, Cameron," I said cold. "And the game is over. You got your contract. I got my fun. We're even."
He stared at me. He was searching for the lie. He was looking for the crack in the mask.
I didn't let him find it. I held his gaze, my face a stone wall.
Slowly, the hope died in his eyes. The warmth vanished. The Wall slammed back down, thicker and higher than before.
"Okay," he whispered.
He reached out and took the keys off the ledge.
"Goodbye, Camila."
"Goodbye, Wolf," I said.
I turned around.
I walked away.
I focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Don't run. Don't look back.
I made it to the tunnel. I made it to the hallway. I made it to the exit door.
I pushed the door open and stepped out into the snow.
The cold air hit my face.
And then, I collapsed.
My legs simply stopped working. I fell to my knees in the snowbank beside the exit.
A scream tore out of my throat—a raw, guttural sound of pure agony.
I curled into a ball, clutching my chest. It felt like my heart had been physically ripped out.
I had saved him. I had gotten him the contract. He was going to be okay.
But he hated me.
And I was alone in the dark, buried under the weight of a lie that would keep me warm for the rest of my life.
Inside the arena, I heard a sound.
The sound of a hockey stick being smashed against the glass. Again. And again. And again.
Until it shattered.
And then, silence.