Chapter 15
Angela
They say the calm before the storm is a myth. That the air pressure drops, the birds stop singing, and your bones ache with the warning of what’s coming.
They’re wrong.
Sometimes, the storm hits when the sun is shining so bright you have to close your eyes. Sometimes, the catastrophe arrives when you are laughing so hard your ribs hurt.
It was Wednesday. The day after the sushi dinner. The day after I lied to Elijah about the rumor.
But today, the fear was gone. It had evaporated in the heat of the morning sun streaming through the penthouse windows.
Elijah had woken me up with coffee and a kiss that tasted like promise. He hadn't mentioned the weird mood from the night before. He hadn't asked why I was shaking. He had just held me, solid and warm, until the trembling stopped.
And then he had dropped the bomb.
"Pack a bag," he’d said, leaning against the doorframe while I brushed my teeth. "We’re going to Chicago."
"Chicago?" I had sputtered through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Today? You have practice. I have class."
"Cancelled," he said with a grin that should have been illegal. "Miller gave us a recovery day. And you... you have a 'family emergency.' I already emailed your professors."
"You forged an email to my professors?"
"I’m resourceful. And technically, we are family. Or we will be."
That comment—we will be—had been floating in my head for six hours.
We were in Chicago now. We had flown private—my first time on a jet that didn't smell like pretzels and recycled air. We had landed at a small executive airport and taken a car into the city.
We were standing on the balcony of a high-rise apartment in the Gold Coast neighborhood. The wind off Lake Michigan was brutal, whipping my hair into a frenzy, but I didn't care.
"What is this place?" I asked, looking out at the endless expanse of blue water.
"It’s a potential landing spot," Elijah said, coming up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest to shield me from the wind. "My agent sent me the listing. If the Blackhawks draft me... this could be home."
Home.
He wasn't just showing me an apartment. He was showing me a life.
"It has two bedrooms," he continued, resting his chin on my shoulder. "One for us. One for a studio. It has hardwood floors. Good for practice."
"You’d put a dance studio in your apartment?" I asked, turning in his arms to face him.
"Of course. Where else are you going to rehearse?"
I looked at him. The wind was messing up his hair. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. He looked so hopeful. So sure.
"Elijah," I whispered. "This is... this is real."
"It’s as real as we make it," he said. "Do you like it?"
"I love it," I admitted. "But... it’s expensive. And what if you get drafted by Boston? Or L.A.?"
"Then we find a place in Boston or L.A.," he shrugged. "The city doesn't matter. As long as you’re there."
He kissed me. It was a wind-swept, messy kiss that tasted like the future.
"Come inside," he murmured against my lips. "It’s freezing. And I want to show you the shower. It has six jets."
"Only six?" I teased.
"I’m sure we can make do."
We went inside. We spent the afternoon exploring the empty apartment. We talked about furniture (he wanted leather, I wanted velvet). We talked about paint colors (he wanted grey, I wanted literally anything else).
We ordered deep-dish pizza and ate it on the floor of the living room, watching the sunset turn the lake into fire.
"I could get used to this," I said, wiping tomato sauce from my chin.
"Good," Elijah said. He reached over and wiped a smudge I missed with his thumb. "Because I’m not planning on letting you go."
"Even if I’m messy?"
"Especially because you’re messy. You balance out my neuroticism."
He looked at his watch.
"We have one more stop," he said.
"More?" I groaned. "I’m in a cheese coma."
"It’s worth it. Trust me."
The last stop wasn't a restaurant or a club.
It was the Joffrey Ballet.
The theater was dark when we arrived. Elijah spoke to a security guard who clearly knew who he was (or had been paid handsomely), and let us in.
We walked into the empty auditorium. The velvet seats were silent rows of witnesses. The stage was vast, dark, and waiting.
"Why are we here?" I whispered, the acoustics amplifying my voice.
"Go up there," Elijah said, pointing to the stage.
"What? No. I can't. It’s... it’s the Joffrey."
"Go," he urged gently. "Just stand there. Feel it."
I hesitated, then walked down the aisle. I climbed the stairs to the stage. The floor was marley, perfectly sprung. The smell of rosin and old dust hit me—the perfume of my dreams.
I walked to the center. I looked out at the empty seats.
Suddenly, a spotlight clicked on.
I gasped, throwing a hand up to shield my eyes.
"Dance," Elijah’s voice called from the darkness of the house.
"To what?" I laughed nervously. "There’s no music."
"To this."
Music began to play over the sound system. It was the piece I had been rehearsing for weeks. Giselle. But it wasn't the midi-file from class. It was a full orchestral recording. Rich, lush, heartbreaking.
I stood there, frozen.
"Dance for me, Angela," Elijah called out. "Show me what you’re going to do on that stage next year."
My heart swelled until I thought it might burst.
He believed in me. He didn't just tolerate my dream; he was building a stage for it.
I closed my eyes. I took a breath. And I moved.
I danced without thinking. I danced for the empty seats. I danced for the little girl who watched her dad get arrested. I danced for the mother hooked up to a dialysis machine.
And mostly, I danced for the man in the dark who had bought me this moment.
I spun, I leapt, I poured every ounce of love and fear I possessed into the movement.
When the final note faded, I collapsed into a deep curtsy, breathless, sweating, alive.
One person applauded.
Slow, steady claps echoing in the cavernous room.
Elijah walked down the aisle and climbed onto the stage. He walked into the pool of light. He looked at me with an expression that was raw, open, and utterly defenseless.
"You are..." He shook his head, at a loss for words. "You are magic."
I stood up, walking to him. I was crying. I couldn't help it.
"You did this," I sobbed. "You crazy, wonderful idiot. You rented the theater?"
"I made a donation," he corrected, wiping my tears. "A sound investment."
"I love you," I blurted out.
I hadn't planned it. It just erupted.
"I love you, Elijah. Not because of the theater. Not because of the tuition. Because you see me. You really see me."
He went still. His hands were cupping my face. His thumbs brushed my cheeks.
"Say it again," he whispered.
"I love you."
He let out a breath that sounded like a broken dam.
"I love you too," he rasped. "God, Angela. I love you so much it scares me."
He kissed me.
It wasn't sexual. It was spiritual. It was a sealing of the soul. We stood there in the spotlight, wrapped in each other, and for that moment, I believed we were untouchable. I believed that love was enough to conquer the Vance legacy, the poverty, the lies.
"Let’s go home," he whispered against my forehead. "Let’s go back to the penthouse. I want to celebrate properly."
"Okay," I said. "Let’s go home."
We walked out of the theater hand in hand.
We were flying.
We didn't know the ground was rushing up to meet us.
The flight back was a dream. We slept curled up together in the wide leather seat of the jet. We landed in Colorado at 11:00 PM.
The car ride back to campus was quiet, peaceful. Elijah drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding mine on the console.
"I’m going to talk to my dad tomorrow," he said suddenly.
I looked at him. "You are?"
"Yeah. I’m done hiding. I’m going to tell him about us. About the tuition. Everything. I’ll tell him that if he touches you, I walk. I won't sign with the team he wants. I won't play his game. I’ll leverage my own talent against him."
"Elijah, that’s dangerous," I said, a flicker of fear returning.
"It’s necessary. I’m tired of being afraid of him. I have you now. That makes me brave."
He squeezed my hand.
We pulled up to the Sterling Summit.
"Go on up," Elijah said as we parked in the garage. "I need to grab my bag from the trunk. I’ll meet you in the elevator."
"Okay."
I hopped out, feeling light as air. I hummed Giselle under my breath as I walked to the elevator. I pressed the button for the penthouse.
I was planning the rest of the night. A hot shower. Maybe some wine. And Elijah. Always Elijah.
The elevator opened.
I walked into the penthouse.
The lights were on.
I froze.
We had left them off.
"Hello, Angela."
The voice came from the living room. It was deep, smooth, and terrified me more than any sound on earth.
I walked slowly into the room.
Sitting in Elijah’s leather armchair, looking perfectly at ease, was a man. He was older, with silver hair and eyes that were a colder, crueler version of Elijah’s. He was wearing a suit that cost more than the building.
Cyrus Vance.
Standing behind him was a man I recognized from the gala—Mr. Henderson, the donor I had kneed. And next to him... the Dean of Students.
My blood turned to ice.
"Mr. Vance," I whispered.
"Please, sit," Cyrus said, gesturing to the sofa. "We have some business to discuss."
"I... Elijah is coming up," I stammered, backing away. "You should wait for him."
"Elijah is occupied," Cyrus said. "My security team is currently having a chat with him in the garage. He won't be joining us for a few minutes. Which is good. Because this conversation is better had... privately."
I didn't sit. I stood my ground, clutching my dance bag.
"What do you want?"
Cyrus smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I want to help you, Angela," he said. He reached onto the coffee table and picked up a manila folder. "I’ve been looking into your situation. It’s quite... tragic. Your mother’s illness. Your father’s incarceration. The financial strain must be unbearable."
He opened the folder.
Photos spilled out.
Photos of me and Elijah kissing in the car. Photos of the contract I had signed. Copies of the tuition payments.
"You see," Cyrus continued, his voice conversational, "Elijah is a generous boy. But he is reckless. He doesn't understand that actions have consequences. He thinks he can use family money to buy a girlfriend and hide it from the Board."
"He didn't buy me," I said, my voice shaking. "We’re in love."
Cyrus laughed. A dry, rasping sound.
"Love," he sneered. "Love is a chemical defect. What you have is a transaction. And unfortunately, it’s an illegal one."
He looked at the Dean.
"Tell her, Dean."
The Dean cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "Miss Moretti... under the university’s code of conduct, accepting direct financial compensation from a student in exchange for... companionship... is classified as solicitation. It’s grounds for immediate expulsion."
"Expulsion?" I gasped. "But... he just paid my tuition! It was a loan!"
"And the checks to the hospital?" Cyrus asked. "Were those loans? Or were they payments for services rendered?"
He looked at me with pure disgust.
"You are a prostitute, my dear. An expensive one, but a prostitute nonetheless."
"I am not!" I screamed.
"It doesn't matter what you think," Cyrus said calmly. "It matters what the Board thinks. And the Press. Imagine the headlines: Sterling Captain Caught in Sex-for-Tuition Scandal with Convict’s Daughter."
He leaned forward.
"It would destroy him, Angela. The scouts would run. The team would be sanctioned. His legacy would be ash."
He let that sink in.
"But," he said, leaning back. "It doesn't have to be that way."
He pulled a checkbook from his pocket. He wrote a number. He tore it off and placed it on the table next to the photos.
"Five hundred thousand dollars," he said. "Enough to pay off your mother’s medical bills forever. Enough to start over somewhere else. Somewhere far away."
"You want to pay me to leave?" I asked, looking at the check.
"I want to pay you to save him," Cyrus corrected. "If you stay, the investigation goes public tomorrow. He loses the captaincy. He loses the draft. He loses everything."
He stood up.
"If you leave tonight... if you disappear... the investigation goes away. I make it disappear. Elijah goes to the NHL. He lives the life he was born for."
He walked over to me. He stopped inches away.
"You say you love him," Cyrus whispered. "Prove it. Sacrifice yourself for him."
The elevator chimed.
"Angela!"
Elijah’s voice roared from the foyer. He sounded frantic. He sounded like he was running.
He burst into the room. His shirt was torn. His lip was bleeding.
He saw his father. He saw the Dean. He saw me standing there, trembling.
"Get away from her!" Elijah shouted, lunging forward.
Two security guards stepped out of the shadows and blocked him. Elijah threw a punch with his left hand, connecting with a jaw, but the other guard grabbed him, pinning his arms.
"Let him go!" I screamed.
"Make a choice, Angela," Cyrus said calmly, not even looking at his son struggling against the guards. "Right now. Save him. Or ruin him."
I looked at Elijah. He was fighting like a wild animal, his eyes locked on mine.
"Don't listen to him!" Elijah yelled. "Angela, don't listen! We can fight this!"
I looked at the photos on the table. The proof of our "crime."
I looked at the Dean, who held Elijah’s future in his hands.
And I looked at Cyrus, who held the check that would save my mother.
If I stayed, we fought. But fighting meant dragging Elijah through the mud. It meant exposing him to the world as the guy who paid for sex. It meant destroying his dream to satisfy my heart.
I love you, I had said.
Love is sacrifice.
I looked at Elijah one last time. I memorized his face. The bruise on his cheek. The desperation in his blue eyes.
"I’m sorry," I whispered.
"No," Elijah begged. "Angela, no."
I reached down. I picked up the check.
"I’ll go," I said to Cyrus.
Elijah stopped fighting. He slumped in the guards' grip, staring at me with a look of betrayal that shattered my soul.
"You took the money?" he rasped. "After everything... you took the money?"
"It’s a lot of money, Elijah," I said, forcing my voice to be cold. Forcing myself to break his heart so he would let me go. "And you know me. I’m my father’s daughter. I always take the cash."
It was the lie that would save him. And it was the lie that would kill me.
"Get out," Elijah whispered. The light in his eyes died. The Iceman returned, colder and harder than ever before. "Get out."
I turned. I walked to the elevator. I didn't look back.
I pressed the button. The doors closed, cutting off the sight of the only man I would ever love.
I sank to the floor of the elevator, clutching the check to my chest, and screamed.