Chapter 23 Sloane
Sloane
The crystal chandelier above the ballroom catches the light like a thousand watching eyes, each facet reflecting the glittering crowd below.
I stand near the silent auction tables, champagne flute in hand, listening to Mrs. Shaw from Northstar Bank discuss her daughter's field hockey team with the kind of practiced attention that has become second nature.
My smile feels shellacked in place, my posture perfect, every inch the polished marketing executive.
But underneath the navy silk dress that felt so confident an hour ago, my skin crawls with the sensation of being hunted.
"—and we just think the Mammoths could really benefit from more youth outreach programs, don't you agree, dear?"
"Absolutely," I hear myself say, voice smooth as glass. "Community engagement is crucial for building our fan base."
The words are automatic, muscle memory from a hundred similar conversations.
My real attention is across the ballroom, tracking movement like a sniper calculating angles.
Near the bar, Vivian Lamore holds court with a cluster of board members, her hair gleaming under the lights.
Every few minutes, her gaze sweeps the room with predatory precision. Hunting.
But it's the figure by the management table that sends a chill unrelated to the cold spidering down my spine.
Easton.
My brother stands with his back to the wall, still as a goalie reading a power play.
His massive frame is encased in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, but there's nothing civilized about the way he's watching me.
His green eyes—so much like mine—track my every movement with laser focus.
When I laugh at something Mrs. Shaw says, his jaw tightens.
When I adjust my bracelet, his posture shifts.
He knows.
The realization hits me like ice water in my veins. This isn't suspicion anymore. This is certainty. And he's not here to celebrate—he's here to catch me.
"—your brother, what a season he's having—"
"Excuse me," I interrupt, seizing the pause like a lifeline. "I need to use the ladies room. It was lovely chatting with you."
I'm already moving before she can respond, weaving through clusters of Minnesota's elite with practiced grace. But I can feel Easton's stare burning into my back, following my path across the marble floor like a spotlight I can't escape.
The conversations around me blur into white noise:
"—chemistry's been off since the Detroit series—"
"—heard there's some locker room tension—"
"—think they'll hold it together for playoffs?"
Each fragment feels aimed directly at me. Every face I pass could be the one who's seen the blind item, who's put the pieces together, who's ready to watch my carefully constructed world implode for their entertainment.
I need air. I need space.
The French doors to the balcony appear like salvation. I slip through them with what I hope looks like casual poise, trading the suffocating warmth of the ballroom for November's brutal honesty.
The cold bites through the silk of my dress, raising goosebumps along my arms. But it's a welcome shock—sharp and clean and real in a way the performance inside isn't. I grip the wrought-iron railing with both hands, my knuckles going white against the metal.
Minneapolis stretches below me, city lights glittering like ice against the darkness. Up here, the corporate minefield feels distant. Manageable. Just another challenge to navigate rather than a death trap closing around me.
I take a breath. Then another. Feel my pulse begin to settle from its frantic gallop to something merely panicked.
"Knew I'd find you out here." I don't turn, but every muscle in my body goes rigid. His voice—low, familiar, dangerous in all the ways that got me into this mess.
Three days. Three days of one-word texts and avoided eye contact, of taking different elevators and timing my coffee runs to miss him entirely.
Three days of building walls where there used to be warmth, of treating the man I'm falling in love with like a professional liability. Every instinct screams at me to turn around, to let him wrap me in his steady presence until the world makes sense again.
But Vivian's words echo in my mind like a threat: I'm sure you recognize that some risks simply aren't worth taking.
So I've been frozen – stuck in this grey area. Analyzing. Swirling.
"You looked like you were about to short-circuit in there.
" Garrett doesn't touch me, but he stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him.
The space between us hums with everything we're not allowed to say in that ballroom full of cameras and corporate sharks. "Are you okay?"
Such a simple question. But it slices through every defense I've built tonight.
The practiced smile crumbles. The polished facade cracks.
For the first time all evening, someone is actually seeing me—not the flawless strategist, not Easton's sister, not the marketing director who has all the answers.
Just me. Terrified and overwhelmed and drowning in secrets.
"No." The word slips out unguarded, tasting like surrender and relief. "I'm not."
He shifts closer, and I feel the urge to lean into him, to let his strength anchor me against the storm I've been weathering alone. For just a moment, on this dark balcony overlooking the city, we could be real. We could be us.
The French door slams open behind us.
The sound cuts through the night air like a gunshot, making us both freeze. But I don't need to turn around to know who's standing there. I can feel his fury from here, rolling off him in waves that make the November cold seem tropical.
Easton.
He fills the doorway, a towering silhouette against the ballroom's glow, his face set in hard lines. His features seem immobile, locked down tight, eyes blazing with the kind of controlled rage that makes opposing teams think twice about approaching his net.
Those eyes flick from Garrett to me, and I watch him piece together the final puzzle. The way we're standing. The intimacy of the moment he just shattered. The look on my face that I couldn't hide fast enough.
Garrett reads the situation like the veteran he is—quick, calm, tactical. He gives me the smallest nod, a gesture so subtle only I would catch it. Protection, apology, and promise all wrapped in a movement that lasts less than a second.
"I'll see you inside," he says, voice perfectly neutral as he brushes past Easton without a word.
The door shutting behind him might as well be the lid of a coffin, leaving me alone with my brother and his fury.
Easton doesn't speak immediately. Just stands there in his perfect tuxedo, staring at me with an expression I've never seen before. Disappointment and rage and something that looks almost like grief war across his features.
When he finally moves, it's with the deliberate precision of a man barely keeping himself in check. Three steps forward, and suddenly the balcony feels impossibly small.
"I knew it." The words are quiet, deadly. Each syllable lands heavy, stealing my breath.
I open my mouth—denial, deflection, anything—but he cuts me off with a gesture.
"Don't lie to me, Sloane. I told you what would happen if you got involved with one of my teammates."
"Easton, it's not what you think—"
"I understand exactly what it is." His voice is blade-sharp, controlled in the way that's infinitely more terrifying than shouting.
"You're risking everything you've built.
For what? A guy who's going to be traded in two years?
Retire in five? You think this is going to end with happily-ever-after? "
Every word finds its mark, hitting the fault lines I've been trying to hold together. My ambition. My family. My deepest fear that I'm making the same mistake that destroyed my mother.
"You're a distraction, Sloane. To the team.
To him. Right before a playoff push." His voice drops to something that's almost a whisper but carries more menace than any scream.
"Do you have any idea what this could do to the locker room if it gets out?
We're three games away from clinching home ice, and you're out here playing house. "
"It's not—we're not—"
"You need to end it. Now." The words land like a death sentence. "It's him or your job. Him or this family. And if you won't end it, I will."
The threat steals the air from my lungs. He's not just asking me to choose—he's promising to destroy both Garrett and me if I don't comply.
His voice goes even quieter, more final.
"I'll go to Kowalski myself. I'll do what I have to do to protect this team from distraction—and to protect you from getting burned.
Don't make me choose between my sister and my captain, Sloane.
Because you know which one I have to pick when it comes to this team. "
This is how it happened to Sarah. Not with a formal complaint, but with a quiet, concerned conversation from a "trusted source"—a knife in the back disguised as a favor. The ultimatum hangs between us like a blade. Choose. Him or everything I've worked for. Love or survival.
There's no right answer. There's no way to win.
Easton stares at me for another heartbeat, waiting for a response I can't give. When none comes, he turns and walks back through the French doors without another word, leaving me alone on the balcony with the cold and the city lights and the ruins of my carefully constructed life.
I don't know how long I stand there. Long enough for the frigid air to turn the damp tracks on my cheeks painfully numb. Long enough for the numbness to spread from my fingers until my entire chest feels hollow.
Eventually, the cold drives me inside.
The ballroom welcomes me back with its suffocating warmth and glittering surfaces.
The conversations continue around me, oblivious to the fact that my world just ended on a dark balcony overlooking the city.
I smooth my dress, check my reflection in a server's polished tray, rebuild my mask with the expertise of someone who's been performing her whole life.
But as I move through the crowd on autopilot, my eyes find a familiar figure across the room.
Vivian stands near the media corner, a champagne flute in her manicured hand. She's not talking to anyone, not networking or schmoozing or playing the corporate games that usually consume her attention at events like this.
She's watching.
Her gaze moves with merciless focus from me to the French doors I just emerged from, to Garrett near the management table, to Easton rejoining his teammates at the bar. I watch her eyes catalog every detail, every expression, every subtle shift in body language.
When her gaze returns to me, I see something that makes my stomach clench with dread.
It's not professional disapproval. It's not corporate calculation or strategic planning.
It's recognition. Personal. Vicious. The look of a woman who's seen this exact scenario before and knows exactly how it ends.
But there's something else in her expression—something that transforms my fear into pure, ice-cold terror.
Satisfaction.
Like she's been waiting for this moment. Like she's been building toward it. Like everything that just happened on that balcony was exactly what she needed to finish whatever game she's been playing.
I stand frozen in the middle of the glittering ballroom, surrounded by Minneapolis's elite, watching Vivian smile at me with the razor-sharp precision of a predator who's just cornered her prey.
And I finally understand that the threat was never about policy violations or team chemistry or corporate image.
This is personal.
And I've just given her everything she needs to destroy me.