The Publicity Pact (ICEBOUND ILLUSIONS #1)

THE SCANDAL AND THE SCAPEGOAT

The rain in Los Angeles didn’t wash things clean; it only made the grime slicker.

Elara Vance stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, a glass of lukewarm bourbon in her hand, watching the city drown below her.

Even from thirty stories up, she could see the unmistakable, rhythmic flashing of strobe lights pooling on the wet asphalt outside her building’s security gates.

The paparazzi. They were like vultures waiting for a carcass to finally stop twitching.

And right now, Elara was the carcass.

She took a slow, burning sip of the amber liquid, closing her eyes as it scorched a path down her throat.

It didn't numb the ache in her chest, nor did it silence the relentless buzzing of her phone on the kitchen island.

Every vibration was another notification, another headline, another million strangers dissecting the brutal, humiliating end of her three-year relationship with Hollywood’s reigning golden boy, Declan Hayes.

“Elara Vance: From Indie Darling to Unhinged Ex?” “Declan Spotted in Cabo with Co-Star, While Elara Spirals in LA.” “Is Elara’s Upcoming Tour Canceled After Hotel Meltdown?”

There had been no meltdown. There had only been a deeply private, shattering argument in a hotel lobby after she found Declan’s phone unlocked.

But the cameras had only caught the aftermath: Elara, mascara smeared, throwing a diamond necklace onto the marble floor and walking out into the night.

Declan’s PR team had spun it within hours, painting him as the long-suffering victim of a temperamental, unstable rockstar.

"Stop looking at the window, El."

Elara didn’t turn around. She knew the heavy, exhausted sigh belonged to Marcus, her manager. He had let himself in ten minutes ago, carrying two coffees and a thick manila folder that looked entirely too ominous for a Tuesday morning.

"They’ve been out there for four days, Marcus," Elara said, her voice raspy. The rough, smoky edge to her voice was what had sold millions of records, but right now, it just sounded broken. "Do they ever sleep?"

"They sleep when the news cycle dies. And right now, you are in the news cycle."

Marcus walked over, his reflection joining hers in the rain-streaked glass.

He was a man who practically lived in bespoke suits, but today his tie was loosened, and deep shadows bruised the skin under his eyes.

"We have a problem. A real one this time."

Elara finally turned, leaning her back against the cool glass. She crossed her arms, her oversized vintage band tee swallowing her petite frame. "Let me guess. The label is pulling tour support?"

"They’re threatening to," Marcus corrected, though the distinction offered little comfort.

"The pre-sales for the European leg have stalled. Declan’s team is running a masterclass in character assassination. They’re making you look volatile, bitter, and unmarketable. Sponsors are getting nervous. You’re an indie-rock singer, El. A little edge is good.

But 'unhinged ex-girlfriend who throws tantrums in five-star hotels' is bad for business."

"I didn't throw a tantrum!" Elara snapped, the sudden flare of anger making her chest tight. "I found out the man I thought I was going to marry was sleeping with his twenty-two-year-old co-star for six months! I walked away. That’s it. Why am I the villain here?"

"Because he has a better smile, a bigger PR machine, and he plays the hero in blockbuster movies," Marcus said bluntly, offering no sugar-coating.

"Fair doesn't exist in this town. Optics do. And right now, your optics are toxic. You need a win. You need to look stable, happy, and completely unbothered by Declan Hayes."

Elara let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "What do you want me to do, Marcus? Hire a boyfriend? Walk a red carpet with a cardboard cutout of a nice guy?"

Marcus didn’t laugh. He didn't even smile. Instead, he walked over to the kitchen island, picked up the thick manila folder, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a heavy thud.

"Actually," Marcus said, his voice dropping into that serious, negotiation tone she knew all too well. "That is exactly what we are going to do."

Elara froze. The bourbon in her glass sloshed as her grip tightened. "Excuse me?"

"You need a shield," Marcus said, tapping the folder.

"Someone universally beloved. Someone masculine, stable, and completely outside the Hollywood acting sphere so it doesn't look like you’re trying to compete with Declan. We need to flip the narrative. We show the world that you aren't mourning Declan because you’ve moved on to someone bigger,

better, and fiercely protective of you."

"A fake relationship," Elara breathed out, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "You want me to do a showmance. Are you insane?"

"I am trying to save your career!" Marcus fired back, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.

"Music is all you have, Elara. You’ve bled for this album. You wrote every single track. If this tour gets canceled, you don't just lose money; you lose your voice. I will not let Declan Hayes take that from you."

Elara squeezed her eyes shut. He was right. That was the most infuriating part. The music was her lifeline, her oxygen. She couldn't let it slip away because of a cheating actor and a few predatory photographers.

"Who?" she asked quietly, opening her eyes. "Who could possibly want to tie themselves to my sinking ship?"

Marcus finally offered a small, grim smile. "Someone whose ship is also taking on water. Just in a different ocean." He opened the folder and slid an eight-by-ten glossy photograph across the table.

Elara stepped forward, looking down.

Staring back at her was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and ice.

He had a strong, square jaw covered in dark, golden-brown scruff, a slightly crooked nose that had clearly been broken more than once, and piercing, storm-cloud gray eyes that seemed to burn right through the camera lens.

He was massive, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a tailored charcoal suit that couldn't quite hide the predatory grace of an elite athlete.

"Julian Thorne," Marcus announced. "Captain of the Portland Pioneers."

Elara blinked, a strange, electric shiver tracing its way down her spine as she looked at the photograph. The man was undeniably, devastatingly gorgeous, but he didn't look polished like Declan. He looked dangerous. He looked real.

"A hockey player?" she asked, her voice faltering slightly.

"Not just a hockey player. The best center in the league. A god on the ice," Marcus said. "But off the ice, he’s currently an absolute nightmare for his team’s management."

Two thousand miles away, in the freezing, neon-lit bowels of the Portland Pioneers' home arena, Julian Thorne was currently reading the riot act.

He sat on a hard plastic chair in the general manager's office, still half-dressed in his practice gear. Sweat dripped from his dark, messy hair, sliding down his neck to soak into the collar of his compression shirt. He smelled like frost, athletic tape, and pure, unfiltered aggression.

Julian’s massive hands were clasped loosely between his knees, his knuckles heavily scarred and bruised. He was staring at the floor, though his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked rhythmically beneath his skin.

"Do you have any idea how much money we lose every time your face ends up on a gossip blog instead of a sports page, Thorne?"

Coach Baxter roared, pacing the length of the small office.

"You are the captain of this franchise! You are supposed to be a role model, a pillar of the community! Not a—a reckless, brawling playboy!"

"I wasn't brawling, Coach," Julian said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that reverberated in his massive chest. He looked up, his stormy gray eyes flat and unyielding. "I was pulling Miller out of a bad situation."

"You threw a right hook that sent a man through a plate-glass window at a nightclub at two in the morning!" Baxter shouted, slamming a hand down on his desk.

"The guy put his hands on a waitress and wouldn't let go," Julian growled, the memory making the blood roar in his ears again. "I told him to back off. He took a swing at Miller. I ended it. That's all."

"I don't care if he was robbing the place, Julian!"

This new voice belonged to Sarah, the team’s head of public relations.

She sat perfectly composed in a leather armchair, adjusting her designer glasses.

"The media doesn't care about the context. They care about the footage. And the footage shows the captain of the Pioneers involved in yet another late-night altercation. Three weeks ago, you were photographed leaving a hotel at dawn with a woman whose name you couldn't even remember.

A month before that, it was a shouting match with a paparazzo."

Julian ground his teeth together. The woman at the hotel had been his sister, who had flown in for a chaotic, tearful divorce settlement, and he had been helping her move her bags.

The paparazzo had almost run over a stray dog to get a shot of him.

He wasn't a playboy. He wasn't reckless.

He just possessed a deeply ingrained, aggressive instinct to protect the people around him, and he had zero patience for the blood-suckers who lived behind camera lenses.

But he couldn't say that. The PR machine didn't want the truth; they wanted compliance.

"Corporate sponsors are threatening to pull your endorsement deals," Sarah continued, her voice cold and clinical. "Management is seriously considering stripping you of the 'C' on your jersey, Julian. They think you're spiraling."

That made Julian freeze. His head snapped up, a cold dread washing over him. The captaincy. This team was his blood, his bone, his entire life. He had bled on the ice for this city. The thought of losing the letter on his chest felt like a physical blow to the ribs.

"You can't do that," Julian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet octave.