The locker room was silent except for the hum of the ventilation system.
Killian’s hand remained extended.
Elegant. Patient.
Waiting.
Silas was still on one knee.
Concrete bit into bone. Sweat dripped down his spine. Blood from his split lip slid slowly to his jaw.
He didn’t feel any of it.
He felt something far worse.
The weight of her silence.
Ivy stood several feet away, spine straight, chin lifted in that porcelain-princess posture the media adored.
But her eyes weren’t porcelain.
They were storming.
“Princess,” Killian said gently, almost indulgently. “We’re late.”
Silas didn’t look up again.
He wouldn’t beg.
He wouldn’t ask.
But somewhere deep in his chest — beneath ten million dollars’ worth of brutality — something fragile waited.
Not hope.
Not quite.
Just… a pos
