The early morning light seeped through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the hotel room. Sheila sat at the small desk near the window, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the surface as she scrolled through her emails. Each message felt like a potential minefield, each subject line a trap waiting to be triggered. Carter’s reach was relentless, and though the press conference had been a minor victory, she knew it was only the beginning.
Atticus stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching her silently. His expression was unreadable, but the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his gaze followed her every move betrayed the constant calculation he performed. He never let his guard down—not in the rink, not in public, not here. And yet, the intensity of his presence comforted her in
