Sugar Baby for the Ice King

Chapter 3

ROSALIE

Rhett Donovan’s penthouse was not a home. It was a multi-million-dollar tomb located on the top two floors of the grandest glass tower downtown.

As Rhett opened the door and ushered me inside, I expected to see signs of a billionaire playboy’s lifestyle like an expensive art, a well-stocked bar, maybe a stray piece of clothing. Instead, everything was violently sterile.

The walls were bare gray concrete. The furniture looked custom-built and entirely uncomfortable. There wasn't a single framed photo, a stray book, or even a speck of dust. It looked like a luxury hotel room waiting for a guest who never arrived.

"Your room is down the east wing," Rhett said, his deep voice slicing through the silence like a scalpel.

He pulled his heavy, warm coat off my shoulders and hung it up with terrifying precision. "It is exactly three doors down from the main living area. Far enough that I won't have to look at you, and far enough that you won't disrupt my peace. I value my silence, Rosalie. Remember that."

As he spoke, I caught a glimpse of a small, dusty silver trophy tucked away in the back of a glass cabinet by the hallway.

It wasn't an NHL award. It was a childhood hockey trophy, but the nameplate had been crudely scratched out, and it sat alone in the dark.

For all his fame, there were no congratulatory cards, no family gifts, nothing. The city's most feared sports star lived like an absolute ghost.

"I can be quiet," I lied, my voice cracking slightly. I was an emotional wreck. The adrenaline from catching Marcus cheating, followed by the terror of my father trying to sell me, was finally wearing off, leaving me a trembling, chaotic mess and even before that I was such a clumsy one.

"See that you are," Rhett murmured, his icy eyes lingering on me for a fraction of a second before turning on his heel and retreating into his master suite.

Three hours later, Rhett was on the absolute brink of insanity.

It started at midnight. I couldn't sleep. My mind was spinning, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marcus and Cynthia.

Desperate for a distraction, I decided to unpack the tiny emergency bag I had managed to grab.

My suitcase zipper got completely stuck. I yanked it with all my might, losing my grip and then the heavy suitcase flew off the bed and slammed directly against the wall, sending a thunderous BOOM echoing through the concrete hallways.

I covered my mouth as though stopping myself from screaming out in shock. I hadn’t expected it to echo that loud. It was as though this house was haunted and didn’t want me here.

Ten minutes later, I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

The penthouse’s state-of-the-art smart fridge required a light touch, but my hands were shaking so badly I accidentally smacked the digital screen.

A loud, electronic chime blasted through the penthouse, followed by a robotic voice announcing: “DOOR OPEN. CHILL FLUID ACTIVATED.”

Panic-stricken, I tried to silence it and ended up knocking a heavy crystal glass off the counter. It shattered on the marble floor with a piercing, musical scream.

“Cleaning mode engaged,” the fridge chirped cheerfully.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," I whispered, dropping to my knees to pick up the glass fragments, only to stub my toe violently against the kitchen island.

I let out a sharp, undignified yelp, hopping on one foot before crashing into a stack of metal barstools.

By 2:00 AM, the final straw broke. I had finally retreated back to my far-away bedroom, deciding that hot tea might calm my nerves. I found a vintage electric kettle in the guest kitchenette.

What I didn’t realise was that it was a British model that whistled like a freight train when it reached a boil.

The kettle let out a high-pitched, demonic shriek that sounded like a bomb warning.

I scrambled to pull the plug, but before my fingers could even touch the outlet, my bedroom door was violently thrown open, slamming against the drywall.

There stood Rhett Donovan.

The "Ice King" looked like he had just risen from the depths of hell.

His dark hair was wildly disheveled, falling into his eyes. He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his massive, heavily muscled chest bare and heaving.

His hands, still lightly wrapped in white sports tape from his evening workout, were clenched into fists. If looks could kill, I would have been buried under the rink.

"What," Rhett growled, his voice a lethal, terrifying whisper that easily pierced through the kettle's dying whistle, "are you doing?"

"I... I was making chamomile tea," I squeaked, clutching a porcelain mug like a shield.

"In the last three hours, you have managed to recreate the sounds of a Category 5 hurricane in my home," Rhett said, stepping into the room.

He looked around at the absolute chaos I had created in a short time. Clothes thrown over the chair, a spilled box of tissues, and a rogue shoe near the doorway. "You dropped a boulder against my wall. You engaged a warfare protocol with my refrigerator. You destroyed a three-hundred-dollar Baccarat glass. And now, you are summoning a train into my guest wing."

"It was an accident!" I argued, my inner drama taking over as my voice rose defensively. "My hands are shaking, I'm traumatised, my ex-fiancé is a rat, my father is a criminal, and your penthouse is too quiet! It amplifies everything!"

I swallowed after committing that blunder. What have I done?

Rhett closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. A heavy vein throbbed against his temple. "I have a championship game in thirty hours. If I do not sleep, I will launch a puck through my coach's skull."

"I'll be quiet now, I promise—"

"No, you won't," Rhett snapped, opening his icy grey eyes. He walked over, grabbed my wrist in a firm but surprisingly gentle grip, and snatched the tea mug from my hand. "You are a walking natural disaster, Rosalie. If I leave you down here, you will find a way to burn the glass down."

"Where are we going?" I gasped as he practically dragged me down the hallway.

"To my room," he ordered, pulling me past the living area and straight into his massive master suite.

He threw open the doors to a bedroom three times the size of mine. In the center sat an enormous, custom king-sized bed covered in dark charcoal sheets.

"You are staying right here," Rhett commanded, pointing a taped finger at the mattress. "If you so much as breathe too loudly, I will hear it instantly. I am going to monitor exactly what you are doing that makes you a one-woman wrecking crew."

"We're sharing a bed?!" I stared at him, my heart doing a completely different kind of flip-flop. "The contract said rule number three—"

"The contract said you obey me," Rhett interrupted, his voice dropping into a dark, rough register as he stepped closer, towering over me in the dim light of his room. "Get in the bed, Rosalie. On your side. Do not touch me, do not talk, and for the love of God, do not whistle."