Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 13 - The Spin

By eight in the morning, social media is already buzzing. It’s on fire.

I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass in Silas’s guest room, pulling a sharp, cream-colored fitted blazer over a matching silk camisole. I am all business today. So, there won’t be any floor-length gowns. Instead, I’m wearing crisp lines and designer sunglasses. Hopefully, my hands will cooperate today.

BREAKING: Leaked photos link Silas Vane to assault allegations.

Vane’s past catching up?

Holloway Franchise in jeopardy?

When they get busy, they really give their all. It’s a smear job, but most people don’t know that. After all, they are used to Silas being violent.

The first photo released is a grainy old one of Silas and Emma Rhodes sitting together in a crowded bar. It seems harmless. It’s just a potential couple enjoying drinks.

The second image is the one we anticipated would go wild: the stomach-turning close-up of Emma’s wrist, marked with dark, violent finger-mark bruises.

There’s no photo of Silas actually touching her. There doesn't need to be. Stacking the two photos side by side in a tabloid header creates the narrative for the public instantly: Silas Vane at the bar with Emma Rhodes, and the devastation left behind. It’s designed to make him look like a hot-tempered monster who hides his aggression behind closed doors. Never mind that the two photos are years apart. But again, not everyone knows that.

I pick up my phone and check the group chat, the one who decided we need.

Alexa: I imagine you’ve seen the two photo drops. Stage One is set. Coffee shop on 5th is swarming with paparazzi. Walk out looking untroubled, insufferably in love as planned, and let them chew on the narrative we give them.

Alexa: Also, remember the intel I sent you on his high school ex. If they try to drag up ancient history or spin a pattern of behavior, put it out instantly.

I delete the notification and step out into the hallway.

Silas is standing in the kitchen, fully dressed in a custom dark suit jacket over a black t-shirt. He wears it over designer jeans that hug his muscled thighs. I try not to gulp. I hope he does not notice that I just checked him out.

He looks immaculate, broad-shouldered, and entirely unfazed by the media circus waiting sixty floors below us. Of course, we know better. His eyes are deeply troubled.

“Ready for that stroll through hell, Heiress?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse.

"Always," I say, walking toward him to pat his chest. We need to sell “this,” after all. "Stick to the script. We’re cool and entirely unbothered."

When the elevator doors open into the private lobby below, the quiet shatters.

The street outside the glass doors is a sea of flashbulbs, boom mics, and shouting reporters. The moment we step out onto the pavement, the noise swells into a resounding roar. It’s not like I’m not used to noise, but this one is violent noise. It’s an attack. I try not to cower.

"Harper! Over here!"

"Silas! What’s your reaction to the bar photo and Emma Rhodes's injuries?!"

"Is the Holloway family reconsidering your contract?!"

Silas doesn't flinch. He steps up beside me, his broad body acting as a physical block against the surging crowd. Remembering Alexa’s instruction to look completely united, he reaches down, his heavy, warm palm slipping into mine, his long fingers lacing through my small ones.

My heart gives an erratic, unbidden leap inside my chest at the sudden contact, but I keep my chin up, a polished, easy smile fixed on my lips. I should act as if this is our normal. We must be completely comfortable together.

We walk down the street like two people on a casual morning coffee run, if being hounded by paparazzi could ever be called casual. Silas keeps his pace measured so I can catch up with his strides.

Suddenly, a reporter from a notorious gossip rag elbows his way to the front of the barricade, pushing a microphone directly into my face.

"Harper! What do you have to say about the photos of Silas and Emma?!" the reporter shouts over the commotion. "And what about his history with women? What about what happened to his old girlfriend?!"

I pause. That takes them aback a little. After all, they think I’m going to try to escape. No. I’m not going to do that. It’s a slight stutter until the cameras go wild again. Silas tightens his grip on my hand, his posture instantly shifting, ready to step between me and the press.

I glance up at the reporter, letting a trace of genuine confusion spread over my face before smoothing it into a light, amused laugh.

"His old girlfriend?" I ask, my voice cool, clear, and perfectly pitched to carry over the microphones. "Are you talking about Lara?"

The reporter blinks, caught entirely off guard.

"Because if you're talking about Lara," I continue, letting a tiny, patronizing smile touch the corners of my lips, "the last time Silas had a girlfriend, he was seventeen years old and living in South Boston. He hasn't had contact with her in a decade."

A wave of murmured hushes moves through the press pack. Silas stands beside me, his jaw flexed, but I can feel the quiet shock coming from him as I step fluidly into the spotlight.

"In fact," I add, tilting my head slightly as if confiding a lighthearted secret with the cameras, "our PR director, Alexa, actually reached out to Lara yesterday to get the dish on young Silas before we went public."

The reporters press forward, desperate for every word.

"Lara says hi, by the way," I say directly to the main news camera, my smile expanding into something radiantly untouchable. “She’s psyched about her old boyfriend being this famous.”

Famous?

Notorious, more like. But we will have to do something about that.

I want to say more, about how Lara thinks Silas is a complete gentleman. That he has never hurt her. But I leave the implications open. If I say all those things, it will sound rehearsed.

I turn to Silas, reaching up with my free hand to adjust the lapel of his jacket, a gesture so naturally intimate that three telephoto lenses instantly zoom in to capture it.

"Ready for that coffee, darling?" I ask softly, my eyes fixing on his.

Silas stares down at me, his dark green eyes open with an emotion so raw and intense it nearly breaks my composure. For a fraction of a second, the NHL enforcer looks completely floored by the twenty-five-year-old woman holding his hand on a public sidewalk. Yes, that’s me. I did that to him.

But, of course, I am not a fool. There’s nothing more between us than two people helping to save each other’s image. I’m saving him now. He’ll have time to do that for me, too. It’s coming.

"Lead the way, Heiress," he murmurs, his voice with a low, rough rumble.

I turn back toward the coffee shop, holding his hand firmly in mine as we cut through the parting crowd of journalists.

Underneath my tailored jacket, my heart rate is racing a mile a minute. The adrenaline of taking down the media is still throbbing within my veins, but while Silas’s fingers tighten around mine, a dangerous realization falls on me.

We are playing a game. We are doing it together, against the entire city. However, there’s another game that’s begun within myself, and I’m not sure I’m ready to acknowledge it yet.