Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 9 - Ghosts in the Feed

“Silas, I think you may be in more trouble than you think you are.”

Those words carry a chill up and down my spine. They echo even as we ride toward Alexa’s house, where we are supposed to get some reprieve from the press.

Her condo provides a stunning view of the city skyline. But I’m not interested in a view that I have been ignoring, even in Silas’s penthouse. The whole deal my father concocted between his favorite player and me has seemed so silly. Now, I wonder if there is more to it.

Silas stands beside me in the foyer, a picture of complete rigidity. I still know what those muscles feel like. The dance has taught me that this man is not just strength, but also grace.

“Show me, Alex,” I say flatly. “You’ve put us in enough suspense.”

“I didn’t like the idea of people seeing us hovering over one phone screen,” she explains with a shrug of her shoulder.

As she edges closer to us, I brace myself. I have been trained in crisis management since I was old enough to understand its importance to the Holloway name. The Holloways do not run away from a threat. But this threat is a more direct hit than any I’ve experienced before.

My best friend holds her phone toward us, tilting the screen so we can see the bright display. My eyes eagerly look at what she’s trying to show us.

It’s a beautiful brunette in a portrait-style, high-resolution photo. Based on the soft lighting, I can hazard a guess that she has it taken in an upscale restaurant downtown. She gives a delicate, fragile smile for the camera. I immediately recognize it as a performance of someone trying to make it seem like everything is perfect.

Her eyes were glassy and wide. There’s a hint of something darker. Sadness? Terror? What catches my eye and will no doubt catch other people’s, too, is her left hand. The right slightly covers it, but not enough to completely hide the purplish black finger marks around the wrist.

Beside me, Silas is frozen. I glance at him and see his face go pale.

“What is this, Vane?” Alexa asks. “Is this real?”

Silas is speechless for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. I can tell he does not expect the picture to be of something like this. But before I can continue pondering about the truth or lie in the photo of what I assume to be Emma Rhodes, my mind is pulled to the past.

Quickly but violently.

A heavy weight pins me down against the leather cushions of a sofa. His cologne smells sour, mixed with whiskey. I am fifteen, terrified, and clawing for air. I know that my father’s country club has soundproofed rooms, and this is one of them. A catering staff member steps in with a tray. Thank God. The room isn’t locked, after all. The weight lifts off me instantly, leaving me in the dark. Shivering. Yet, the feeling never truly leaves. Sometimes, I am still that girl.

I straighten myself, only realizing that my posture has gone hunched. I vow not to let Alexa and Silas see what one photo does to me.

“Vane,” I begin. “Did you do that to her? Did you hurt her?”

His eyes widen, but he is not looking at me directly. They are still on Emma as if the photo will be the reason for his execution.

And in a world like ours, where social media reigns? It may as well be.

“No,” he rasps. “I have never laid a hand on any woman in my life. This is a lie!”

Ah. I may be right. It may be a performance of a performance. Yet, it’s hard to easily accept that some women may lie about a man hurting them.

“Are you sure? She must be a very good actress if she can look that convincing.”

“I know,” Silas grumbles, “but it’s not true. I’ll be the last person to hurt a woman.”

The Enforcer looks surprised at his own words. I can tell he doesn’t mean to say them. They just come out.

“Well, we need to do something,” Alexa says. “I don’t want Harper going down with you, Vane.”

“It’s a setup. They want to see me as the Butcher, violent on and off the ice. And I can be. But not without good reason.”

“We are not running away from this,” I say. “We need to find a way out of this together. I still don’t like you, but I believe you. You didn’t do this. But is this just a case of a woman scorned?”

“What are you planning, Harper?” Alexa asks, as she heads for her bar to get some whiskey.

“Well, I don’t know exactly yet, but one thing is for sure. The fake dating continues,” I say. “Imagine if we say, “Oh, guess what? This wasn’t real all along?” People will label us as liars, which, to be fair, we are. But they will suspect everything Silas says afterward. Why would he pretend that I’m his girlfriend? Perhaps to hide Emma Rhodes? No. We are not hiding Emma Rhodes. We are facing the reality of her head on.”

“Mm. That sounds good, actually,” Alexa muses after a gulp of whiskey. “I like it. What do you think, Vane?”

“I’m on board. But this does not sound like Emma at all,” he says. “She was a hook-up, but even then, I would have gotten a feel for her personality.”

“Really?” I ask sarcastically. I can’t help it. “Can you actually tell their personalities based on the time she’s there with you to f**k?”

Alexa watches me strangely, her hand gripping her glass.

“Seriously, Holloway? Of course, you will have a feel for the man or woman you date. What about you? Don’t you get a feel for the assholes and the good guys even before you take them to your bed?”

I freeze. He’s not supposed to ask me these things.

“Enough, Vane. Harper is just tired. Leave her be,” Alexa says, her eyes still on me. It’s hard to hide things from my best friend, but somehow I’ve kept a few secrets from her. “Imagine thinking she has just solved her Ice Queen problem, and now she’s going to be labeled as the Butcher’s Girlfriend. The one who pretends he does not hit women.”

I sigh.

Now, that Alexa puts it this way. I think of my dad and how he has not thought this plan through. I’m not going to be mayor one day. Most days, I don’t give a f**k what people think of me. Why did I have to be in this at all?

Yet, I can see myself sticking around because the horror on Silas’s face? It is real.

“Thanks for believing in me, Holloway,” he mumbles, finally looking at me. There’s something softer in his eyes. Sheepishness, maybe.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I grumble. “I don’t know what I’m doing. My life is falling apart.”

“Cut the dramatics,” Alexa says with a grin.

“You’re the one who showed us that photo. Who sent it to you, by the way?”

“Interestingly enough, it’s Dominic Mercer.”

I have tried my best not to think of that name in a long time. I feel the blood drain from my face.