Breaking the Beast on Ice

Chapter 15 -No Clear Audio

The stroll down Fifth Avenue feels less like the end of a morning coffee run and more like a carefully choreographed ballet.

To the rest of the world, we are a striking couple. People envy us. I know. I can tell. Silas walks close enough that his arm brushes mine with every stride. Whenever a pack of photographers surges near the curb, his large, warm hand finds the small of my back, guiding me gently. He seems very protective. It’s almost like I’m his teammate on the ice and he’s ready to pounce on anyone who even looks at me the wrong way. I look up at him, flashing bright smiles that feel entirely natural on my lips.

He plays his part flawlessly. He smiles down at me, tucks a stray strand of my platinum hair behind my ear and murmurs low, amused comments that make me laugh for the cameras.

Click. Click. Click.

But I feel the shift.

It’s subtle, but it has been there since we left the cafe table. His touches are what they are supposed to be, lingering and protective, but it’s all for show. The second the press recedes into the background, his hand drops instantly to his side.

Silas Vane has enforced a boundary. I originally thought I would be the one doing that, and that I would have a hard time, given that he is arrogant and in-your-face.

A sharp, defensive sting settles deep in my chest. I have no right to feel sidelined. I was the one who insisted on strict professionalism. I’m the one who hated having been roped into this situation. Yet, as we turn the corner toward the Holloway corporate building, I find myself missing the effortless, unscripted heat of his thumb against my wrist.

Did I imagine that all along?

I’ve spent twenty-five years making sure men keep their distance, and now I’m silently resenting the one man who is actually respecting my space. It takes a lot of effort not to chuckle bitterly. Yes, we are still in public. Harper Holloway, focus!

I glance sideways at him. His jaw is set tight, his eyes constantly scanning the street ahead.

Why am I so desperate to break through his guard? Why do I care what he thinks of me? I’ve never been a needy person, not even for my mom, dad, or big brother.

My phone buzzes inside my purse, a sharp vibration that shatters my thoughts.

I pull it out, stepping slightly behind Silas’s broad shoulder as we wait near the private entrance of the Holloway tower. My hands turn cold when I see an encrypted notification from my personal email, flagged with an urgent red tag. I know what this is all about, but my mind tries to block it off.

No.

I open it, and the artificial calm I’ve been maintaining threatens to crumble.

It’s a video attachment, accompanied by a brief, cold message. I hit play, on mute, keeping the screen angled away from Silas.

The footage is thirty seconds long, nothing more. The video is from a high-end charity gala last month, and it’s been edited to create a story the sender wants to tell.

I remember the night so well. So, I know that it cuts out the beginning entirely, omitting the moment I caught those greedy parents cornering their six-year-old daughter in a quiet hallway, violently shaking her arms, and verbally berating her for not smiling wide enough for wealthy donors.

The edited clip starts right as I intervened.

On screen, I step aggressively into the frame. My face is contorted in fury as I step toward the parents to tell them exactly what I think of them. But because of the camera angle, it looks entirely different. It looks like I am towering over the little girl, pointing my finger menacingly, while her “distraught” parents step in front of her, looking like terrified bystanders trying to protect their child from a wild, out-of-control heiress.

Worse, the little girl’s distress is clear on the video. Her tears stream down her cheeks from all the shouting. There is no clear audio. Of course.

The girl knew I was defending her; she squeezed my pinky and whispered thank you after security cleared her parents out. But this clip is a masterpiece of character assassination. It comes with a small note.

“Three million dollars in an offshore account by tomorrow night or the raw footage hits the network news. Don’t think of yourself. Think of your dad. Think of what it will do to all you represent.”

My breath catches in my throat. Cold sweat prickles at the base of my neck.

They are right. I am not a celebrity, and I do not give a f**k what people think of me, but I represent other people, and right now, I am tied to Silas’s future.

This can destroy my father’s life work.

Dominic Mercer can claim more of my father’s empire if he can prove him to be unstable to manage an NHL franchise.

If this video drops tomorrow morning, showing the owner’s daughter seemingly terrorizing a crying child at a charity event, the conservative board members will think he is right.

I clutch my phone until my knuckles turn white.

“Holloway.”

Silas’s low, gravelly rasp breaks through the roar in my ears.

I freeze, reflexively locking my screen before looking up. We’ve reached the private glass doors of the tower lobby. Silas has turned around, his broad frame blocking the wind, his deep green eyes searching my face with a dark, intense focus.

“What?” I ask, forcing my voice into a flat, controlled register.

“You stopped walking,” he says softly, his gaze dropping to my phone, then rising to meet my eyes. “And you look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Harper.”

He follows me into the private elevator bay, his massive body filling the small space. The doors slide shut, sealing us off from the street, the press, and the rest of the world.

But we aren’t truly safe, are we?

Silas doesn’t back away this time. He steps right into my personal space, looming over me, his scent overpowering me. I want to inhale him, but I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want to distract myself.

“You spent the last hour boosting my reputation,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rough and steady. “But now, it looks like you need me, too.”

I need you.

The three words come unbidden in my head.

He reaches down, his hand hovering an inch over mine, giving me every chance to pull away.

“Tell me what’s happening,” he says, his green eyes dark with an unyielding, protective fire. “Let me return the favor.”