Easton's eyes narrow slightly, and I watch the pieces click into place behind his sharp green gaze. The blind item. My emotional reaction at the game the other day when I thought Garrett was injured. The way I've been distracted lately, the late nights I've attributed to work stress.
He knows.
The moment stretches like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. Then Easton's jaw tightens, his expression shifting from suspicion to something harder, more resolute. Without a word, he continues down the hallway, leaving me staring after him with my heart hammering against my ribs.
"What was that about?" Garrett's voice cuts through my paralysis, confusion evident in every syllable. "Easton looked like he wanted to put me through the glass."
I force my attention back to my laptop screen, though the words blur together in meaningless rows. "He's protective. You know how brothers are."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's easier than the truth. Easier than explaining that my brother just confirmed his worst suspicions about us, that the secret we've been so careful to protect has been blown wide open by my inability to hide my feelings.
"Sloane." Garrett's voice is patient but persistent, the tone he uses when he knows I'm not telling him everything. "Talk to me. What's going on?"
"There's nothing to talk about." I close my laptop with deliberate finality, the sharp snap echoing in the glass-walledroom. "I think we've covered everything we need to for the media schedule."
The confusion in his eyes deepens, mixed now with hurt that he's trying to hide.
But something in my demeanor must convince him that pushing will only make things worse. He nods slowly, gathering his things with the careful movements of someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.
"Alright," he says quietly. "I'll see you later."
He pauses at the door, hand on the handle, and I can feel him willing me to look at him. To give him some sign that this distance is temporary, that the woman who laughed with him in his kitchen is still here somewhere beneath the corporate armor.
I don't look up. Can't afford to let him see the cracks in my resolve.
It's only when the door shuts quietly behind him that I close my eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over me in one silent, stolen breath before I force myself to get back to work.
Back in my office, my computer chimes with an incoming email, and my heart nearly stops. The preview appears in the corner of my screen, innocuous black text that shouldn't carry the weight of an execution order.
Subject: INVITATION: The 15th Annual Minnesota Mammoths Charity Gala
I stare at the notification, and something cold and terrible unfurls in my chest. The gala. Of course. The mosthigh-profile event of the season, where every major sponsor, every board member, every influential figure in the organization will be watching. Where Garrett and I will be forced into the same elegant ballroom, surrounded by cameras and corporate scrutiny.
My finger hovers over the email, trembling. When I open it, the formal invitation text swims before my eyes, but all I can see is the date. Three days from now. Seventy-two hours until I'm trapped in a glittering minefield where my brother will be cataloguing my every glance, every gesture, every second of proximity between Garrett and me.
23
Sloane
The crystal chandelier above the ballroom catches the light like a thousand watching eyes, each facet reflecting the glittering crowd below. I stand near the silent auction tables, champagne flute in hand, listening to Mrs. Shaw from Northstar Bank discuss her daughter's field hockey team with the kind of practiced attention that has become second nature. My smile feels shellacked in place, my posture perfect, every inch the polished marketing executive.
But underneath the navy silk dress that felt so confident an hour ago, my skin crawls with the sensation of being hunted.
"—and we just think the Mammoths could really benefit from more youth outreach programs, don't you agree, dear?"
"Absolutely," I hear myself say, voice smooth as glass. "Community engagement is crucial for building our fan base."
The words are automatic, muscle memory from a hundred similar conversations. My real attention is across the ballroom, tracking movement like a sniper calculating angles. Near the bar, Vivian Lamore holds court with a cluster of board members, her hair gleaming under the lights. Every few minutes, her gaze sweeps the room with predatory precision. Hunting.
But it's the figure by the management table that sends a chill unrelated to the cold spidering down my spine.
Easton.
My brother stands with his back to the wall, still as a goalie reading a power play. His massive frame is encased in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, but there's nothing civilized about the way he's watching me. His green eyes—so much like mine—track my every movement with laser focus. When I laugh at something Mrs. Shaw says, his jaw tightens. When I adjust my bracelet, his posture shifts.
He knows.
The realization hits me like ice water in my veins. This isn't suspicion anymore. This is certainty. And he's not here to celebrate—he's here to catch me.
