The door shutting behind him might as well be the lid of a coffin, leaving me alone with my brother and his fury.
Easton doesn't speak immediately. Just stands there in his perfect tuxedo, staring at me with an expression I've never seen before. Disappointment and rage and something that looks almost like grief war across his features.
When he finally moves, it's with the deliberate precision of a man barely keeping himself in check. Three steps forward, and suddenly the balcony feels impossibly small.
"I knew it." The words are quiet, deadly. Each syllable lands heavy, stealing my breath.
I open my mouth—denial, deflection, anything—but he cuts me off with a gesture.
"Don't lie to me, Sloane. Itoldyou what would happen if you got involved with one of my teammates."
"Easton, it's not what you think—"
"I understand exactly what it is." His voice is blade-sharp, controlled in the way that's infinitely more terrifying than shouting. "You're risking everything you've built. For what? A guy who's going to be traded in two years? Retire in five? You think this is going to end with happily-ever-after?"
Every word finds its mark, hitting the fault lines I've been trying to hold together. My ambition. My family. My deepest fear that I'm making the same mistake that destroyed my mother.
"You're a distraction, Sloane. To the team. Tohim. Right before a playoff push." His voice drops to something that's almost a whisper but carries more menace than any scream. "Do you have any idea what this could do to the locker room if it gets out? We're three games away from clinching home ice, and you're out here playing house."
"It's not—we're not—"
"You need to end it. Now." The words land like a death sentence. "It's him or your job. Him or this family. And if you won't end it, I will."
The threat steals the air from my lungs. He's not just asking me to choose—he's promising to destroy both Garrett and me if I don't comply.
His voice goes even quieter, more final. "I'll go to Kowalski myself. I'll do what I have to do to protect this team from distraction—and to protect you from getting burned. Don't make me choose between my sister and my captain, Sloane. Because you know which one I have to pick when it comes to this team."
This is how it happened to Sarah. Not with a formal complaint, but with a quiet, concerned conversation from a "trusted source"—a knife in the back disguised as a favor. The ultimatum hangs between us like a blade. Choose. Him or everything I've worked for. Love or survival.
There's no right answer. There's no way to win.
Easton stares at me for another heartbeat, waiting for a response I can't give. When none comes, he turns and walks back through the French doors without another word, leaving me alone on the balcony with the cold and the city lights and the ruins of my carefully constructed life.
I don't know how long I stand there. Long enough for the frigid air to turn the damp tracks on my cheeks painfullynumb. Long enough for the numbness to spread from my fingers until my entire chest feels hollow.
Eventually, the cold drives me inside.
The ballroom welcomes me back with its suffocating warmth and glittering surfaces. The conversations continue around me, oblivious to the fact that my world just ended on a dark balcony overlooking the city. I smooth my dress, check my reflection in a server's polished tray, rebuild my mask with the expertise of someone who's been performing her whole life.
But as I move through the crowd on autopilot, my eyes find a familiar figure across the room.
Vivian stands near the media corner, a champagne flute in her manicured hand. She's not talking to anyone, not networking or schmoozing or playing the corporate games that usually consume her attention at events like this.
She's watching.
Her gaze moves with merciless focus from me to the French doors I just emerged from, to Garrett near the management table, to Easton rejoining his teammates at the bar. I watch her eyes catalog every detail, every expression, every subtle shift in body language.
When her gaze returns to me, I see something that makes my stomach clench with dread.
It's not professional disapproval. It's not corporate calculation or strategic planning.
It's recognition. Personal. Vicious. The look of a woman who's seen this exact scenario before and knows exactly how it ends.
But there's something else in her expression—something that transforms my fear into pure, ice-cold terror.
Satisfaction.
Like she's been waiting for this moment. Like she's been building toward it. Like everything that just happened on that balcony was exactly what she needed to finish whatever game she's been playing.
