Trap or invitation?
Both, probably.
I stepped inside anyway.
The air changed immediately—thick with the smell of cedar and something darker underneath. Leather, maybe. Old wood. And beneath that, faint but unmistakable: him. That cologne I'd breathed in when he'd leaned close at the dining table, when his mouth had been inches from mine and my body had forgotten how to lie.
The scent wrapped around me now, possessive even in his absence.
Bookshelves lined three walls, floor to ceiling. Hardcovers organized by color, not title. Dark spines bleeding into darker ones. No dust. No disorder. Just control masquerading as taste.
But it was the fourth wall that pulled me deeper.
Trophies.
Framed magazine covers.
Glass cases holding signed pucks, game-worn jerseys, relics of a career I'd never bothered to follow.
I moved slowly along the display, fingers hovering over plaques I didn't dare touch.
MVP. Team Captain. League Champion.
Newspaper clippings preserved under glass: JONES LEADS TEAM TO VICTORY. THE ICE KING STRIKES AGAIN. Headlines that painted him as untouchable. Inevitable.
A photo caught my eye—Gideon hoisting a trophy over his head, teammates blurred in the background. The crowd must have been screaming. The arena must have shaken with noise.
But his face?
Blank.
No joy. No triumph. Just the same cold certainty I'd seen tonight when he'd pinned me to the table and proved exactly how powerless I was.
He never smiled in any of them.
Not one celebration photo showed anything resembling happiness. Just a man going through motions he'd already mastered. A man collecting victories the way other people collected stamps—methodical, joyless, complete.
What the hell kind of person wins everything and feels nothing?
I kept walking.
More photos. More accolades. A signed contract framed like art. Magazine covers where his eyes stared out, flat and assessing, like he was cataloging weaknesses even through the lens.
Then I saw a photo that stopped me cold. Tucked in the corner. Smaller than the rest. No frame, just pinned to a corkboard half-hidden behind a shelf.
Me.
At the gala.
A year ago.
I remembered that night in flashes—tight dress, forced smile, desperate networking for the bookstore. I'd been trying to look confident. Successful. Like I belonged in a room full of money I'd never have.
But in this photo?
I looked different.
Caught mid-laugh at something someone off-camera had said. Head tilted back. Guard down. Real in a way I rarely let myself be in public.
