My independence.
My one place untouched by his money, his influence, his suffocating presence.
And he'd reached into it, anyway.
Without asking. Without warning. Without giving me the dignity of choice.
"How long?" I managed.
"Three weeks. Maybe four, depending on what we find behind the walls."
Three weeks of strangers invading my space. Three weeks of noise and dust and evidence that nothing—nothing—was beyond Gideon's reach.
The foreman was already turning back to his blueprints, dismissing me.
In my own damn store.
I stood there, hands clenched at my sides, fighting the urge to scream at them to leave. To throw their tools into the street. To reclaim this one small corner of autonomy before it slipped away entirely.
But I didn't.
Because the work was already paid for. Because refusing would only prove I couldn't handle my own business. Because Gideon had made sure—again—that I had no good options.
Only compliance dressed up as gratitude.
Chapter 14
Gideon
Practice ended the way it always did—sweat dripping, bruises forming where bodies collided at speed, instincts sharpened to razor edges.
I skated hard. Harder than necessary. Let the physical punish what the mental wouldn't release.
Belle's rage this morning had been palpable even through her carefully blank expression. I'd watched her leave the house from the upstairs window, tracked the tension in her shoulders, the way she gripped the steering wheel like it might save her.
She didn't know about the renovations yet. She would soon.
The thought satisfied something dark I refused to examine.
I stripped my gear in silence while the rest of the team bantered around me. Hades made some crack about Jeremy's weak backcheck. James lobbed an insult that landed with surgical precision. Gang Lu said nothing, as usual, but his presence commanded respect, anyway.
Then Coach Edwards stepped into the center of the room.
Conversation died.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders square, gaze sweeping across us with the kind of cold calculation that separated good coaches from great ones. His eyes missed nothing—every missed assignment, every moment of laziness, every crack in our armor.
"Two days."
His voice cut through the lingering steam and sweat.
"That's all you have to fix every mistake you made this week."
He let the silence stretch. Let it press against us.
"The world doesn't reward talent." His gaze moved methodically from player to player. "It rewards obedience. Discipline."
The emphasis on those last two words landed heavier than it should have.
