Page 115 of Broken Blades

But it was his.

I pulled out my phone, checking the text Wyatt had sent earlier.

Suite 12. Family/Executive section. Security'll have your name.

Family.

I nearly laughed.

The word sat heavy and wrong, tangled up with images of my actual family—my father's tight smile at the restaurant, my mother's nervous hands, the way they'd both looked at me like I was a business asset instead of their daughter. The way they'd handed me over without a second thought.

And now I was walking into Wyatt's world wearing his team's name, sitting in a section reserved for wives and girlfriends and people who actually belonged to the players they were there to support.

Except I didn't belong to him.

This was fake. A performance. A month-long arrangement that would end and leave us both exactly where we'd started.

I repeated that to myself as I got out of the car, locked the doors, and joined the stream of fans heading inside. The cold air bit at my face, sharp enough to ground me. Music grew louder with every step. Lights brighter. Voices merging into a roar of excitement I couldn't quite match.

But my heart beat faster, anyway.

Because somewhere in that building, Wyatt was lacing up his skates and pulling on his jersey. And for reasons I refused to examine too closely, I wanted to be there when he stepped onto the ice.

I found Suite 12 on the second level, tucked behind glass doors that muffled the arena noise into something almost civilized. Security checked my name, gave me a polite nod, and stepped aside.

The moment I walked through, my father appeared. Just that tight, practiced smile—the one he wore at board meetings and investor dinners. The one that never quite reached his eyes.

"You made it. Good. Investors are watching tonight."

Not how are you?

Not feeling okay after last night?

Just performance.

Always performance.

The familiar weight settled over my shoulders—the expectation, the scrutiny, the unspoken reminder that I represented him. That everything I did reflected on the company. That even here, even now, I wasn't just his daughter. I was a brand asset.

I forced a polite smile, muscles moving on autopilot after years of practice. "Of course."

He gestured toward the suite's interior with one hand. "Barbara's already here. Some of her team as well. The merger's practically finalized—tonight's about showing stability."

Stability.

The word tasted like ash.

I nodded, moving past him into the warmth of the suite, and then froze.

The space opened up before me: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice, plush seating arranged in careful clusters, a catered spread laid out on sleek tables. Soft lighting. Expensive everything. The kind of luxury that whispered wealth instead of shouting it.

But none of that stopped me.

She did.

Barbara Hale stood near the window, champagne in hand, speaking quietly to a man in a tailored suit. Her posture perfect, her expression composed, her entire presence radiating the kind of cold control that could freeze blood.

The woman who'd sneered at Wyatt in the tunnel. The woman I'd defended him against without thinking. The woman whose company was merging with my father's—which meant she was about to become my boss.