Page 88 of Broken Blades

She nodded eagerly, chattering about her favorite player (not me, thankfully—the pressure would've been too much), about how she'd never been skating before, about how her mom promised she could get hot chocolate after.

I tied the lace with careful precision. Double-knotted it. Tugged gently to make sure it held. "There. Try that."

She tested her weight, beamed up at me with pure, uncomplicated joy. "Thank you!"

Then she threw her arms around my neck in an impulsive hug before skating away with the kind of fearless abandon only kids possessed.

I smiled. Actually smiled. The kind I hadn't felt stretch across my face in months. Maybe years.

"Wyatt."

The voice slid across my skin like ice water. Warm. Sweet. Deadly. Every muscle in my body locked down. The smile died instantly, replaced by something cold and hardened and barely controlled.

I rose slowly. Turned.

She stood at the edge of the ice, one hand resting elegantly on the boards. Chic winter coat—cashmere, probably. Makeup perfect. Hair styled with the kind of casual precision that cost a fortune to achieve. An investor badge hung from a lanyard around her neck, laminated proof of her legitimacy, her right to be here.

My ex-wife.

The woman who'd destroyed everything.

The wound in my chest throbbed—old scar tissue pulled too tight, never quite healed.

"Why are you here?" My voice came out flat. Controlled. Giving nothing away.

She smiled like we were old friends catching up at a reunion. "It's an investor event, Wyatt. I'm an investor." Her head tilted slightly. "Remember?"

Of course I remembered. Her company was merging with Harrington's. She was everywhere now—unavoidable, inescapable, a constant reminder of the betrayal that had nearly ended me.

I stared at her. Saw past the polished exterior to the woman who'd blown my life apart with a smile on her face. Who'd rewritten history until I became the villain in our story. Who'd walked away clean while I drowned in the wreckage.

Her voice dropped, took on that faux-concerned tone I'd learned to recognize as poison wrapped in silk. "You look good. Happier." A pause. "I know what you're doing with Chastity."

My entire body went rigid. Ice flooded my veins—not the comfortable cold of the rink, but something darker. Protective. Dangerous.

"Don't say her name."

The words came out sharp. Final. A warning she'd be smart to heed.

She tilted her head, studying me with that calculating expression I'd once mistaken for affection. "Your reputation was finally starting to recover, Wyatt. All that ugliness from before…" She trailed off delicately. "I'd hate to see you ruin it again."

My vision edged black at the corners. Heat surged through the cold—rage, pure and incandescent, barely contained beneath the surface.

She reached out to touch my arm—that familiar gesture she'd used a thousand times when we were married, when I'd believed her touch meant comfort instead of manipulation.

I stepped back sharply. Put distance between us like she was radioactive. "Don't touch me."

For the first time, her expression faltered. Just a crack in the facade—surprise, maybe hurt, definitely something she hadn't anticipated.

Good.

I turned to leave. To get away from her before I said something that would confirm every lie she'd ever told about my temper, my instability, my supposed violence.

Her voice followed me, soft and cutting. "Wyatt… don't hurt that girl. Not the way you hurt me." A beat. "She's a little young for you, isn't she?"

Cold flooded every cell in my body—arctic, absolute, the kind that preceded something catastrophic.

I turned my head slowly. Looked at her with eyes that had seen combat on ice, that had stared down men twice my size, that had learned to weaponize stillness.