Chapter 2: OLIVE's POV

"I'm not going to the game. What the fuck was I thinking?"

I slammed my forehead against my desk hard enough that my monitor shook. Making life decisions based on a magazine photo? That was a new low, even for me.

Brenda didn't even look up from her computer. "You can't back out now. You already agreed."

"I got so motivated to go because I saw some hot guy in a magazine. A magazine, Brenda. That's insane."

"And?" She was still typing. "I find that perfectly reasonable. Not every day someone finds their rebound within seconds of a breakup."

"I'm not trying to rebound—"

"To what? Sit here and overthink until you convince yourself Cole cheating was your fault?" She stopped typing. Turned to look at me. "Because I can already see it happening. You're doing that thing where you spiral."

She was right.

"What if I wasn't there enough?" The words spilled out. "What if the long distance was too hard—"

"Okay, stop. Stop right there." Brenda stood up and leaned against my desk. "I'm gonna say this once. Stop being a little bitch crying over mediocre dick."

My mouth snapped closed.

"I'm serious, Olive. Cole Maddox is mediocre at hockey, mediocre in bed—yes, you told me, wine drunk, don't deny it—and apparently mediocre at being faithful. You spent two years standing in the rain at his practices. You drove three hours to watch him warm benches. And this is how he repays you? Fuck him."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing. You're going to Chicago. You promised Hunter months ago you'd be there for his first NHL game. That promise had nothing to do with Cole and everything to do with your brother who's always had your back."

She was right about that too. Hunter had been asking me to come to games since he signed with the farm team. Back then, the idea of him making the NHL seemed like a sweet fantasy. Now it was real, and I'd promised to be there.

"Okay, I get it." But I was smiling now, just a little.

"Good. Now stop spiraling and—" She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes locking on something behind me. "Oh shit."

I turned to follow her gaze.

The TV.

And right there, filling the entire screen, was Cole's face.

My stomach dropped.

He looked good. Of course he looked good. Blonde hair perfectly styled, gray eyes that looked almost silver under the camera lights.

But that wasn't what made my breath catch.

Because tucked under his arm, pressed against his side like she belonged there, was a woman.

Stunning. Blonde hair cascading in perfect waves, red dress that hugged every curve.

She was laughing. Head thrown back, hand resting on Cole's chest, fingers spread like she owned him.

And that hair—it looked exactly like the hair I'd seen spilling down her back on that video call.

"Cole Maddox was spotted last night with his alleged new girlfriend, Sophia Mercer, aboard a private cruise ship," the reporter's voice filled the office.

White text appeared beneath her face.

Sophia Mercer, 23

Mercer.

"She's related to him," I whispered.

Brenda's fingers were already flying across her keyboard. "Let me check—oh. Oh fuck. Olive."

She turned her monitor toward me.

Zane Mercer - Top NHL player for the Chicago Wolves. One sister: Sophia Mercer, 23.

And there was a photo. Action shot. Zane on the ice, helmet off, hair dark with sweat, jaw clenched. Eyes shining with fury.

He looked dangerous. Powerful.

And I'd seen this photo before.

The realization hit me hard.

"Olive?" Brenda's voice sounded far away.

Six months after Cole and I started dating. I'd been looking for a pen in his practice bag when I found a photo tucked inside his notepad. Folded. Hidden.

This photo.

"Who's this?" I'd asked.

Cole had snatched it from my hands. His face had gone red, jaw tight.

"Don't touch that." His voice had been sharp. "Don't ever go through my stuff, Olive."

He'd softened after. Kissed my forehead, said he was stressed. But he never explained the photo.

And I'd forgotten about it.

Until now.

"I've seen him before," I whispered.

"What?"

"Zane. This photo. Cole had it. Hidden in his practice bag. A year and a half ago. I found it by accident and he freaked out. Got all weird and defensive."

Brenda's eyes had gone wide. "So Cole's been obsessed with Zane for your entire relationship?"

My stomach turned. "Do you think he's with Sophia to get close to Zane?"

"Oh my god. That makes sense." Brenda was already pulling up Sophia's Instagram. "Look at this."

Photo after photo. Sophia at games, in VIP boxes, surrounded by players. And in several of them, standing slightly out of focus in the background—

Zane.

"Cole saw that. Used her to get access."

"I was never enough because I wasn't connected to the right people."

"Hey." Brenda grabbed my face. "Don't you dare. Cole is a social-climbing piece of shit who uses people. You were too good for him."

My phone buzzed on the desk.

An email. From…Cole.

I didn't want to open it.

But I did anyway.

'I'm sorry, Olive. I never meant for things to end this way. But I've reached a new level in my career, and I need someone who can match that. Someone capable of helping me grow. You were great for where I was, but I need more now. I hope you understand.'

The phone slipped from my fingers.

Someone capable.

He'd just told me I wasn't capable enough. After two years. After everything.

Brenda snatched my phone, her face shifting from concern to pure fury. "After you caught him cheating—he sends you a breakup email? Calling you incapable?"

I couldn't breathe.

"Wait. There's more." She was scrolling on her own phone now. "I've been looking into him since yesterday. Found his tagged photos on Instagram, the ones he tried to untag. Olive. Look."

A photo. Cole. With a woman.

Red hair. Not Sophia. Someone else.

Beach house, arms wrapped around each other, mouths locked.

The timestamp said nine months ago.

"Nine months," I whispered.

"There's another one. Two months ago. Different girl. Fuck, Olive, there are at least five different women in the past year."

I stared at the screen. At the proof. At the pattern.

"You're going to that game." Her eyes were fierce. "You're going to walk in looking absolutely devastating. Head held high."

"I don't want revenge—"

"This isn't about revenge. This is about you remembering who the fuck you are." She squeezed my arm. "You're Olive Monroe. You're smart, you're beautiful, you don't take shit from anyone when you're not being manipulated by mediocre men."

I looked at that email again. Someone capable.

Fuck him.

"I'm going," I said.

Brenda grinned. "That's my girl."

"I'm going to support Hunter. My stepbrother has been nothing but good to me, and I promised him I'd be there." My voice got stronger. "And I'm going to look so fucking good that if Cole sees me, he chokes on his own bullshit."

I took a breath. For the first time since that video call, it didn't feel like my chest was caving in.

It felt like anger.

I paused, looking back at Zane's photo on Brenda's computer. Those cold blue eyes. That dangerous energy.

The man whose sister Cole was using. The man my stepfather hated. The man who'd somehow become tangled up in all of this without even knowing I existed.

"And Zane?" I asked quietly.

Brenda raised an eyebrow. "I think Zane is exactly who you should be thinking about."

Chapter 3: OLIVE's POV

When I said I had a plan, I was lying through my teeth.

I was a twenty-four-year-old woman standing in a luxury hotel lobby wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair thrown up in a messy bun that had given up on life somewhere over Iowa, with absolutely zero strategy beyond 'don't think about Cole and survive this week without having a breakdown in public.'

That was it. That was the plan.

Three days had passed since that office meltdown. Three days of packing and repacking those stupid suitcases Brenda had filled with "revenge outfits" I'd probably never wear.

And one text from Cole that I'd deleted without reading.

The flight had been six hours of my mother chattering about Hunter's big break and Grayson making business calls and me pretending to sleep.

Now we were here. Chicago. The hotel.

And holy shit, this hotel.

Marble floors stretched out forever under chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chicago skyline. And everywhere—literally everywhere—there were people.

Beautiful people in expensive clothes. Cameras flashing. Reporters shouting questions.

Hockey players.

I could tell by the way they moved. That casual confidence. The way everyone parted for them like they were royalty.

"What do you think, Olive?" My mother was practically vibrating with excitement.

"Mom." I cut her off. "I'm here for Hunter. That's it."

"Diane, let her breathe." Grayson squeezed my shoulder. "Come on, let's check in."

I followed them toward the reception desk, trying to keep my head down.

But when I looked up to see where we were going, my parents had disappeared.

Vanished.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

They'd done this before. My mother got distracted and wandered off, and suddenly I was alone trying to figure out where the hell they went.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling for her contact.

"Oh thank god, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Two hands grabbed my arm before I could react.

I yelped, stumbling as someone pulled me away from the reception area.

"Wait—I think you have the wrong—"

"No time! The team's waiting and we're already fifteen minutes behind schedule." The woman dragging me was mid-forties, sharp-eyed, moving fast. "Why were you just standing there? Come on—"

"Ma'am, seriously, there's been a mistake—"

She swiped a keycard at a massive door and shoved me inside before I could protest.

I stumbled into the room and froze.

This wasn't a hotel room. This was a photo shoot.

Lighting rigs set up everywhere. A backdrop that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

What the hell was this?

"I know this is overwhelming," the woman said. "But this opportunity is huge. Your connection really pulled strings to get you here."

My head snapped toward her. "My connection?"

She smiled. "Your brother. Hunter Sinclair? He worked really hard to make this happen for you."

My brain short-circuited. "Hunter did what?"

"You're leading the ad shoot today. Mr. Mercer specifically requested the creative director be someone young, fresh perspective, and when Hunter mentioned you were coming to town—"

"Wait, Mr. Mercer? As in—"

A door on the far side of the room opened.

And every thought in my head evaporated.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shirtless.

My eyes went straight to his chest—eight perfect ridges of muscle, tanned skin that looked like it had been dipped in gold under the studio lights.

No. This wasn't real.

My gaze traveled up.

Sharp jawline. Dark hair, messy like he'd just run his hands through it. And then his eyes.

Blue. Piercing. Cold.

Locked directly on mine.

Zane Mercer.

Standing there in low-slung black pants, shirtless, looking like he'd walked straight out of that magazine photo except somehow better because he was real and he was right there.

I was going to die in a luxury hotel room staring at abs that didn't look human.

"Mr. Mercer, I'm so sorry for the delay." The woman stepped forward. "This is Olive Monroe, the creative director we discussed."

"It's no issue, Sheila." His voice was deep. Smooth. "I'm ready whenever she is."

His eyes never left mine.

And I hated the way my stomach flipped. The way heat crawled up my neck. The way my thighs clenched together involuntarily.

"Wonderful! Miss Monroe, you can take it from here. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Zane's lips twitched. Like he knew exactly what he was doing standing there half-naked making me forget how to form sentences.

"You can leave, Sheila," he said. "I only need to be alone with my creative director."

Sheila shot me a look—concern mixed with envy—before slipping out.

The lock clicked.

Just the two of us.

Silence stretched. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, arms crossed loosely, waiting.

I forced myself to breathe. To find my voice.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but I'm not a creative director." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. "That woman grabbed me in the lobby and dragged me here thinking I was someone else. So whatever this is, you've got the wrong person and I'm just—I'm going to go."

He tilted his head, studying me.

The way he looked at me—like he was peeling back layers, seeing things I didn't want seen—made my skin feel too tight.

"Is that so?" His voice was low. Almost amused.

"Yes. So if you'll excuse me—" I turned toward the door.

"Do you really think this was a mistake, Olive?"

My name in his mouth stopped me cold.

I turned back slowly. "How do you know my name?"

He pushed off whatever he'd been leaning against and took a step toward me. Just one. But the room shrank.

"I know you're not a creative director," he continued, voice dropping lower. "I know exactly who you are."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then why—"

"And I know exactly why you're here."

The air crackled between us.

I wanted to move. To walk out. To put distance between us.

But I couldn't.

Because the way he was looking at me—like I was a puzzle he'd already solved—made it very clear.

This wasn't an accident.

"What do you mean?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm here to support my stepbrother. That's it."

His lips curved. Barely. "Is that what you told yourself?"

"It's the truth."

"Then why did you agree to come after seeing my photo in that magazine?"

My breath caught.

How did he—

"Your stepfather hates me," Zane continued, taking another step. Closer. "Has for years. Your mother knows the history. And yet you agreed to come to Chicago, to a game where you knew I'd be playing, right after catching your boyfriend cheating." Another step. "So tell me, Olive. Why are you really here?"

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the pounding in my ears.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He was close enough now that I could see a faint scar above his eyebrow. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. "Let me make this simple for you."

He stopped right in front of me.

Heat radiated off him. That expensive, clean, male scent that made my head swim.

"I have a proposition," he said quietly. "One that benefits us both. But first, I need to know something."

"What?" I whispered.

His eyes locked on mine.

"What are you willing to give me?"

Chapter 4: Olive's POV

"What I'm willing to give you?"

I stared at him like he'd just spoken a language I didn't understand. Because what the actual fuck kind of question was that?

My eyebrows pulled together so tight my forehead hurt. "What does that even mean? I don't-I don't fucking know you. And you're standing here asking me what I'm willing to give you?"

I laughed. It came out bitter. Sarcastic. A little unhinged.

But my cheeks were burning. Absolutely on fire. Because of how close he was standing, because I could see every detail of his chest-those abs, those arms, that scar above his eyebrow that made him look dangerous instead of perfect-and my body was betraying me in ways I didn't want to think about.

When I forced myself to meet his eyes again, something in his expression made my stomach flip.

"Cole Maddox."

My blood turned to ice.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. "What did you just say?"

"Cole Maddox," he repeated. Calm.

"I know about him. About your relationship. That he's been cheating on you with my sister. That he used you for two years and then dumped you like you were nothing."

The room tilted.

How the hell did he know about Cole? About any of it?

Was this some kind of sick game? Did Cole send him here? Was my stepbrother in on this?

"And what are you?" My voice shook, anger seeping through the shock. "The cleanup crew? Here to-what, wipe off the stain Cole left behind? Make sure the poor pathetic ex-girlfriend doesn't embarrass herself?"

His eyebrow raised. Amused. Like this was entertaining to him.

"Did Cole send you?" I stepped forward now, couldn't help it, anger overriding self-preservation. "To make sure I stay away from his games? Is Hunter in on this too? Is this some sick fucking joke where everyone gets to laugh at the girl who was stupid enough to believe her boyfriend loved her?"

It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.

And the way Zane's lips curved-like he was enjoying this, my confusion, my anger, the way I was falling apart right in front of him-made me want to slap him.

Or kiss him.

I wasn't sure which impulse was stronger and that scared me more than anything.

"Cole Maddox is irrelevant to what's happening between us right now." His voice dropped lower, and I hated that it made my knees weak. "But I do have a proposal."

I blinked. "A proposal."

"Yes."

"From a complete stranger who somehow knows everything about my failed relationship, a magazine impulse move, and had me dragged into a room under false pretenses."

His lips twitched. "When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"Because it is bad."

"Hear me out."

"Why should I?" But I didn't move. Didn't walk away. Because as much as I wanted to, as much as every logical part of my brain was screaming at me to run, I couldn't.

I needed to know what he wanted. Why he knew about Cole. What the hell was happening.

He took another step closer.

My breath hitched.

I wanted to step back. Wanted to put space between us. But my spine hit the wall behind me and I realized with a jolt that I'd been backing up this entire time without even noticing.

Fuck.

"Date me."

The words hung in the air between us.

I blinked. Once. Twice. "What?"

"Be my partner. Publicly. We attend events together. Build your profile. Make Cole Maddox regret every single decision he's ever made in his pathetic life."

My brain stuttered. Stopped. Tried to restart and failed.

"You want me to..." I couldn't even finish the sentence. "Date you."

"Yes."

"Fake date you."

"Does it matter if it's fake?" He tilted his head, and the movement made me notice how close he was. Too close. Not close enough. "The result is the same. Cole suffers. You move on looking like you upgraded. Everyone wins."

I stared at him.

He was serious. This man-this stranger who looked like he'd walked straight out of my most inappropriate fantasies-was standing here asking me to fake date him to make my ex jealous.

Like this was normal. Like people did this every day. Like I hadn't spent the last three days convincing myself I was done with revenge and games and all of it.

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why would you want this? You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. So why the hell would you offer to-to-"

"Because it benefits me too."

That stopped me. The pieces trying to pull together in my confused, overwhelmed brain.

"How?"

His expression shifted. Something darker sliding across his face, something that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

"Let's just say Cole Maddox and I have... unfinished business. And having you by my side speeds up certain plans I have in motion."

"Plans." I repeated the word like it might make sense if I said it out loud. "What kind of plans?"

"The kind I'm not going to explain."

"Of course not." I laughed, sharp and humorless. "So you want me to agree to fake date you-a complete stranger-for reasons you won't explain, to get revenge on an ex I'm trying to forget, while you use me for some mysterious plan involving Cole that you won't tell me about."

"When you say it like that-"

"It sounds insane. Because it is insane."

He stepped closer again.

And this time when I tried to step back, there was nowhere to go.

The wall was right there. He was right there. Caging me in without actually touching me, and somehow that made it worse because I could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell that expensive cologne or soap or whatever the hell it was that made my head spin.

"Think about it, Olive." His voice was barely above a whisper now. Intimate. Like we were the only two people in the world. "You walk into every event on my arm. Photographers everywhere. Social media going crazy. And Cole sees all of it. Sees you moved on. Sees you with someone better. Someone he's been obsessing over for-what did you say? A year and a half?"

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.

"You know about the photo."

"I know everything about Cole Maddox." His eyes locked on mine, and I couldn't look away even though I wanted to. "Including what he did to you."

"Then you know I'm trying to move on. To forget him. Not play games."

"This isn't a game." He leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. "This is power, Olive. You take control of the narrative. You show him and everyone else that you're not some girl he can discard. You're someone he never deserved in the first place."

God, he was good.

His words wrapped around me like a fucking trap. Like he knew exactly what to say to make this sound appealing, to make me want to say yes even though every rational part of my brain was screaming that this was a terrible idea.

And the worst part?

It was working.

I could picture it. Walking into that arena on Zane Mercer's arm. Flash bulbs going off. Cole's face when he saw me. The shock. The jealousy. The regret.

It would feel so good.

So, so good.

But-

"What do you really get out of this?" I asked, forcing myself to focus past the heat and the proximity and the way his eyes were making me forget how to think. "Because I don't buy the 'unfinished business' excuse. There's something else. So what is it? What do you actually want from me?"

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Thought he'd deflect or change the subject or do whatever powerful men did when they didn't want to give up control.

Then he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made me think of wolves and mating and things that looked beautiful until they marked.