The smell of rubbing alcohol burned my nostrils before I even cracked my eyelids.

"Try not to twist your neck," a nurse said, adjusting the IV drip above the steel rail. "The doctor had to place eight stitches along your cheekbone."

I reached up, my fingertips brushing against coarse medical gauze taped over my temple. Every millimeter of swollen flesh pulled and stung.

"Did anyone come?" My voice sounded like crushed gravel. "Was anyone in the waiting room?"

"The police officer who carried you out of the plaza left an hour ago," she replied, writing on a clipboard. "Nobody else signed the visitor sheet."

"Nobody?"

"You didn't list an emergency contact." She slid the chart into a plastic sleeve. "Can you stand, or do you need a wheelchair to billing?"

"Just... give me my bag."

She handed over my scuffed purse from the bedside chair.

My fingers shook as I gripped my cracked screen. I tapped Blake’s private line.

A sharp, rapid beep buzzed against my ear.

*Call failed.*

I typed a message. *Blake, please. I'm in the downtown trauma ward. A bottle hit my face. Pick up.*

A red exclamation mark bounced beside the bubble. *Message not delivered.*

"He’s busy," I whispered to the empty white wall. "It’s just bad reception at the arena."

My thumb hovered over the contact list, stopping on his sports agent. This was my last thread.

I pressed dial.

It rang three times.

"Marcus?" I blurted the second the line connected. "Marcus, thank God. Where is Blake? Did management force that press conference? Was it the team owners?"

"Liora," Marcus said, his tone flat and sterile as concrete. "I told Blake you'd pull something like this."

"A reporter threw a bottle at my face!" I gripped the bedsheet until my knuckles turned gray. "They attacked me outside the steakhouse! Tell me Blake didn't know about Sienna Cole's announcement. Tell me it’s an endorsement stunt."

"Listen to me carefully, Liora," Marcus cut in, his voice dropping into hard, icy syllables. "Blake is at the absolute peak of his career. His jersey sales doubled overnight. His brand engagement is up forty percent because of this couple launch. Do not call his phone. Do not call mine. Stop clinging to him."

"Clinging?" The air trapped inside my lungs turned to ash. "I paid his rent for two years while he rode the farm leagues! I pawned my mother’s jewelry to hire his private physical therapist after his shoulder surgery!"

"You did that voluntarily," Marcus said smoothly. "Blake owes you nothing. If you show up at the rink, security has orders to escort you off the property in handcuffs."

"Marcus, please—"

"Don't make this uglier than it already is. Move on."

*Click.*

The dial tone blared. I hit redial instantly.

*The number you are calling has blocked incoming traffic.*

The screen went black.

A quiet, hollow sound leaked from my throat.

"Ma'am?" An orderly pushed a cart past the open doorway. "You need assistance getting dressed?"

"No," I answered, staring blankly at the floor tiles. "I'm fine."

I dragged my thumb across the glass, opening the entertainment feed.

The headlines flashed like neon blades.

*GOLDEN BOY MERCER SHOWERING FIANCÉE SIENNA COLE WITH CUSTOM LUXURY FLEET.*

The article displayed photos taken two hours ago outside the sports arena. Sienna leaned back against the hood of a brand-new matte-black sports coupe, smiling at a battery of cameras. Beside her, Blake held up a velvet jewel box revealing a five-carat emerald-cut diamond ring.

*Cole showed off Mercer’s generous gifts,* the text read. *Including his prized vintage leather travel duffels, custom training apparel, and an antique Swiss gold chronograph—heirloom pieces Mercer previously kept private.*

My eyes burned so fiercely they felt scorched.

Those duffel bags weren't heirlooms. I had worked eighty hours a week at a call center to buy that Italian leather for his twenty-second birthday. The chronograph watch was purchased with my entire year-end performance bonus so he wouldn't look out of place among senior players in the locker room.

He had handed every sacrifice I ever made directly into another woman's manicured hands.

I looked down at my left wrist.

A faded piece of braided nylon string hung loosely against my pale skin, secured with a cheap, tarnished copper clasp. Blake had bought it for fourteen dollars from a boardwalk vendor five summers ago.

*I can't afford gold yet, Nora,* he had promised under the rusted pier, his fingers tangling in mine. *Wear this until I can buy you the biggest rock in the state.*

Five years. I had worn that rotting piece of string every single day, keeping it clean, treating it like sacred glass. I had never asked for a designer bag, never asked for a vacation, never asked for a single diamond.

I pulled at the knot.

The frayed nylon snapped with a tiny pop. I dropped it into the metal wastebasket beside the bed.

"Discharge paperwork is complete," the nurse said, re-entering with a clear plastic bag of prescriptions. "Keep the cheek dry for forty-eight hours. The scar will be faint if you avoid sun exposure."

"Thank you."

I signed the slip with a steady hand, pulled my coat tightly around my shoulders, and walked out of the hospital doors into the raw morning chill.

Forty minutes later, the cab dropped me at the entrance of Riverside Terrace.

I stepped out of the service lift onto the top floor. The private corridor was silent.

I reached for the digital keypad beside the double oak doors, typing the six-digit code Blake and I had shared since moving in.

*Beep-beep-beep.* A red light flashed.

*Access Denied.*

I tapped it again.

*Access Denied.*

"Looking for a way inside, Miss Finch?"

A tall man in a gray maintenance uniform stepped out from the utility closet down the hall, a clipboard under his arm.

"My keycode isn't working," I said, keeping my chin lifted despite the throbbing in my face. "Reset the pad."

"I can't do that," he said, shaking his head. "Mr. Mercer's personal security team arrived at five this morning. They authorized a full lock change."

"This is my residence," I said. "My name is on the bank paperwork for the mortgage!"

"Take that up with legal," he said bluntly, gesturing toward the dead-end corner near the emergency stairwell. "Management told me to clear the floor. Your items are stacked over there."

I turned toward the alcove.

Three black garbage bags sat ripped open against the wall.

My winter coats were dumped onto the concrete floor, covered in boot scuffs. My ceramic tea sets, my sketchbooks, my recipe binders—all smashed together in broken cardboard crates like discarded rubbish.

A morning gust whipped through the open ventilation louvers at the end of the hall.

Letters, old utility bills, and bank statements fluttered out of the open boxes, scattering across the dusty floor.

I looked down at a torn sheet resting against the toe of my shoe. It was a receipt for the granite countertops in the kitchen, paid in full from my personal savings account.

"Do you need a hand hauling this to the dumpster?" the maintenance worker asked, watching me with mild curiosity. "Building rules say the hallway has to be cleared by noon."

A laugh slipped past my lips—short, quiet, and razor-sharp.

"Leave it," I said.

"Ma'am?"

"Don't touch a single page." I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped three clear, high-resolution photographs of the lock, the trashed belongings, and the signed receipts scattered at my feet.

Every drop of warmth in my chest had evaporated. The fragile girl who waited by a cold restaurant table until midnight was dead.

"Liora," I whispered to myself, letting the name settle into the marrow of my bones. "No more crying."

He took my money. He took my youth. He took my five years of quiet devotion and threw it in the dirt to build a pedestal for another woman.

I looked back at the locked double doors of the penthouse.

"Every single cent," I murmured, watching the camera screen save the files to my encrypted cloud. "You're going to pay back every single cent."

My phone buzzed in my palm—not a message from Blake, but an incoming call from an unknown private number.

I slid the green icon across the glass and brought it to my ear.

"Speak."

"Miss Finch?" a deep, unfamiliar baritone cut through the line, vibrating with smooth authority. "I saw the news from the plaza last night. I believe you and I share a mutual problem named Blake Mercer."

"Open the damn door, Liora!"

A heavy fist hammered against the thin wood of my rental unit.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. The curtains were drawn shut, cutting off the afternoon sun.

"I know you're in there!" Mrs. Gable shouted through the crack under the door frame. "I've got three television vans parked in my driveway! Tenants are complaining! Get out!"

I didn't answer. I kept my chin pressed into my knees.

"Did you hear me?" The doorknob rattled violently. "I run a respectable building! I don't harbor home-wreckers who stalk pro athletes! If you don't vacate by six o'clock, I'm throwing your bags into the gutter!"

"My lease runs through December," I managed to say, my voice raspy from disuse. "I paid two months upfront."

"You breached the nuisance clause!" she spat. "The police have been here twice because freaks keep throwing rotten eggs at your window! Pack your garbage and leave!"

Her footsteps stomped down the carpeted hallway.

Silence returned, but it didn't last ten seconds.

*Buzz.*

*Buzz.*

My cracked phone vibrated against the floorboards.

I stared at it. I had switched off notifications yesterday, but incoming calls from unknown numbers bypassed the filter every few minutes.

I picked it up. My thumb hit accept before I could stop myself.

"Hello?"

"Is this the whore who stalked Blake Mercer?" a teenage voice sneered through the speaker.

I squeezed the phone until my fingers turned white. "Who gave you this number?"

"It's on every sports forum in the country, bitch," the girl laughed, a chorus of rowdy giggles echoing in the background. "Why don't you do the world a favor and jump off a bridge? Blake doesn't want your ugly, plastic face. Sienna is ten times the woman you'll ever be!"

"I spent five years with him—"

"Save the fanfiction for the psych ward!"

*Click.*

The line went dead.

Two seconds later, another chime chimed. A text notification lit the screen.

*Unknown Number: We know which pharmacy you buy your painkillers from, cunt. Watch your back.*

Another message popped up beneath it.

*Unknown Number: Uploaded your college ID to the thread. Enjoy unemployment forever.*

My chest seized. My thumb swiped across the browser app, pulling up the local entertainment forums.

My student portrait was plastered right beneath a cropped picture of me outside the emergency room. My high school transcripts, my old retail job records, my mother's maiden name—everything was laid out on the public board like meat on a butcher's counter.

*Look at her records,* the top post read. *She bounced checks in college. Classic gold-digger targeting our starting captain.*

*She probably planned this smear campaign for months,* another comment replied. *Blake is too pure for this city.*

"Pure," I whispered into the dark room.

I flipped the small television on with the remote just to drown out the ringing of the phone.

The midday sports bulletin flared to life.

There he was.

Blake stood on a polished cedar stage at the municipal center, wearing a tailored navy blazer and crisp white shirt. Beside him, Sienna Cole leaned into his chest, her fingers interlaced with his, showing off the massive emerald-cut diamond ring under the flashing lights.

"Blake!" a reporter shouted from the front row. "How has the team reacted to the engagement news?"

Blake leaned toward the cluster of microphones, flashing that familiar, crooked smile that used to make my heart race in our tiny basement kitchen.

"The locker room has been incredible," Blake said smoothly. "Management gave us their blessing. When you meet the person who brings peace into your life, you don't wait. You claim her."

"And the rumors regarding your stalker?" another journalist asked. "Has she attempted to reach out since the incident at the plaza?"

Blake’s smile vanished, replaced by a mask of quiet, somber dignity.

"I don't hold any hatred toward her," Blake said, shaking his head. "Some people lose their way when they see success. But my focus is entirely on protecting Sienna. She is my future. Everything I earn on the ice, everything I build off it, belongs to her."

Sienna turned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder. "He’s been my rock. He won't even let me walk to the car alone. I've never felt so safe."

"Blake Mercer sets the gold standard for romantic devotion!" the commentator's voice boomed over the footage. "A true superstar who isn't afraid to put his queen in the spotlight!"

A bitter, dry laugh tore out of my throat.

"Protecting her," I said to the glowing screen. "You're protecting her."

Five years.

Whenever I asked why we couldn't take a walk through the public park together, he would snap his locker shut.

*Management doesn't like distractions, Nora.*

Whenever I asked why he never posted a single picture of us, he would wrap his arms around my waist and whisper against my neck.

*Real love stays between four walls. The world ruins pure things, baby. Trust me.*

He didn't hate the spotlight. He didn't fear public romance. He didn't want to keep love hidden.

He just never wanted to give any of it to me.

I was the stepping stone. I was the fool who paid for his supplements, washed his bloodied jerseys, and hid in the shadows so his market value wouldn't drop. And the moment he reached the summit, he used my sacrifices to crown another woman.

My phone rang again.

I glanced down. It was the same private number from yesterday morning. The caller who had claimed we shared a mutual problem.

I swiped the icon and brought the glass to my ear.

"Did you watch the broadcast?" the voice asked, calm, crisp, and deep.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my fingernails digging into the mattress. "What do you want?"

"My name is Julian Thorne," the man replied. "I'm the managing director of the investment group that owns sixty percent of Blake Mercer’s hockey franchise."

My breath locked. "Why are you calling me?"

"Because your ex-boyfriend used my team's escrow account to finalize the down payment on the Riverside Terrace penthouse," Julian said, his tone chillingly precise. "The same down payment your personal loans covered. He altered the accounting logs to make it look like a performance advance."

"He stole from you?"

"He embezzled from my firm," Julian corrected. "And right now, the public thinks he's a saint who bought a palace for his supermodel lover. Meanwhile, you're sitting in a condemned rental waiting for a mob to break your ribs."

"I don't need your pity, Mr. Thorne."

"I don't offer pity," he replied smoothly. "I offer leverage. The press thinks you're a delusional fanatic because Blake controls the narrative. But you have the receipts. You have five years of bank transfers, medical discharge forms, and lease agreements."

"He blocked every line," I said, my jaw tightening until it ached. "His agent threatened to put me in jail if I stepped near the arena."

"His agent works for my board," Julian said, a dry amusement threading through his words. "Marcus answers to me. The only reason Blake is walking tall today is because nobody has shown the public what's behind the curtain."

I looked down at my left wrist.

The braided nylon string sat tied loosely around my skin. I had dragged it out of the hospital trash can before leaving, unable to sever the habit of five long years. The copper clasp had rusted, leaving a faint green smudge against my pale flesh.

It looked pathetic.

It looked like five years of begging for scraps from a man who dined on feasts.

"Are you still there, Miss Finch?" Julian asked.

"Yes."

I pinched the faded string between my index finger and thumb.

With a single, sharp tug, the nylon snapped apart.

The frayed ends dropped into my palm. I gripped the broken threads, my fingers turning icy cold as I closed my fist tight.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, my voice dropping into a hard, steady register.

"Walk out of that apartment," Julian said. "A car is waiting for you at the end of the block. If you want to tear his pedestal down to the dirt, I'll give you the sledgehammer."

I looked at the television screen one last time. Blake was kissing Sienna’s cheek under a storm of flashbulbs, bathing in the adoration of millions.

"He wants to be a hero," I whispered into the phone, standing up from the bed.

"Then let's show them the monster," Julian answered.