"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.