Nobela ni Vyenne

The low hum of the engines filled the cabin as Atlan Wolfe leaned back into the leather seat, restless despite the luxury around him. Steve, his agent, was busy scrolling through emails while Ryan Hill, his lawyer, was already halfway into a pile of contracts. Atlan, however, had one focus, Carter Enterprises.His phone screen glowed in the dim cabin light as he scrolled through article after article.George Carter. Billionaire, owner of the empire, philanthropist, yacht enthusiast. Every headline painted him as larger-than-life, the kind of man who could buy and sell entire hockey franchises without flinching. Atlan frowned, lingering on a photo of the silver-haired man stepping off a yacht with the grace of someone untouchable.This is the guy giving me a second chance?The weight of it pressed down harder than the altitude. He studied the man's sponsorship deals, charity galas, sports events. Carter was everywhere, backing winners, shaping industries. And beneath his name was a foo

Carter Enterprises towered above the Chicago skyline, a monument of glass and steel that glittered in the morning sun. Its mirrored façade reflected the restless city beneath, but inside, the mood was anything but calm.The boardroom stretched wide, a long mahogany table gleaming under recessed lights, the Carter crest etched discreetly into its surface. Around it sat the Blackhawks’ management team and Carter Enterprises board members, a collection of sharp suits and sharper gazes. At the head of the table, James Carter leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually across the armrest, as though this gathering were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Beside him, Sophia Carter stood, the very picture of precision and power in her tailored Armani suit, every line and thread radiating authority.Her voice sliced through the murmurs.“Welcome, everyone, to our annual welfare meeting,” she began, smooth and commanding. “As you know, Carter Enterprises prides itself on efficiency,

Atlan gripped the half-empty bottle of whiskey in his left hand, thumb swiping through contacts on his phone until he found Steve, his agent.The man hadn’t called once, not even after the Flyers cut him loose. Surely by now, he knew, management always informed agents about terminations.The phone clicked, and Steve’s nasal voice crackled through the speaker.“Atlan, how are you doing, bro? I was going to call, I've just been swamped.”Atlan staggered toward the couch, whiskey bottle clutched like a lifeline. “I’m in bad shape, Steve. I assume you got the termination email?”“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “I’m in Barcelona right now, didn’t know all this was going down. What happened, man? I thought we agreed you’d rein in the temper. NHL’s season starts in three months. How am I supposed to find you a new team in time for the finals?”Atlan tipped the bottle back for a burning swallow. “About that. After the game, a scout from the Blackhawks approached me.” He paused, his voice rough. “Said C

Norman stepped out of the rental car in front of the five-star hotel he always chose when scouting. He leaned against the hood, dialing a number he knew would take a few rings before being answered. Typical James Carter, always making people wait.“Norman, my guy,” James’s smooth drawl finally came through. “How’s it going? Found our hidden talent yet?”“Mr. Carter, the plan worked,” Norman said, adjusting his tie. “Looks like Wolfe isn’t as valuable to the Flyers as everyone thought.”James laughed. “Norman, what have I always told you? We see the long term benefits and one of them is getting him to win us the Stanley cup. If the Flyers do not value him, he Blackhawks are ready to take him in.”“Yeah,” Norman said slowly. “But I have to warn you, Wolfe’s not in good shape. He’s going through a rough patch. It could jeopardize his career.”“We’ve monitored him for almost a year,” James replied. “We’re not letting him slip through our fingers. Whatever ‘rough patch’ he’s in, a paycheck

The boardroom smelled of burnt coffee and tension. The Flyers’ executives sat around the long table, papers scattered, voices sharp with frustration.“This is the third game in two months Wolfe has been ejected,” Phil, the assistant coach, said, stabbing his finger against the stat sheets. “Our sponsors are breathing down my neck. If this continues, they’ll walk. And if they walk, we’re broke.”“We can’t ignore his numbers,” the general manager countered. “Wolfe may be reckless, but he’s also the only one putting up MVP stats on this team. Without him, we don’t even make qualifiers.”“Stats don’t matter if he spends half the season in the penalty box,” another board member snapped.The room broke into arguments, some siding with Phil, others with the GM. The head coach, Gared, sat grim-faced at the end of the table, eyes fixed on his folded hands.Finally, the chairman cleared his throat, silencing the room. “Enough. We’re not here to argue, we’re here to decide. Atlan Wolfe’s contrac

The air inside the rink was sharp and cold, every breath searing his lungs like frost. The crowd was already restless, cheering, jeering, stamping their feet against the metal bleachers. It didn’t matter which side they were on. Tonight, they wanted blood.Atlan Wolfe tugged his helmet down, stick gripped tight between his gloves. His coach barked orders from the bench, but he barely heard them over the roar. He didn’t play hockey to follow rules. He played because it was the only place where he could hit, shove, fight and be applauded for it.The puck dropped.Immediately, Atlan launched forward, blades tearing across the ice. The world blurred into speed and sweat. He caught the puck with a sharp flick of his stick, slicing past one defenseman, then another. The crowd roared louder, his pulse thundering in time.“Move it, Wolfe!” someone shouted from the bench.The next second, his body slammed into the boards. His vision rattled, helmet smacking against the glass. The rival player