Chapter 2 — The Little Matchmaker

 POV: Beatrix

I stared at the tissue hovering under the door. My chest was still heaving from crying so hard. I slowly reached out with a shaking hand and took it.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice sounding rough and broken.

"You are welcome," a small, high voice said from the other side of the door. "You can come out now. The loud people are not here."

I wiped my wet face and blew my nose. Then I took a deep breath, before unlocking the door.

A little girl stood by the long row of white sinks. She looked to be about eight years old and wore a very expensive, dark blue velvet dress with a stiff white collar. Her dark hair was tied back in a neat, perfect braid and she had big, round, light gray eyes but they didn't look normal and playful like a typical child. Hers were totally calm, serious eyes, like a tiny adult.

I felt completely embarrassed. I was a grown ass woman crying on the floor in front of a child. I walked over to the sink, turned on the  faucet, and splashed cold water on my ruined makeup.

"I am sorry," I said, trying to force a polite smile. "I didn't know anyone else was in here. Are you lost? Where are your parents?"

The little girl shook her head. "No. I am hiding. My dad always brings fake dates to these parties but the women only like his money and always try to talk to me in a fake, high baby voice like some kid. I hide in the bathroom to escape them."

She looked closely at my red, puffy eyes. "My dad's dates cry in the bathroom sometimes too," she said matter-of-factly. "But they usually cry because my dad ignores them all night. Why are you crying?"

I let out a breathless laugh. It was strange, but her blunt honesty made me feel a tiny bit better. I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dried my face.

"I am crying because someone was very mean to me. I worked very hard for him for four years. But he chose someone else today because she has a lot more money and prettier clothes than I do."

The little girl frowned deeply.

"That is stupid," she declared loudly. "Pretty clothes do not make you a nice person. Most of the women with pretty clothes are actually very mean to me when my dad is not looking. You don't have pretty clothes, but you seem nice."

I smiled a real smile this time. "You are very smart. What is your name?"

"Ivy," she said, standing up a little straighter, as if proud. "Ivy Ashcombe."

"I am Beatrix, it's nice to meet you, Ivy."

Ivy looked me up and down, particularly at my heavy curves I suddenly felt so aware of. But she didn't seem disgusted like Julian or Evelyn did.

"Beatrix," she suddenly called seriously, stepping closer. "Will you be my daddy's new girlfriend?"

I blinked twice before letting out a loud laugh. The sound bounced off the bathroom walls. "What?"

"Be his girlfriend," Ivy repeated. She reached out and grabbed my hand with her small fingers. "My dad is very rich and will take very good care of you but gold diggers always try to date him. They only want his money to buy shoes and cars and don't actually like me. If you become his girlfriend, the mean women will stay away. You look nice and you definitely don't look like a gold digger."

I laughed again and gently squeezed her small hand. It felt nice to talk to someone who didn't judge me.

"I am definitely not a gold digger, Ivy. But I cannot be your dad's girlfriend. That's a very funny joke, though. Thank you for cheering me up."

Ivy didn't smile though. She looked completely serious but still let go of my hand.

"Come on, your parents are probably looking for you everywhere. It's very late so I'll help you find your dad." I said, looking at my reflection in the mirror one last time. I looked like a complete disaster. But I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to go home, lock my door, and sleep for a week.

I pushed open the bathroom door and we walked out together.

The main hallway was completely different from a few minutes ago. It was absolute chaos; packed with sports reporters holding large cameras. There were famous hockey players in expensive suits everywhere.

Suddenly, a tall man in a black security uniform yelled from the other end of the hall.

"There she is! I found her!"

Three massive security guards started running heavily down the hall toward us. People quickly moved out of their way.

Ivy gasped loudly, grabbed my leg and hid right behind me, wrapping both of her small arms in a tight death grip around my waist.

"I don't want to go back to the boring party," she whispered against my dress, her voice suddenly sounding panicked.

The security guards stopped right in front of us. They looked terrified and completely out of breath. The reporters noticed the sudden commotion and dozens of journalists turned their cameras in our direction.

"Miss Ivy," the biggest guard panted, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Your father is extremely angry. You cannot run away like that. Please come with us right now."

Ivy peeked out from behind my leg and looked at the scary guards. Then she looked at the massive crowd of reporters watching us.

Her gray eyes lit up with a sudden, mischievous idea. Tightening her grip on my waist, she took a deep breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

"I found my new mommy!"

The entire hallway went completely, instantly dead silent.

The reporters stopped talking. The security guards froze. Every single person in the hall turned to stare directly at us.

My face turned bright, burning red, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. "Ivy, no," I whispered quickly, trying to gently pry her small arms off my waist. "You can't say things like that in front of strangers. Please let go."

But she refused, holding onto me tightly.

Then, the large crowd of people near the elevators suddenly parted. They didn't just move out of the way; they scrambled backward like they were absolutely terrified.

A man stepped out of the shadows.

He was absolutely massive, at least six-foot-five. His shoulders were incredibly broad, filling out a perfectly tailored, dark custom suit. His jawline was sharp and rigid and his dark hair was perfectly styled, but his face, on the other hand, looked like it was carved from cold, hard ice.

The air pressure in the hallway suddenly felt heavy, making it hard to breathe.

I recognised this man. He appeared on almost every TV show Julian liked to watch.

He was Nikolai Ashcombe. The billionaire owner of the city's professional hockey organization. People called him the Ice King.

He walked slowly toward us, his shoes clicking sharply against the floor. Every single step radiated raw, intimidating power and I was completely frozen in place.

He stopped right in front of me.

I had to tilt my head far back just to look at his face. His eyes were exactly like Ivy's. They were a pale, cold gray. But while Ivy's eyes were curious, his eyes were completely dead and utterly ruthless.