CHAPTER 2: COLD ICE AND WARM MEMORY

The third floor of the Veyron Ice Arena didn't look like a sports facility; it looked like a high-end corporate fortress. Polished obsidian tiles, ambient recessed lighting, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the main rink below.

I stepped out of the elevator, my heels clicking softly against the floor. Before I could even take three steps toward the tactical suite, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the air conditioning.

"If you don't stop walking like you're heading to an execution, I'm going to throw my iced coffee at your head."

I turned, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time all morning.

Mireya stood leaning against a doorframe, clad in a sharp magenta power suit that contrasted wildly with the arena’s minimalist gray aesthetic. Her dark hair was styled in sleek, razor-sharp waves, and her lips were painted a fierce, unapologetic crimson. Mireya was the team's head of public relations…and my absolute rock of a best friend.

"Mireya," I breathed, stepping forward as she threw her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of my lungs.

"Look at you!" Mireya pulled back, holding me at arm's length, her sharp eyes scanning me from head to toe. Her brow instantly furrowed, her gaze locking onto the bulky gray knit cardigan hanging over my shoulders. She let out a dramatic, theatrical sigh. "Elowen. Winnie. My beautiful, brilliant girl. What is this?"

She pinched the oversized sleeve of my sweater between two manicured nails.

"It’s comfortable," I defended weakly, adjusting my glasses. "And it's freezing in ice arenas. You know that."

"It's a security blanket, and we both know it," Mireya countered smoothly. Grabbed my wrist, she pulled me into her private office, shutting the frosted glass door behind us.

Her office was uniquely her…scented with expensive jasmine, filled with lush velvet chairs, and anchored by a massive lit vanity mirror in the corner.

"Listen to me," Mireya said, turning me by the shoulders until I was standing directly in front of the full-length mirror. "You are not the quiet nineteen-year-old intern who used to cry in the library stacks because some frat-boy athlete didn't have the guts to claim her in daylight. You have two master's degrees. You designed the predictive algorithm half the league is trying to copy. And look at this body."

Mireya reached out and, before I could protest, unbuttoned the top three buttons of my cardigan, smoothing the knit fabric back off my shoulders.

I froze, staring at my reflection.

Without the heavy wool cocooning me, the tailored cut of my dark emerald silk blouse was fully visible. It clung to the plush curves of my waist, emphasizing the deep, natural arch of my back and framing the full swell of my bust. The pencil skirt hugged my hips tightly, holding nothing back.

"Mireya..." I murmured, my hand instinctually rising to cover my waist.

"Nuh-uh. Hands down," Mireya ordered gently, stepping behind me and resting her chin on my shoulder. "Look at yourself, Winnie. Really look. You have hips that could make a saint lose his mind. You have curves that women pay thousands of dollars to replicate. Stop trying to erase yourself so fragile men feel comfortable around you."

My throat tightened. For years, I had viewed my weight and my soft, voluptuous frame as a fla, —something to hide beneath layers of gray wool and quiet compliance. But staring into the mirror, backed by Mireya's fierce conviction, a warm ember of something long-buried flared up in my chest.

Power.

"You're right," I whispered, tracing the edge of my black-rimmed glasses in the mirror.

"Damn right I'm right," Mireya smirked, reaching over to toss my bulky cardigan onto her office couch. "You leave that tent right there. You walk into that strategy meeting looking like the executive powerhouse you are. If Caius Veyron so much as breathes sideways in your direction, you remind him that you hold the keys to his ice time now."

"Speaking of the Veyrons," I said, my heart skipping a small beat as I smoothed the front of my silk blouse, feeling the cool air of the room hit my exposed neck and collarbones. "I have a meeting with Alaric first."

Mireya let out a low, appreciative whistle, her eyes dancing with mischief. "The Patriarch himself. Good luck keeping your professional composure, babe. The man looks like he was carved out of granite and dark promises. Silver-black hair, tailored suits that cost more than my car, and a glare that makes grown men sweat."

"I'm just presenting data," I said quickly, though my pulse raced, recalling the wild, dirty fantasy I'd indulged in just two hours ago in my bedroom.

"Sure you are," Mireya laughed, opening the door and gently pushing me out into the hall. "Go get 'em, Chief. Show them who runs this arena." Call me the second you wrap up your rounds."

Taking a deep breath, I stood tall, letting the cool air wash over my skin. I didn't reach for my sweater. I rolled my shoulders back, tucked my leather portfolio under my arm, and began my walk down the long glass corridor toward the tactical suite on the third floor.

The glass wall of the corridor ran directly alongside the high observation deck overlooking the practice rink below. As I passed, the deep, thunderous scrape of steel on ice resonated through the structure.

I paused, drawn to the edge of the railing to check the morning skate before my scheduled meetings.

Down below, the Wolves were halfway through their morning transition drills. But my eyes were instantly, helplessly drawn to number 87.

Caius.

Even from thirty feet above, he was unmistakable. He moved with a terrifying, predatory elegance…broad shoulders flexing beneath his jersey, his thighs thick and muscular as he dug his blades into the ice, cutting sharply around a defensive cone. His dark blond hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his nape.

He fired a wrist shot. The puck crackled off his stick like a gunshot, slamming into the top right corner of the net with devastating precision.

My chest tightened. He was still breathtaking.

Suddenly, as if sensing the weight of a gaze on him, Caius slowed to a glide. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand and slowly tilted his head upward, looking straight up toward the third-floor glass walkway.

Straight at me.

Distance and glass separated us, but the shock that electrified the air was instant.

I stood under the bright hallway lights, stripped of my oversized cardigan, my silk blouse highlighting every curve of my body, my dark hair falling over my shoulders.

Below me, Caius went completely motionless.

He didn't move. He didn't breathe. His grey-blue eyes locked onto mine, widening in absolute, stunned recognition. The ruthless captain of the Veyron Wolves suddenly looked like he’d been hit by a freight train.

In his distraction, his skate caught the edge of a rut in the ice.

Caius stumbled…a rare, uncharacteristic wobble, and his stick slipped from his grip, clattering loudly across the ice surface.

"Head up, Veyron!" the head coach barked from the bench, his voice booming across the empty arena. "What are you looking at?!"

Caius didn't answer his coach. He didn't pick up his stick. He just stood there on the ice, staring up at me through the glass, his chest heaving under his jersey, looking at me as if he were seeing a ghost.

Or a goddess.

A slow, cool sense of satisfaction bloomed deep in my gut. Seven years ago, I was invisible to him in the light. Today, I had brought him to his knees without saying a single word.

I leaned against the railing, pulled out my tablet, and tapped the screen to open his biomechanical tracking files. It was time to analyze the captain before stepping into the boardroom.