Olive's POV

Chapter Three: Olive's POV

When I said I had a plan, I was lying through my teeth.

I was a twenty-four-year-old woman standing in a luxury hotel lobby wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair thrown up in a messy bun that had given up on life somewhere over Iowa, with absolutely zero strategy beyond ‘don't think about Cole and survive this week without having a breakdown in public.’

That was it. That was the plan.

Three days had passed since that office meltdown with Brenda. Three days of packing and repacking those stupid suitcases she'd filled with "revenge outfits" I'd probably never wear. Three days of my mother texting me outfit suggestions and my stepfather sending me encouraging messages about "moving forward."

And one text from Cole that I'd deleted without reading.

I was done. With all of it.

The flight had been six hours of my mother chattering about Hunter's big break and Grayson making business calls and me pretending to sleep so I wouldn't have to participate in either conversation.

Now we were here. Chicago. The hotel.

And holy shit, this hotel.

It didn't look like a hotel. It looked like something out of a movie about rich people doing rich people things.

Marble floors stretched out forever under chandeliers that probably cost more than my yearly salary. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chicago skyline, with glittering lights and towering buildings. And everywhere—literally everywhere—there were people.

Beautiful people in expensive clothes. Cameras flashing. Reporters shouting questions I couldn't quite hear over the noise.

Hockey players.

I could tell by the way they moved. That casual confidence. The way everyone parted for them like they were royalty.

"What do you think, Olive?" My mother was practically vibrating with excitement beside me.

BULLSHIT

"Isn't this amazing? You'll see all the players up close. Maybe it'll help you move on, meet someone new, someone better—"

"Mom." I cut her off before she could finish that thought. "I'm here for Hunter. That's it."

"I know, sweetie, but—"

"Diane, let her breathe." Grayson's voice was gentle but firm. He squeezed my shoulder. "Come on, let's check in and get settled."

Thank god for Grayson. At least one parent understood boundaries.

I followed them toward the reception desk, trying to keep my head down, trying not to look at anyone or anything because the last thing I needed was to accidentally make eye contact with a hockey player and have my mother take it as a sign from the universe.

But when I looked up to see where we were going, my parents had disappeared.

Vanished.

"What the—" I spun around, scanning the crowded lobby. "Are you kidding me right now?"

They'd done this before. My mother got distracted by something shiny and wandered off, and Grayson followed to make sure she didn't buy a chandelier or adopt a stray cat, and suddenly I was alone in a strange place trying to figure out where the hell they went.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling for her contact. If I called her, she'd at least tell me where she was. Probably.

My finger hovered over her name.

"Oh thank god, I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Two hands grabbed my arm before I could react.

I yelped, stumbling as someone pulled me away from the reception area, my carry-on bag bumping against my legs as I tried to keep up.

"Wait—I think you have the wrong—"

"No time! The team's waiting and we're already fifteen minutes behind schedule." The woman dragging me was mid-forties, sharp-eyed, moving fast. "Why were you just standing there? Come on—"

"Ma'am, seriously, there's been a mistake—"

"The creative director doesn't have time for mistakes." She swiped a keycard at a massive door—dark wood, gold accents, the kind of door that screamed VIP access only—and shoved me inside before I could protest.

I stumbled into the room and froze.

This wasn't a hotel room. This was a photo shoot.

Plush carpets that probably cost more than my car. Lighting rigs set up in every corner. A backdrop that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Decorations that screamed ‘luxury brand sponsorship.’

What the hell was this?

"I know this is overwhelming," the woman said, slightly out of breath now. "But this opportunity is huge. Your connection really pulled strings to get you here."

My head snapped toward her. "My connection?"

She smiled, like she thought I was being modest. "Your brother. Hunter Sinclair? He worked really hard to make this happen for you."

My brain short-circuited. "Hunter did what?"

"He'll be so proud." She was checking her tablet now, scrolling through something. "You're leading the ad shoot today. Mr. Mercer specifically requested the creative director be someone young, fresh perspective, and when Hunter mentioned you were coming to town—"

"Wait, Mr. Mercer? As in—"

A door on the far side of the room opened.

And every thought in my head evaporated.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Shirtless.

My eyes went straight to his chest because where else were they supposed to go—eight perfect ridges of muscle, tanned skin that looked like it had been dipped in gold under the studio lights, arms that could probably bench press a car.

No. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

My gaze traveled up.

Sharp jawline. The kind of jaw that belonged on a sculpture. Dark hair, messy like he'd just run his hands through it or just woken up or—fuck, I didn't know, but it worked. It worked so well I forgot how to breathe.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Piercing. Cold.

Locked directly on mine.

Zane Mercer.

Standing there in low-slung black pants, shirtless, looking like he'd walked straight out of that magazine photo from three days ago except somehow better because he was real and he was right there and I was going to die.

I was going to die in a luxury hotel room staring at abs that didn't look human.

"Mr. Mercer, I'm so sorry for the delay." The woman—Sheila, I should probably remember her name—stepped forward, voice shifting to pure professionalism. "This is Olive Monroe, the creative director we discussed. Flight delays, but she's here now and ready to begin."

"It's no issue, Sheila." His voice was deep. Smooth. The kind of voice that made you forget words existed. "I'm ready whenever she is."

His eyes never left mine.

And I hated—absolutely hated—the way my stomach flipped. The way heat crawled up my neck. The way my thighs clenched together involuntarily because apparently my body had opinions I didn't approve of.

"Wonderful!" Sheila was beaming now. "Miss Monroe, you can take it from here. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Zane's lips twitched. Like he was holding back a smile. Like he knew exactly what he was doing standing there half-naked making me forget how to form sentences.

"You can leave, Sheila," he said, still watching me. "I only need to be alone with my creative director."

Sheila blinked. "Oh. Of course. I'll just—yes, I'll be outside."

She shot me a look—concern mixed with envy, like she wasn't sure if I was lucky or doomed—before slipping out.

The lock clicked.

Just the two of us.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, arms crossed loosely like he had all the time in the world, waiting.

For what? For me to say something? To do something?

I forced myself to breathe. To find my voice under the panic.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but I'm not a creative director." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. I didn't care. "That woman grabbed me in the lobby and dragged me here thinking I was someone else. So whatever this is, you've got the wrong person and I'm just—I'm going to go."

He tilted his head, studying me.

The way he looked at me—like he was peeling back layers, seeing things I didn't want seen—made my skin feel too tight.

"Is that so?" His voice was low. Almost amused.

"Yes. So if you'll excuse me—" I turned toward the door.

"Do you really think this was a mistake, Olive?"

My name in his mouth stopped me cold.

I turned back slowly. "How do you know my name?"

He pushed off whatever he'd been leaning against and took a step toward me. Just one. But the room shrank.

"I know you're not a creative director," he continued, voice dropping lower. "I know exactly who you are."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then why—"

"And I know exactly why you're here."

The air crackled between us.

I wanted to move. To walk out. To put distance between us and this moment and whatever game he was playing.

But I couldn't.

Because the way he was looking at me—like I was a puzzle he'd already solved—made it very clear.

This wasn't an accident.

"What do you mean?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm here to support my stepbrother. That's it."

His lips curved. Barely. "Is that what you told yourself?"

"It's the truth."

"Then why did you agree to come after seeing my photo in that magazine?"

My breath caught.

How did he—

"Your stepfather hates me," Zane continued, taking another step. Closer. "Has for years. Your mother knows the history. And yet you agreed to come to Chicago, to a game where you knew I'd be playing, right after catching your boyfriend cheating." Another step. "So tell me, Olive. Why are you really here?"

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the pounding in my ears.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He was close enough now that I could see a faint scar above his eyebrow. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. "Let me make this simple for you."

He stopped right in front of me.

Heat radiated off him. That expensive, clean, male scent that made my head swim.

"I have a proposition," he said quietly. "One that benefits us both. But first, I need to know something."

"What?" I whispered.

His eyes locked on mine.

"What are you willing to give me?"