Olive's POV

Chapter 3: 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. Three days of packing and repacking those stupid suitcases Brenda had filled with "revenge outfits" I'd probably never wear.

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

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.

Now we were here. Chicago. The hotel.

And holy shit, this hotel.

Marble floors stretched out forever under chandeliers. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Chicago skyline. And everywhere—literally everywhere—there were people.

Beautiful people in expensive clothes. Cameras flashing. Reporters shouting questions.

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.

"Mom." I cut her off. "I'm here for Hunter. That's it."

"Diane, let her breathe." Grayson squeezed my shoulder. "Come on, let's check in."

I followed them toward the reception desk, trying to keep my head down.

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

Vanished.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

They'd done this before. My mother got distracted and wandered off, and suddenly I was alone trying to figure out where the hell they went.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling for her contact.

"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.

"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—"

She swiped a keycard at a massive door 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.

Lighting rigs set up everywhere. A backdrop that looked like it belonged in a magazine.

What the hell was this?

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

My head snapped toward her. "My connection?"

She smiled. "Your brother. Hunter Sinclair? He worked really hard to make this happen for you."

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

"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—eight perfect ridges of muscle, tanned skin that looked like it had been dipped in gold under the studio lights.

No. This wasn't real.

My gaze traveled up.

Sharp jawline. Dark hair, messy like he'd just run his hands through it. 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 except somehow better because he was real and he was right there.

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 stepped forward. "This is Olive Monroe, the creative director we discussed."

"It's no issue, Sheila." His voice was deep. Smooth. "I'm ready whenever she is."

His eyes never left mine.

And I hated the way my stomach flipped. The way heat crawled up my neck. The way my thighs clenched together involuntarily.

"Wonderful! 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 knew exactly what he was doing standing there half-naked making me forget how to form sentences.

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

Sheila shot me a look—concern mixed with envy—before slipping out.

The lock clicked.

Just the two of us.

Silence stretched. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, arms crossed loosely, waiting.

I forced myself to breathe. To find my voice.

"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. "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.

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?"