CHAPTER 4: THE LION'S DEN

I stood with my back pressed against the heavy door, my fingers still trembling as they let go of the cold handle. The vip lounge was a testament to his wealth, sleek, expensive, and filled with the kind of high end technology that signaled he was no longer the boy from my past, but a global icon with the world at his feet.

Julian didn't turn around immediately. He stood by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. He looked like a statue cast in shadow, immovable and silent.

I had seen him on the billboards, towering over Times Square, but up close, the transformation was devastating. His face was overly perfect, as if carved from marble by a sculptor who didn't believe in mercy. The soft roundness of his youth had been replaced by sharp, lethal angles,a jawline that could cut glass and a brow that held the weight of a thousand battles. But it was his eyes that stopped my heart,those dangerous, ice cold grey eyes that seemed to strip away my professional blazer and the five years of armor I had painstakingly built.

"Ten minutes," he said. His voice a low tone that seemed to vibrate through the very soles of my shoes. "Start talking."

I fumbled with my digital recorder, my coordination almost failing me. I nearly dropped it on the plush charcoal carpet, my fingers clumsy and jerky with the anxiety of being trapped in his place. I pulled out my tablet, my eyes darting to the screen, trying to focus on the list of professional questions I had prepared with such confidence an hour ago. Now, the words looked like gibberish, a jumble of letters that refused to form a coherent thought.

"Mr. Vane... ," I started, my voice sounding thin and shaky even to my own ears. I hated the tremor, I hated that he could likely hear the tension in my voice. "The Hawks are currently at the top of the rankings. How do you.....how do you feel about the upcoming championship run? The pressure must be... significant."

Julian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate look at me. He didn't look at my recorder or the glowing screen of my tablet. His eyes were fixed on me with a gaze that felt heavy, almost physical, like a hand trailing over my skin.

While my mind was a storm of panic and shaky words, Julian was an island of terrifying stillness. To any casual observer, he would have looked bored, perhaps even annoyed by the pressure of the press. But beneath that mask of ice, Julian was struggling with a reality he hadn't prepared for. In his mind, he had been rehearsing this moment for years. He remembered a girl, a girl with soft eyes and a hesitant smile. But the woman standing before him now was a goddess.

He looked at the regal bun of my hair, the way the tailored suit jacket hugged my womanly yet so girly shape, and the insane face card that had only become more lethal with age. Deep down, hidden behind his ribcage, his own heart was hammering against his chest, a frantic rhythm he refused to acknowledge. He was forcing his breath to remain steady, fighting the urge to close the distance between us in a single step. He hated that I looked this good. He hated that I had thrived, that I had grown into this sharp, radiant creature without him there to witness it.

"Is that what you came here to ask?" he finally asked, his grey eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned against the edge of a mahogany desk. "Statistics and feelings? I thought The Daily Blitz hired the best."

"It's... it's my job," I whispered, stepping back instinctively until my shoulders hit the wood of the door. The handsomeness of him was a physical weight, something i I couldn't escape even if I wanted to. He had become something dangerous, a man who looked like he could break a rival on the ice and then walk into a boardroom and buy the entire franchise without blinking.

"I feel," he began, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the hardness in his eyes, "that the rankings are merely a reflection of the work we've put in. The championship isn't an if, It's a when. We aren't playing to compete, we're playing to dominate."

He was being professional. He was answering the question. But the way he said dominate while looking directly at my lips made my skin flush despite the generous air conditioning of the lounge. He was observing me like a hunter, noting the way my chest rose and fell with my shallow breaths, yet he kept his own composure perfectly intact.

I looked down at my tablet, my vision blurring. I had to stay on track. I couldn't let him see how much he was affecting me. "And... how... how do you plan to handle the defense in Saturday's game? They've been noted for their aggressive physical play."

Julian let out a short, dark laugh that didn't reach his eyes. It was a cold sound, yet there was a strange, melodic quality to it that I remembered from a lifetime ago.

"I handle the defense the same way I handle everything that gets in my way," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he stood up from the desk and moved a fraction closer. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from his body was an invitation and a warning all at once. "I break them. I find the weakest point in their structure, and I apply pressure until they have no choice but to give me exactly what I want."

The tension in the room was a living thing, thick and suffocating. I realized then that Julian wasn't just back in the city for a trophy or a ring. He was back for something far more personal, something he had been brooding over in the cold rinks of the north for five long years.

He continued to stare at me, his grey eyes fixed and predatory, yet he remained perfectly still, waiting. He was answering my questions with a calm precision, but the air between us was screaming. I was a top tier journalist who had interviewed billionaires and Alphas, but in this locked office, I was soon beginning to realize that my prepared questions might be useless.

"Next question," he commanded softly.