CHAPTER 7

Elena's POV

He caught me before I hit the ground.

One second I was standing, the next my knees folded completely and his arm came around me so fast it barely felt real. He steadied me against the wall with a firm but careful grip, and then he just held me there, not saying anything, not rushing me, not doing anything except making sure I didn't fall.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My heart was still going crazy.

"Breathe," he said quietly.

Just that one word. Breathe. Simple and direct. And somehow it worked because my lungs opened again and I pulled in a slow, shaky breath.

He let go of me once he was sure I was steady, then he stepped back, giving me space. He picked up my bag again and held it out a second time.

I took it with trembling hands, "Thank you," I managed. My voice was barely above a whisper.

He nodded once. A short, sharp movement. He looked toward the entrance of the alley and then back at me. His gray eyes were unreadable.

"You shouldn't walk through here alone," he said.

"I know. I was just—" I stopped. "I was trying to get to work. The bakery on Fifth."

Something changed very slightly in his expression. Like a piece of a puzzle had just clicked into place in his mind.

"You work at a bakery?" he said.

There was no mockery in his voice. He wasn't being condescending. He was just asking. But something about the way he said it made me feel the weight of what my life had become. A few months ago I had been living in a mansion. Now I was walking through alleys to get to a bakery shift.

"Yes," I said simply.

He looked at me for a moment longer than felt comfortable. Then he did something I didn't expect. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He typed quickly and then held the screen toward me.

An address. And below it, a time. Eight o'clock this evening.

"What is this?" I asked, confused.

"A restaurant," he said. "Meet me there tonight."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I have a proposition for you, Elena Brooks."

The sound of my name from his mouth made me go completely still. I hadn't told him my name. At least, I didn't think I had.

"How do you know my name?"

He tilted his head slightly. Something that might have been amusement flickered behind those cold gray eyes, but it was gone before I could confirm it.

"I've known who you are for a while now."

My stomach turned. "What does that mean?"

He didn't answer. Instead he slid his phone back into his pocket and adjusted the collar of his dark coat.

"Eight o'clock," he repeated. "I'll have a table waiting."

And then he walked away. No explanation. No further details. Just a restaurant address and a time and that flat, certain voice that sounded like a man who was completely unaccustomed to being told no.

I stood there in the alley, bag hanging from my shoulder, heart still thudding, and stared at the space where he had just been.

Alexander St. James.

I knew his reputation. Everyone who knew anything about hockey knew his reputation. Cold. Ruthless. Controlled. The kind of man who dismantled his opponents with pure calculation and didn't lose sleep over it.

He was also Damien's enemy. The rivalry between him and Damien had been going on for years, and it was the kind of hatred that went beyond sport. It was personal which meant meeting him tonight was possibly the worst idea in the world.

I went to work. I stood behind the bakery counter for six hours. I smiled at customers. I packed pastries into boxes. I poured coffee. I did everything I was supposed to do.

And the entire time, my mind kept returning to the address on his phone screen. The cool certainty in his voice. The way his gray eyes had dropped to my stomach for just a second, like he already knew.

By seven-thirty, I was standing outside the restaurant.

I told myself I was only going to hear what he had to say. That didn't mean I had to agree to anything. That didn't mean I owed him anything. He had helped me tonight and I was grateful, but gratitude didn't mean compliance.

I repeated that to myself as I pushed open the door.

The restaurant was expensive and quiet. Dark wood, low lighting, the kind of place where conversations stayed private. A hostess led me to a table near the back, half-hidden by a frosted glass partition.

Alexander was already there. He was in a dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sitting with the kind of stillness that felt deliberate. Like every movement, or lack of movement, was a choice.

He watched me approach without smiling. His eyes tracked me with an expression that was impossible to read.

I sat across from him.

For a moment neither of us spoke. A waiter appeared, set down water, and disappeared again.

"You came," he said finally.

"You saved me from being attacked," I said. "Seemed rude not to."

The corner of his mouth moved. Almost a smile. Not quite, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." I folded my hands on the table. "What's the proposition, Mr. St. James?"

His eyes stayed on mine for a long, steady moment. Then he leaned forward slightly and laced his fingers together on the table.

"I need a fiancee."

The word landed in the quiet between us like a stone dropped into still water.

I stared at him. "I'm sorry?"

"A fake one," he added, without any trace of embarrassment or hesitation. "For appearances only. A public arrangement. Nothing more."

I continued staring. Waiting for the part where this made sense.

"In return," he continued, his voice level and businesslike, "I will provide you with financial support. A place to live that is safe and private. Legal resources if you need them for your divorce proceedings. And if you want it, revenge against Damien Volkov."

The last three words hit me somewhere deep.

Revenge against Damien Volkov.

I swallowed slowly. My hands pressed flat against the table.

"Why?" I asked. "Why would you do any of that? Why do you even care?"

Something moved across his face. Just briefly. Something that looked almost painful before it disappeared behind the cold mask.

"My reasons are my own," he said quietly. "What matters is whether the arrangement works for you."

I looked at him across the table. This terrifying, cold, powerful stranger who had appeared out of nowhere and pulled me out of an alley. Who knew my name before I told him. Who was now sitting in front of me, completely calm, offering me a deal that sounded insane.

Every sensible part of me screamed to say no.

But then I thought about the empty apartment waiting for me. The bakery job that barely covered rent. The pregnancy I was hiding. The divorce Damien hadn't signed yet. The bruise still fading on my cheek from his hand.

I looked Alexander St. James in the eye. "I'll think about it," I said.

He nodded once. Then he picked up the menu and held it out to me.

"Order something," he said. "You look like you haven't eaten a proper meal in days."

I wanted to argue. But my stomach growled at exactly that moment, loudly enough that there was absolutely no point pretending.

And despite everything, despite the impossible situation, despite the fact that I was sitting across from Damien Volkov's greatest enemy being offered a fake engagement, I felt the tiniest and most unexpected flicker of something.

Safety.

Which frightened me more than anything else that had happened today.