Chapter 4: The Collision

LILA’S POV

The Chicago skyline glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the downtown club, but the Blizzard’s charity gala felt like a cage. My heels clicked on the polished marble, each step heavier than the last, as I scanned the crowd for Zane Callahan. The air pulsed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of a live band, but my pulse drowned it all out. I didn’t want to be here. But Meredith’s ultimatum of getting Zane ‘s answers or kissing my job goodbye had forced me into this glitzy hell, and the weight of my forced engagement to Ethan Callahan crushed me further.

The crowd parted, revealing him. Zane leaned against the bar, a champagne glass dangling from his fingers, his jet-black hair tousled, his green eyes glinting with that predatory edge. His navy suit hugged his broad shoulders, every inch screaming wealth and danger. My stomach twisted—hatred, yes, but something else, something I refused to name.

I marched toward him, my auburn hair bouncing against my shoulders, my black dress clinging to my curves. “Mr. Callahan,” I said, my voice sharp enough to cut through the gala’s din. “We need to talk.”

He didn’t even glance at me, his gaze fixed on a blonde socialite giggling at his side. “I’m busy,” he muttered, sipping his champagne, the glass catching the light as he tilted it in a mocking salute.

My blood boiled. I stepped closer, my notebook jabbed toward him. “I won’t take much of your time, I promise. I just want you to answer a few questions.”

He turned then, his green eyes locking onto mine, a slow smirk curling his lips. “And I said that I’m busy. Or wait, do you want to write another garbage article, calling me violent?” His voice was low, a dangerous purr, and the blonde giggled again, oblivious to the storm brewing.

“Excuse me?” I snapped, my cheeks flushing. “What article?”

His smirk vanished, his eyes darkening. He set his glass down with a deliberate clink and stepped away from the blonde, who pouted but wandered off.

“Stay away from me, intern,” he said, closing the gap between us. His heat hit me, whiskey and cedar, overwhelming the gala’s perfume-soaked air. “I hate the mere sight of you.”

I held my ground, my heart pounding. “I will stay away from you as soon as you finish answering my questions.” My voice shook, but I thrust my notebook forward, my own questions scrawled inside. “Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

He laughed, a cold, bitter sound, and turned, striding toward a group of teammates across the room. My fists clenched, nails biting into my palms. He was toying with me, making me chase him like some desperate groupie.

Heads turned, whispers rippling through the crowd—Is she one of his flings? Another gold-digger? My face burned, but I followed, weaving through sequined dresses and tuxedos, my anger a live wire. Every time I got close, he moved, chatting with a coach, a fan, anyone but me. My frustration mounted, a scream trapped in my throat.

At the bar’s edge, I spotted him alone, staring into his refilled champagne glass. I surged forward, but he sidestepped, joining a cluster of sponsors.

“Damn it, Zane!” I hissed under my breath, my hands shaking.

The crowd’s eyes burned into me, their assumptions—slut, hookup, nobody—stinging like salt in a wound. I didn’t care about him. I just needed this story to save my job.

A waitress passed, her tray laden with amber bottles. My rage snapped. I snatched one, not caring what it was, and gulped it down, the burn searing my throat. Whiskey, raw and fierce, matched the fire in my chest. I slammed the bottle onto a table, my vision blurring as I glared at Zane. He stood across the room, laughing with a teammate, his champagne glass raised in my direction, a mocking glint in his eyes. He knew he was driving me insane, and he relished it.

Enough. I stormed through the crowd, my dress swishing, and intercepted him as he turned from his teammate. “Excuse me,” I said to the guy, my voice tight but polite. “I need him.”

Before Zane could slip away, I grabbed his arm, my fingers digging into suit jacket, and yanked him toward a quiet alcove near the club’s exit. He stiffened but followed, his jaw tight, no doubt to avoid a scene.

In the dim alcove, I shoved my notebook at him, my breath ragged. “What the hell is your problem? I’m here to work, not to play your silly games.”

His eyes flashed, a storm brewing. “You’ve got some nerve, Harper,” he growled, stepping closer, his body a wall of heat and menace. “In just 48 hours you’ve managed to make my life a living nightmare, so tell me why I should have this interview done?”

“Because you have been a little off on the rink lately and your fans are worried,” I said, my voice a low whisper.

His hand shot out, not touching me but hovering near my wrist, his fingers twitching. My breath hitched, my skin prickling under his gaze.

“You want answers?” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous. “I will answer your questions but not here. At my penthouse.”

I blinked, the whiskey clouding my judgment. “Your penthouse?” My voice wavered, but my anger held firm. “Why should I trust you?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Because you’re desperate, intern. And I don’t talk in public.” He pulled back, his green eyes daring me, and strode toward the exit.

My heart pounded, the alcohol buzzing in my veins. I didn’t trust him, but I needed this story. I followed, my heels clicking, my mind screaming warnings. Outside, his sleek black car idled, and he glanced back, surprise flickering as I climbed in.

“Let’s go,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos in my chest.

At his penthouse, the skyline sprawled beyond the glass walls, glittering like a thousand secrets waiting to be spilled. I sat stiffly on his leather couch, my recorder balanced on my knee, my notebook open but blurred from the wine still humming in my veins. My pulse skittered unevenly, a mix of nerves and the faint buzz clouding my focus.

“Let’s start with the team’s season,” I managed, my voice thinner than I wanted. “What’s behind the recent losses?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stood at the bar with his back to me, rolling the weight of a crystal decanter in his hand before pouring amber liquid into his glass. His broad shoulders flexed beneath his shirt, and I hated myself for staring, for noticing how tightly controlled every movement seemed.

“You don’t waste time,” he said finally, turning.

His eyes found me with precision, like he’d known all along exactly where I was looking. He took a slow sip, then began crossing the room. His steps weren’t loud, but each one landed in my chest.

“But I don’t play by your rules.”

My throat tightened. “This isn’t about rules. It’s—”

“Everything with you is rules,” he cut in, now close enough that I could smell the faint, smoky burn of his whiskey.

His gaze dipped to the recorder on my lap. Then lower, to my bare knee peeking beneath the hem of my dress.

“Questions, structure, control. Tell me, Harper…” He leaned down, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Do you ever stop controlling long enough to feel anything?”

The question hit harder than it should have, leaving me momentarily speechless. I gripped my pen tighter, trying to summon professionalism, but my hand trembled.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

When he sank to one knee in front of me, the air thinned. His fingers brushed my knee—barely there, featherlight—but the spark shot up my thigh so sharply I inhaled too fast.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I whispered, hating the tremor in my voice.

“Teaching you something you won’t forget.” His hand trailed higher, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Punishing you.”

My laugh was shaky, defensive. “For what? Asking questions?”

“For making me want to answer you at all,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. Then his hand slipped a fraction higher, and my thighs clenched without permission.

I reached for him—maybe to push him away, maybe to anchor myself—but he caught both my wrists with startling swiftness. His grip was firm, not cruel, but unyielding. My pulse hammered where his skin pressed mine.

“Rule number one,” he said softly, as if we were already in the middle of a game. “No touching.”

“Rule number—what?!” My protest died when he pulled a silk tie from his pocket, the motion smooth, practiced. He wrapped it around my wrists, binding them behind me with unsettling ease. The fabric bit just enough to make me squirm.

My head spun. “Zane, I—I don’t—”

“Shh.” His thumb grazed my lower lip, silencing me. “You’ll learn.”

Heat rushed to my face, half fear, half something I didn’t want to name. My body leaned forward instinctively, betraying me, even as my mind screamed that this was wrong, reckless, insane.

He slid a hand under my dress, slow as sin, his fingers teasing along the inside of my thigh until my breath came in sharp gasps. I hated how quickly my body betrayed me, how fast wet heat gathered where I was weakest.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Harper,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that curled deep inside me. “Writing lies. Stirring chaos. Making me your headline.”

“I didn’t—” My words broke into a gasp when his fingers brushed higher, so close I thought I’d come undone on the spot.

“Don’t lie to me,” he warned.

When he drew back, I thought I’d beg without meaning to, but instead he reached behind the couch. A cane—slender, polished, gleaming under the city lights—appeared in his grip. He didn’t strike me. He only let it glide along the bare skin of my thigh, tracing dangerous lines, making every nerve ending scream in anticipation.

My hips jerked before I could stop them.

The corner of his mouth curved. “So responsive. So desperate.”

I shook my head, mortified, but he leaned close enough that his breath warmed my ear.

“Say it. Say you want this.”

“I—” My voice cracked. I’d never said those words. Never admitted desire like this. The wine had loosened me, but it was his dominance that tore me wide open.

“Say it,” he ordered again, firmer now. The cane pressed lightly into the soft flesh of my inner thigh.

“I… I want this,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the admission.

His growl vibrated against my skin as his hand returned between my legs, skilled, relentless, pushing me higher and higher until I was writhing against the bonds, moans spilling before I could stop them. The mix of pain and pleasure blurred everything—my inexperience, my shame, my want.

“Good girl,” he murmured darkly, fingers coaxing wave after wave out of me until tears blurred my vision. “That’s how you learn.”