Chapter 07: Collateral Damange

Brielle’s POV.

"You're out of your mind," I snapped, ignoring the quick tightening of Director Ford’s chest as he watched the billionaire father beside us.

"Try me," Chase answered, his voice dropping into that dangerously quiet register that cut right through the hum of the air conditioner.

John Kensington folded his arms, his cold grey eyes sweeping over me with clear distaste before settling back on his son. "Chase, this is absurd. The girl is a liability. You drop a lawsuit on her agency, let the legal team pull her credentials, and clear your name."

"My name isn't getting cleared by a lawsuit, Dad," Chase said, not once breaking eye contact with me. "The picture is out. The internet already has it. A public lawsuit just makes me look defensive. Keeping her on a leash makes me look in control."

Nate stepped up from the leather sofa, adjusting his jacket cuff. "He's right, Mr. Kensington. If she's fired, she can spin her own story to the tabloids. If she stays on as Chase's personal press attachment under a strict non-disclosure clause, we control the narrative."

I glared at Nate, the smooth, helpful act was sickening, especially when every instinct in my gut was screaming that he was standing far too close to the center of this fire.

"Fine," John spat out, taking a golden pen from his inner suit pocket and tapping it against his palm. "Twenty-four-hour availability. Every press shoot, every team function, every practice. She doesn't take a single photo without your direct approval, Chase. If another piece of media slips out, hacked or otherwise…I will personally ensure she ends up in a courtroom."

Director Ford practically scrambled to pull a fresh contract outline from his desk drawer. "I'll have the revised terms drafted within the hour, Mr. Kensington! Miss Hopkins will report directly to Chase!"

"She starts now," Chase said. He turned on his heel, taking broad, deliberate strides toward the office door without waiting for an answer. "Pack your camera bag, Brielle. You're riding with me."

My blood boiled, but I had no ground left to stand on. If I walked out now, I wasn't just unemployed…I was bankrupt and blacklisted.

I grabbed my camera case, slung the heavy strap over my shoulder, and followed him down the long corridor toward the private parking garage. The silence between us was heavy, broken only by the sharp echo of our footsteps on the polished floor.

When we reached his black sports car, he hit the unlock button and yanked the passenger door open, waiting.

I stopped two feet away. "I have my motorcycle here."

"Leave it," Chase said flatly. "You're on my time now."

"Chase, listen to me for one minute," I pleaded, holding my position. "I didn't leak that photo. I brought the IP logs from my desk setup! Someone logged in remotely while we were at that club…"

"Save the performance," he cut in, his blue eyes flashing with pure fury. "You sat in my car last night. You smiled, you acted like you cared about what I was going through, and the entire time, my worst moment was sitting on your drive waiting for the highest bidder!"

"I edited it to keep it safe!" I yelled back, tears burning the back of my throat. "I was going to keep it in my private files because I saw how hard you work on that ice! I was trying to protect you!"

Chase let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Protect me? You destroyed me. Do you have any idea what my father said to me this morning? Do you have any idea what the locker room looks like right now?"

He stepped closer, backing me right up against the side of his car. His broad frame blocked out the garage lights, shadowing my view.

"You're going to stand on the sidelines today," Chase whispered, his breath hot against my cheek. "You're going to take every single photograph I order you to take. And when the press asks why you're still here, you're going to tell them you work for me."

He pulled open the car door wider. "Get in."

I swallowed the lump of pride in my throat, slid into the leather seat, and pulled the seatbelt across my chest. Chase slammed the door shut, rounded the hood, and got into the driver's side. He ignited the engine with a loud roar that vibrated through the frame of the vehicle.

The drive to the ice arena was dead quiet. He didn't turn on the radio, and I didn't dare say another word. My mind was churning, replaying every detail of the previous night. The remote session window on my laptop. The timing of the leak. The fact that the only people who knew about the picture were me, Chase, and the handful of players at the table…including Nate.

When we arrived at the arena's back entrance, Chase parked in his reserved spot. He killed the engine and got out without waiting for me.

I grabbed my equipment and hurried after him through the security doors. The corridor leading to the locker rooms was buzzing with energy, but the moment Chase walked through, the noise dropped to a low murmur.

Teammates were whispering in small clusters. Reporters with press passes were already lingering near the media boundary, cameras angled toward the ice.

"Set up at center board," Chase ordered, throwing his heavy gear bag onto the bench near the locker entrance. "I want full high-speed continuous shots of every drill today."

"Got it," I said under my breath.

I walked out toward the rink, the chill of the ice hitting my face. I mounted my long lens onto the camera body, adjusted my shutter speed, and locked my gaze onto the ice.

A few minutes later, the team skated out. Chase took the lead, his skating aggressive, raw, and completely relentless. He slammed into the boards with force, driving the puck down the ice like a man possessed. He was pushing himself past his limits, using the anger inside him to fuel every turn.

Nate skated up beside him during a transition drill, leaning in to say something. From my angle through the viewfinder, Chase just shook his head and pushed harder, cutting across the ice.

I raised my camera, zooming in close on Chase's face to capture the intense focus in his eyes. He was a force on the ice, cold, precise, and completely unmatched.

Then, through my lens, I saw something strange.

During a standard passing drill, Chase suddenly missed a handle. His skates wobbled slightly on the smooth surface, a basic mistake he never made. He gripped his stick tighter, his shoulders tensing up as if he had lost his balance for a fraction of a second.

He pulled up near the boards, leaning heavily on his stick, taking deep, ragged breaths.

I lowered my camera slightly, watching him carefully. Something was wrong. Chase Kensington didn't wobble on the ice. He didn't lose his footing.

Nate skated over immediately, offering him a water bottle from the bench rack. Chase took it, took a long drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his glove.

I raised the camera again, focusing directly on the water bottle in Nate's hand as he set it back down in a specific spot away from the rest of the team's hydration gear.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with one hand while keeping my eyes on the ice.

It was an anonymous text message from an unregistered number:

*Quit digging into the logs if you know what's good for you, photographer.*

 I looked up instantly, scanning the stands and the bench line.