Chapter Eleven - Sister’s Warning

 

(Logan’s POV)

Damian Blackwell’s apartment wasn't a home; it was a testament to his dominance. It occupied the entire top floor of the tallest tower in Chicago, a minimalist shrine of glass, chrome, and calculated coldness. Everything was neutral tones, grey, slate, white, as if emotion itself had been surgically removed.

I was currently occupying one of the pristine white guest bedrooms, my left wrist tightly encased in a medical brace, elevated on a mountain of pillows. After the frantic midnight trip to a specialized sports trauma center, where Damian used his considerable influence to ensure zero paperwork and zero press, he had brought me here.

The Owner’s logic was simple: Total control. If I was injured, I was a liability. If I was a liability, I had to be secured. He couldn't risk me falling into Julian’s waiting arms, injured or not. He was taking care of his asset, nothing more.

But the way he held me in the car…

During the chaos, the panic, the sheer possessive instinct was the most honest emotion I had ever seen from him. It terrified me more than the threats. It made my carefully constructed wall of hatred wobble. I needed the Owner, the Boss, the cold-blooded predator, to stay visible, because that was the man I was trying to destroy.

I was sprawled on the bed, my good hand scrolling through useless sports updates, when my phone buzzed with Clara’s caller ID. My sister. She had somehow managed to land a summer PR internship with one of the league’s media partners, and she had ears everywhere.

I answered it with a sigh. “Hey, Clary. Don’t start. It’s just a sprain.”

“‘Just a sprain’ doesn’t land you in the owner’s private penthouse, Logan,” she fired back immediately, her voice sharp with worry. “I heard the whispers this morning. Accident at a private late-night session? What in God’s name were you doing with Damian Blackwell at midnight? He has a reputation, Logan. A terrifying one.”

“We were running drills,” I said, flatly, hoping to bore her into changing the subject. “Hard conditioning. I slipped.”

“Please. Since when does Damian Blackwell personally babysit a player’s conditioning drill? He pays three coaches millions of dollars for that. This isn’t a drill, Logan. This is you antagonizing the most dangerous man in the league because you can’t let go of this whole revenge thing.”

A cold thread of anger tightened in my chest. Clara was sharp, but she was still seeing things through the naive lens of a good person who believed in rules.

“It’s not antagonizing, Clara. It’s business,” I argued, though even to my own ears, the word sounded hollow. “He needed me to burn off steam so I wouldn’t get distracted by Julian’s shiny little trinkets. He was managing his asset. It’s all about the championship.”

“That watch was a declaration of war, and you wore it like a target,” Clara insisted, sounding exasperated. “And now you’re trapped in his apartment, injured. Do you not see how this looks? You are playing a game of chicken with a Mack truck, Logan. Damian doesn’t just destroy careers; he destroys people. Look at Elias. Look at what he did to…” She trailed off, citing the source of my decade-long grudge without naming it.

The pain of the memory, the reason I wore the burden of revenge like a heavy coat, sharpened my resolve. “I know what he did, Clary. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I took the contract. He thinks he’s holding all the cards, but I’m the secret weapon in his hand. If I win him the cup, he has to face me, and he has to watch me walk away and leave his dynasty in ruins.”

“Or he gets what he wants from you—the championship—and you end up with nothing but a bruised ego and a damaged reputation,” she warned. “You’re talking about taking him apart from the inside, but you’re the one who is exposed right now, hurt and isolated. You should be using this time to talk to Julian’s team, not sleeping on the enemy’s silk sheets.”

I pushed myself up onto the pristine pillows, frustration making my voice loud and reckless. “I don’t want Julian! I want this! I want to look Damian Blackwell in the eye and feel that control snap. I want him to regret every single choice he’s made that led him to this point, to me! If I have to let him think he owns me for a few weeks to guarantee that moment, then fine! It’s just business, Clara. And I’m playing to win.”

There was a heavy silence on the line. I could almost picture her shaking her head, her brown eyes full of familiar disappointment.

“You’re addicted to the chaos, Logan,” she finally said, her voice softer, laced with genuine sorrow. “Be careful. The line between revenge and self-destruction is thinner than you think, and I don’t want to be the one picking up the pieces when he finally decides to finish you off.”

“I’m fine. Stop worrying, and go enjoy your PR internship. I’ll see you at the rink when my hand is fixed,” I said, cutting the conversation short before the doubt she planted could take root.

I hung up and tossed the phone onto the silk duvet. Addicted to the chaos? Maybe. But the chaos was the only way to get close enough to strike. And right now, I was closer than anyone had ever been.

I looked at my braced wrist and then across the room, where Damian was visible through the doorway, standing at his desk, silently conducting the business of his empire. He was on a call, his voice a low, commanding rumble.

He looked up then, and his eyes found mine. He terminated his call instantly and started walking toward the bedroom. The cold, corporate Owner was approaching the injured asset. But I knew the truth: the predator was coming to check on his claim.

I might be injured, but I was exactly where I needed to be to continue the fight.