Chapter four

Lena’s Pov

The steel doors of the hospital are barely closed in my mind before Carter's entire world turns completely upside down.

When he puts his phone down, his face looks like carved stone. The color drains completely out of his skin, leaving him as pale as a ghost. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't say a single word. He just walks over to the giant glass wall of his penthouse, staring down at the tiny red and white lights of the city traffic below like a man standing on the edge of a cliff.

"Carter?" I ask, my voice shaking because I have never seen him look this terrified before. "What did the doctor say?"

"Nothing," he lies, his voice rough and hard as gravel. He keeps his back turned to me. "It's nothing you need to worry about. Go to your room, Lena."

"Don't do that," I snap, stepping closer to him despite the warning bells screaming in my head. "You look like someone just told you the world is ending. Talk to me."

"There is nothing to talk about!" he shouts suddenly, turning around so fast I jump back. His blue eyes are wild, burning with a mix of anger and absolute panic. "Just like there is nothing for you to get attached to here! This fake relationship has an expiration date, Lena. The second the championship is over, you go back to your life, and I go back to mine. Do not forget that."

My chest aches like someone just punched me right in the ribs. The anger flares up inside me, hot and sharp, burning away any sympathy I was starting to feel.

"You think I want to be here?" I yell back, throwing my hands up in the air. "I never planned on falling for you, Carter! I didn't want to move into this ridiculous hotel pretending to be your girlfriend, and I certainly didn't ask to live in a place that feels more like a museum than a home!"

It is true. Ever since his publicist, Marcus, told us that reporters were digging through our pasts and camping outside our buildings, I have been forced to move my entire life into this giant luxury penthouse. I hate it here. I hate the private chef who cooks meals I can't pronounce. I hate the massive walk-in closet filled with designer clothes I never asked for. And most of all, I hate how close Carter gets one minute, only to push me away the next like I am a piece of trash.

He thinks he is the only one hiding secrets. But yesterday afternoon, I saw a different side of him. I was looking for the kitchen when I passed by his home office, and I accidentally saw him talking quietly on the phone with a sobbing mother. I heard him pay thousands of dollars out of his own pocket for a young hockey kid's training fees, making sure nobody else would ever find out about it.

The man I thought was just a selfish, rich hockey player is actually someone who cares deeply, even if he tries to hide it behind walls of ice. And that makes everything so much harder.

Before Carter can answer my scream, the lights in the entire penthouse flicker once, twice, and then go completely pitch black.

The city lights outside vanish. The soft music stops. A heavy, suffocating darkness wraps around us like a thick blanket.

"Great," I mutter, rubbing my arms. "Just great."

"Stay where you are," Carter's voice cuts through the dark, closer than I expected. "The emergency generator should kick on in a second."

I try to take a step toward the kitchen to find my phone, but my heel catches on the edge of the thick wool rug. I trip forward with a gasp, expecting to hit the hardwood floor hard. Instead, two strong, warm hands catch me right around the waist, pulling me flush against a hard chest.

My breath catches in my throat. I know those hands. I know that exact scent of cedar and clean rain.

"I've got you," Carter whispers. His voice is dangerously low in the dark, right beside my ear.

Neither of us moves. The anger from a minute ago melts away instantly, replaced by a thick, heavy tension that makes my skin tingle. I can feel the fast, heavy thumping of his heart against my palm where my hand is resting on his chest. He doesn't let go of me. Slowly, in the dark, I feel his fingers slide up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb brushing softly against my skin.

"Lena," he breathes out, sounding like he is in pain.

"Carter," I whisper back.

He lowers his head. There are no cameras here. There is no publicist watching us from the corner. There is no angry father waiting to destroy us, and there is no fake contract telling us what to do. There is just the dark, the quiet, and the two of us.

When his lips finally press against mine, it isn't gentle. It is desperate, hungry, and full of all the unspoken words we have buried for five long years. My hands tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as I kiss him back with everything I have inside me. All the hurt, all the anger, all the confusion—it all disappears into the warmth of his mouth.

For the first time since we were kids in college, we aren't pretending.

When he finally pulls back, we are both breathing hard, our foreheads resting together in the dark.

Right at that exact second, the emergency lights hum to life, flooding the penthouse with a soft, pale yellow glow.

Carter looks down at me, his eyes wide and dazed, like he can't believe what just happened. "Lena..."

"Don't," I whisper, my voice shaking as I step backward out of his arms, touching my swollen lips. "Just... don't say anything."

Needing to escape, I turn around and practically run toward the private elevator at the end of the hall. I punch the button frantically, waiting for the doors to slide open. The second they part, I step inside and press the lobby button, desperate for fresh air, desperate to run away from my own beating heart.

The heavy metal doors slowly slide shut, separating us. I lean my forehead against the cool wall of the elevator car, closing my eyes as my chest heaves.

Ding.

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors slide open to the private parking garage.

I take a deep breath, stepping out into the quiet concrete space. But as I walk past the large glass windows that look out into the private alleyway beside the building, a sudden flash of bright white light blinds me.

I freeze in my tracks.

Outside the window, hiding behind a large grey pillar, a man drops a professional camera down from his face, turning around and sprinting away into the shadows.

My blood runs cold. Someone was standing right outside the window. They were watching us. They saw everything.