Chapter two

Linnea’s POV

For three days after the fundraiser, I barely slept. My eyes burned, and my head pounded like someone was hitting it with a hockey stick. I ran from meeting to meeting across the city in my best suit, forcing a bright, fake smile onto my face. I sat across glass tables from rich men and women in tall glass buildings, and I begged.

I told them about the little kids who laced up their skates every afternoon, dreaming of playing in the big leagues just like Julian once had.

Every meeting ended the same way.

“I’m sorry, Linnea,” they would say, glancing at their watches. “Your family name is too risky right now. We heard the board is considering a sale. We can’t get involved.”

Every time, I asked who had told them about the board. Every time, they changed the subject.

By the third afternoon, my heart felt heavy as lead. I couldn’t tell Julian how bad things were. He already walked around our house like a ghost, shoulders hunched, blaming himself for the family’s troubles because his knee had broken and everything crumbled behind it. I wouldn’t let him carry this too. I was the one who kept the lights on.

I was in my car outside the rink, too tired to go inside, when my phone rang.

It was Leonard Brandt, the chairman of our board. His voice was smooth and kind, which is how I knew it was bad news.

“Linnea, I wanted you to hear this from me,” he said. “Voss Properties has made a formal offer for the rink. The land alone is worth more than our debt. The board feels we have a responsibility to consider it.”

“The Vosses want our rink?” I said. My hands tightened on the wheel.

“It’s a very generous offer. I’ve moved the vote up to Friday, to avoid any further losses.”

“Friday? That’s five days away.”

“The sooner we close this chapter, the better for everyone,” Brandt said. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

He hung up. I sat in the car with the phone in my lap and tried to breathe. Voss Properties was Magnus Voss’s company, Cassian’s father. First Northline pulled out. Now the Vosses were circling like sharks.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. It wouldn’t be a coincidence.

My phone rang again before I could fall apart.

“Miss Hartwell?” a polite man asked. “I represent a private investor group. We’ve reviewed the foundation’s books and we’re very interested in helping. Could you meet us at a downtown office tonight at six? We may be able to save everything.”

Hope flared inside me like a tiny match. It was crazy, but it was all I had left. I didn’t care who it was. Billionaire, stranger, ghost, it didn’t matter, as long as they saved the kids.

At six o’clock that evening, I pushed open the heavy glass door of a sleek downtown office building. A receptionist with a cold smile pointed me down the hall to a corner conference room. The room was quiet and expensive-looking, with floor-to-ceiling windows and the city lights twinkling far below.

A man sat at the far end of a long mahogany table, his back to me. His dark jacket fit across his broad shoulders in a way that looked terribly familiar. I told myself it was a coincidence.

“Thank you for meeting me,” I said, stepping inside. “I’m Linnea Hartwell. I’m here about the foundation.”

The man turned in his chair.

I didn’t need to see his face clearly. The dark hair, the straight posture, the sharp jaw. My blood ran cold.

“Hello, Linnea,” Cassian said.

I spun around and grabbed the door handle.

“It isn’t locked,” he said quietly.

I froze.

“The door,” he said. “It’s unlocked. If you want to go, go. I won’t stop you.”

I turned back slowly. He had not moved from his seat. His hands rested on the table, open, like he was proving he had nothing in them. That should have made it easier to leave. Instead, it made it impossible, because a man who wanted to trap me would have blocked the door.

“This was a trap,” I said anyway. My voice shook. “You set this up to drag me down here and laugh in my face.”

“I told your assistant I represented an investor,” Cassian said. “That was true. The investor is me.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I know.”

“I’d rather watch the foundation burn than take a penny from a Voss.”

“I know that too,” he said. “Will you sit anyway? Five minutes. If you still want to leave, I’ll walk you to your car.”

I should have said no. I sat. I told myself it was because I needed to find out what he wanted.

He slid a thick folder across the table. “Five years of funding. It clears the rink’s debt, covers coaching and gear, and pays for every scholarship. The money won’t come with any strings on your family.”

“Then why do I feel strings?” I flipped the folder open and my eyes caught on a clause near the end. I read it twice. Then I looked up. “This says the money is released in installments.”

“Quarterly.”

“And the installments depend on the marriage.”

I said the last word like it burned my tongue. The page said what I thought it said. At the very top it read Marriage Agreement.

“The condition is one year,” Cassian said calmly. “You and I are legally married for a year. We live in the same house, appear together in public, and at the end of it, we part ways. The foundation is funded the whole time.”

I laughed. It was a hysterical little sound, and I hated it. “Have you lost your mind?”

“My grandfather’s trust requires me to be married for a year before I can take control of my share of Voss Holdings,” he said. “I’ve avoided it for years. I’m out of time.”

“So find a wife.”

“I did.”

The air in the room went thick.

“Why me?” I said. My voice was a whisper. “You could marry anyone.”

“I need someone my father can’t buy,” Cassian said. “Someone who can’t be bullied into agreeing with me. Someone who will tell me no.” A small, tired smile touched his mouth. “You’re very good at that.”

“You can’t stand me.”

“I can stand you fine.”

That infuriating calm made my fists tighten. I turned to the final pages, hunting for the catch. There was always a catch. At the very back, I found a page marked Schedule C. The page was blank except for a heading and a red seal across the center.

“What’s this?”

“A private clause,” Cassian said. “It relates to my inheritance. It stays sealed.”

“From me?”

“From everyone.”

“I’m supposed to sign a contract with a section I’m not allowed to read?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him. I had expected him to lie or to charm me. He didn’t do either. He just sat there, honest about the one thing he wouldn’t be honest about, and somehow that was worse.

“Voss Properties made an offer on my rink this afternoon,” I said, watching his face. “Your father’s company. Is this part of the same game?”

For the first time, something moved in his eyes. It was quick and hard. “I don’t work for my father.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s all I can tell you tonight.” He stood and picked up his jacket. “Take the folder. Have your lawyer read it. The paperwork has to be done by Friday morning if the funding’s going to land before your board votes.”

“Friday,” I said. “You know about the vote.”

“Linnea.” His voice was low and almost gentle. “Everyone knows about the vote. Your board chair has been telling people for weeks.”

My stomach turned. I didn’t know if I believed him. I didn’t know if I believed anyone anymore.

“I won’t marry you,” I said.

“Then I hope you find another way,” he said. And he sounded as if he meant it.

I took the folder anyway, because I was too desperate not to.

I drove to the rink instead of going home. I let myself in with my key and walked out onto the ice in the dark. The scoreboard was off. The bleachers were empty. Up on the wall hung the scholarship board, hundreds of kids’ names printed on little metal plates.

Someone was sitting in the third row of the bleachers. A small figure in a too-big hoodie, hugging a pair of skates.

“Mia?” I called. “It’s late.”

“I know,” said the girl. She was eleven. She had been coming to our program since she was seven. “I heard the grown-ups talking. They said the rink might close.” She looked at me with a trust so complete it hurt. “You won’t let it, right, Miss Linnea?”

The folder was heavy in my hands. Five days.

“I won’t let it,” I said.

I had no idea how.