Hockey King by Day, Forbidden Uncle by Night

ELENA POV:

"Miss Carlisle, congratulations. Your piece, 'The Tryst,' has been sold."

The gallery manager's voice was a smooth, professional murmur in my ear. I tightened my grip on the champagne flute, watching the golden liquid slosh over the rim and cling to my fingers.

I had been trying to shrink into the corner, using the wide brim of my hat as a shield. This was my first day back in the United States, my first time in New York in three years, and I only came for one reason.

My eyes darted across the crowded Chelsea gallery, past the chic, black-clad guests, and landed on the painting. My painting.

The Tryst.

It was a piece from three years ago. A boy and a girl, tangled together in a midnight kiss by the boards of an empty hockey rink. The boy's face was lost to shadow, a study in suggestion and raw power. The girl's profile was sharp, illuminated by the harsh utility lights.

Her face was mine.

My heart hammered against my ribs. My former mentor had submitted it without my permission. Now it hung here, a lingering mistake I thought I had buried.

"To whom?" The question tore out of me, raw with desperation. I had to buy it back. No matter the cost.

The manager didn't answer. His gaze slipped past me, and his polite smile instantly turned careful, almost reverent.

A shadow fell over me.

I turned stiffly, my movements jerky. A tall, imposing man stood against the light, his broad frame swallowing everything behind him. His perfectly tailored black suit radiated money and power.

Julian Bennett.

The most powerful man in hockey.

My mother's adopted brother. My legal uncle. And the man I had spent three years desperately trying to avoid.

He had changed.

His features were sharper, harder, as if carved from stone. The cold eyes I remembered had turned glacial. Yet the terrifying control in his posture remained exactly the same.

In his hand, he casually toyed with a black VIP card—the gallery's proof of purchase.

He was the buyer.

Whispers erupted around us, the sound like mosquitoes buzzing in my ear. I pressed my back against the wall, watching the crowd turn their attention to us.

Julian took a step toward me. Then another. His heavy footfalls echoed on the polished floor.

He stopped right in front of me, his height completely eclipsing me. He ignored the painting. His dark eyes locked onto mine, tracking my every flinch.

"So you put some clothes on, and now you don't recognize me?" His voice was low and mocking, the deep rumble vibrating through me.

Heat flooded my cheeks. The surrounding stares grew more intense, more curious.

Before I could form a reply, his arm shot out. He yanked me against him. I collided with his chest, hard as a rock wall. The scent of cedar and faint tobacco filled my senses, making my fingers curl into fists against his lapel.

I struggled. His arm was an iron band around my waist.

"Or do I need to hold you for you to remember?" His lips brushed against my ear, his warm breath fanning across my skin, sending a shiver of pure dread down my spine.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. I could already see tomorrow's TMZ headline: Hockey Powerhouse Julian Bennett Spotted with Mystery Woman.

Shame and fury made me tremble. I couldn't let him destroy the quiet life I had painstakingly built. I couldn't let him find out about the secret I was protecting.

I had to make him let go. Now.

My struggles ceased. I went limp in his arms. I forced my muscles to relax, rose on my toes, and brought my lips close to his ear.

"It's been a long time," I said, my voice clear and steady."...Uncle."

I felt his muscles lock instantly. The arm around me turned to stone. He dropped his hold on my waist.

His face, which had been inches from mine, jerked back. The mockery in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, offended fury.

He released me so abruptly that I stumbled backward, my hand flying out to grip a nearby pedestal to keep from falling.

The expressions of the guests shifted from intrigued to utterly baffled. This was no longer a lover's spat; it was a family drama.

Julian's jaw was clenched so tight I thought his teeth would shatter. He stared at me, his eyes burning with the fury of a cornered animal.

He didn't say another word. He seized my wrist, his grip so tight I felt my bones protest.

"Come with me," he snarled through his teeth.

He dragged me through the stunned crowd, toward the gallery's exit. My heels skittered across the polished concrete floor. I tried to wrench my arm free. It was useless.

He shoved me into the passenger seat of a black Bentley parked at the curb, slid in beside me, and locked the doors.

In the confined space, his anger was a palpable force. I instinctively shrank against the door.

"You like this game, don't you?" he finally said, his voice cold as ice. "Fine, Elena. We'll play it to the end."

He picked up his phone and dialed a number. His tone was absolute, leaving no room for argument.

"Contact the best genetic testing center. I'm bringing someone over in half an hour."

"We're going for a DNA test," he said suddenly.

I jerked my head up, my eyes widening. "What... what did you say?"

He knew? Did he know about my two-and-a-half-year-old son?

He leaned toward me slowly, his presence overwhelming the small space. "I said," he enunciated each word, as if savoring my fear, "we're going for a DNA test. To prove, once and for all, that there is no damn blood between us."

A roar filled my ears, and all the blood drained from my face. He wasn't talking about Leo. He wanted to prove that we weren't blood relatives.

I stared out the window at the blurred lights of New York, my fingers curling tightly into my palm.

"You think you can just run away and pretend nothing happened?" His voice came from beside me, low and cutting. "Let me remind you where this nightmarish mistake actually began."

My heart stopped.

My mind spun out of control, dragging me back three years - to that hot summer day when everything began.