ELENA POV:
Three years ago, the California sun beat down on my father's study. I was eighteen, lounging on the sofa, wearing a sundress and carelessly swinging my bare legs.
My father, Jonathan Carlisle, a ruthless NHL executive known for his iron grip on the league, stood with his back to me, a silent, imposing figure before the floor-to-ceiling window. His posture was rigid as a soldier's, radiating a storm of fury.
On his desk lay my SAT scores.
Near-perfect marks in reading. Next to it, physics and math sat at a glaring, massive zero.
Of course, it was intentional. I wanted to study art.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Jonathan finally turned around. His face was completely expressionless, but the disappointment and rage in his eyes were like tempered steel.
I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze. "Say about what?" I asked, my tone deliberately indifferent. "The report card says it all, doesn't it?"
"Elena!" he roared, slamming his hand on the desk. The papers on it jumped. "Do you think this is a game? You're throwing away your future!"
I rose from the sofa and walked toward him, unafraid. "My future? Or the future you designed for me? Dad, I don't want to study business. I'm going to the Rhode Island School of Design."
"Absurd!" His face was flushed with anger. "This family doesn't need a street artist! A Carlisle belongs at the top of the pyramid!"
I let out a cold laugh. "So to meet your standards, I don't even have the right to choose what I love?"
Our argument escalated, our voices rising until we were shouting. It was the most intense of our many, many conflicts.
Finally, Jonathan seemed to run out of patience. He sank back into his chair, looking at me with a strange, unfamiliar coldness.
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" he said flatly. "You think everything you have is a given, something you can squander."
I pressed my lips together, defiant and silent.
"Fine. Very well." He nodded, the warmth completely vanishing from his eyes. "Since you're so eager to experience a different kind of life, I'll grant your wish."
He picked up his phone and dialed a number. "It's me. Make the arrangements. I'm sending my daughter to Northridge Academy. Yes, the hockey development camp. Four-year program. Enroll her now."
I froze. Northridge Academy? I'd heard of it. It was the country's most brutal hockey meat-grinder, famous for its grueling ice drills, punishing body checks, and high dropout rate.
"Dad, are you insane?" I shrieked. "I'm not going! I hate sports! I can't even skate!"
Jonathan hung up and looked at me, his expression merciless. "You'll learn. You will learn discipline through morning skates and checking on the boards."
He stood up, towering over me as he delivered my sentence. "From now on, three rules."
"First, all your electronics are confiscated. Phone and laptop."
"Second, you will carry no more than one hundred dollars in cash. All your credit cards are frozen."
"And third," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, "you will not set foot outside that camp for four years without my permission."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I lunged for his phone. He easily sidestepped me.
He summoned the household security. Two large men appeared, flanking me like a pair of walls.
"Take Miss Carlisle to her room," he commanded. "She is not to leave it until my people arrive to pick her up."
I was dragged from the study, screaming and cursing at him. He never once looked back.
The door slammed shut behind me, followed by the definitive click of the lock.
I threw myself against it, pounding on the wood until my knuckles were bruised and raw. "Dad! Open the door!"
No answer came. Only silence.
My breath caught as the truth finally sank in. He wasn't bluffing. He was really sending me away.
I slid down the door, tears streaming through my ruined makeup. As I sank to the floor, the muted sound of my father's voice drifted through the heavy oak door. He was on the phone in the corridor, his tone cold and matter-of-fact.
"It's arranged, then," Jonathan was saying. "I'm sending her to Northridge tomorrow morning. Break her pride, Julian. Treat her like any other recruit."
At that moment, drowning in my own grief, I had no idea what that name would come to mean to me.
