Roman clicked the mouse, opening the full email thread attached to the liability document.
The screen glowed in the quiet room, illuminating line after line of cold, calculated exchanges between Cole, Dr. Kane, and Grant.
"Look at the sender timestamp," Roman said, stepping back so I could see the header.
My eyes scanned the text.
*Date: October 2.*
Twelve days before Cole proposed on the rooftop of the Colonnade Hotel. Twelve days before he got down on one knee with tears in his eyes, telling me I was the only constant in his chaotic life.
In the thread, Grant had expressed concern about Kane’s off-book performance enhancers failing an unannounced league audit. Cole’s response was typed in clear, ruthless sentences:
*“If the league flags the test batch, Kane can redirect the chain of custody to Lena. She handles daily inventory and logs the medical lockers. The league won’t penalize the roster if it’s isolated to support staff. We protect the contract extension first.”*
The room seemed to shrink around me.
On October fourteenth, I had sobbed against Cole's chest when he slipped that three-carat diamond onto my finger. I had called my mother. I had saved photos of the skyline, thinking it was the happiest night of my life.
It hadn't been a proposal. It had been an insurance policy.
Cole hadn't asked me to marry him because he loved me. He gave me a ring so I would feel bound to him, so when the hammer fell, I would stay quiet and take the blow like a devoted, obedient wife.
"He planned it," I whispered, my voice sounding hollow against the wooden walls. "Before the season even peaked. Before he even bought the ring."
"He built a wall between himself and the league," Roman said quietly. "And he used you as the brick."
I stepped back from the screen, my chest tightening with disgust so sharp it tasted like copper. Five years of devotion, of taping his torn muscles at two in the morning, of managing his public image—all of it had been traded for a team contract.
***
By morning, the retaliation began.
I woke to the sound of tires crunching on gravel outside the lake house. When I walked into the kitchen, Roman was already standing near the window, his phone pressed to his ear, staring out at the security gate at the edge of the property.
"Get the private security detail here now," Roman said into the phone, his voice completely flat. "Nobody enters the private road."
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the granite counter.
On the screen, a breaking notification from the largest sports tabloid in the country was flashing in bold red letters.
*BETRAYED: SIDELINED CAPTAIN SPEAKS OUT.*
Below the headline was a blurry photo of Roman carrying me out of the ice rink yesterday, followed by an exclusive interview quote from Cole’s publicist.
*“Cole Mercer was blindsided to discover his former fiancée entered into a private relationship with the team’s new majority owner immediately following the championship inquiry. Mercer maintains his complete innocence and believes internal organizational politics are being used to destroy his career while protecting those close to ownership.”*
I stared at the screen, my fingers gripping the counter.
"He's spinning it," I said. "He's making himself look like the victim."
"He doesn't have the legal leverage to stop the league inquiry," Roman said, turning toward me. "So he's using the only weapon he has left. Public shame."
Cole had turned the narrative upside down. He wasn't the athlete caught with illegal stimulants anymore; he was the heartbroken captain whose disloyal fiancée climbed into his billionaire boss's bed to save her own skin.
Through the trees along the perimeter fence, I saw the flashes of telephoto lenses. Paparazzi had found the estate.
"We need to get to the Wolves' downtown offices," Roman said, grabbing his dark coat from the chair. "Legal is finalizing the forensic audit. If we stay here, the media controls the story."
We walked out through the heavy side door into the crisp morning air. A black SUV was idling near the steps, its engine rumbling softly.
Before Roman could open the passenger door for me, a silver sports car sped up the private drive, ignoring the security barricade, and skidded to a halt on the gravel directly behind our vehicle.
The driver's door flew open.
Cole jumped out. He wasn't wearing a team jacket today. He wore a crisp designer suit, his hair carefully styled for the cameras that were already swarming toward the open gate.
"Lena!" Cole shouted, marching toward us with his hands raised in what looked like an open, desperate plea.
Roman instantly moved, stepping into Cole’s path and cutting off his stride two yards from the SUV.
"Step back, Mercer," Roman said, his posture rigid.
Cole ignored Roman entirely, fixing his gaze on me where I stood by the rear door.
"Lena, listen to me," Cole said, lowering his voice into a strained, urgent tone. "This has gone too far. Look at what he’s doing to us. He’s putting you in the middle of a corporate takeover."
"You put me in the middle of a league investigation," I replied coldly.
Cole shook his head, taking a half-step forward before Roman’s broad shoulder blocked him completely.
"I can fix it," Cole said, his voice dropping into a frantic, pleading whisper that he clearly didn't want the distant microphones to catch. "Lena, please. Just get in my car. Come back to the condo. If you come back, I’ll call a joint press conference right now. I’ll tell the reporters and the board that the drugs in your bag were never yours. I’ll clear your name today."
I froze.
The words hung between us like a physical blow.
He didn't say he had found new evidence. He didn't say there was a misunderstanding with the lab. He offered to clear my name as a transaction—a reward if I agreed to crawl back to him.
Which meant he had known every single second of the last three months that I was innocent. He had watched my license get suspended, watched my career get shredded, and watched me work shifts at a public rink, all while holding the truth in his pocket like spare change.
"You knew," I said, the words barely louder than a whisper. "You always knew."
Cole's jaw tightened. "I did what I had to do for the team, Lena. But I’m trying to make it right. Come home with me."
"I am not your possession to trade," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "And I will never step foot near you again."
Cole’s desperate expression shattered, replaced by the raw, ugly anger I knew so well. His gaze dropped from my face down to my body.
He looked at the way Roman stood inches from me, shielding my frame from the cameras, and then his eyes landed on my hands resting flat over my coat, right against my lower stomach.
The rumor from the ice rink flashed behind his eyes.
"Is that why you won't come back?" Cole snarled, his voice cracking with sudden rage as he lunged forward. "Did you get her pregnant, Black?"
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't step aside, and he didn't answer for me. He kept his steady, dangerous eyes locked on Cole, giving me the space to speak for myself.
I stepped around the edge of the door, standing tall in the cold morning light.
"You don't get to ask who gave me a future," I said, my voice cutting through the wind, "after you tried to destroy mine."
Cole stared at me, rendered completely speechless as the weight of my words hit him.
Roman reached out and pulled the heavy car door open, holding it wide.
I didn't look at Cole again. I stepped past him, climbed into the back seat under my own power, and pulled the door shut behind me.
