“What is it about?”
“Timing. Moves being made that I’m not included in.”
She studied me. “You don’t want the company.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is if they’re using it to manipulate you.”
The wind lifted a strand of her hair across her cheek. I brushed it back without thinking.
“You don’t light up when you talk about any of it,” she continued. “You tolerate it.”
I grinned at her assessment. “And you’ve analyzed this when?”
“I pay attention.” She winked, the corners of her mouth curving up.
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“You light up when you talk about hockey, about building a future of your own,” she said. “Not inheriting your family’s legacy.”
The arena’s exterior lights hummed below us.
“You don’t belong to the parts of your family’s dynasty that you resent,” she added quietly.
I leaned down and kissed her, wanting to anchor this moment.
She kissed me back without hesitation, hands shifting from my jaw to around my neck.
The chaos in my head briefly quieted. Regardless of what was forming at home, the game Dunn thought he was playing, or whatever Drew was positioning—Mila wasn’t collateral. She wasn’t leverage. She was my choice.
I wouldn’t sacrifice her to stabilize something that had never been built for me.
Her forehead rested against mine. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Persistent. I pulled it out.
Drew:Call me.
I stared at the screen for a long moment. The cracks at home weren’t closing. They were widening. And this time—I wasn’t sure which side my brother stood on.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MILA
By midweek, Blackwood had settled back into routine, the gossip about the mountain house party dying down. Students moved through the halls in restless waves, teachers already assigning essays and midterm projects as if nothing had changed. Lockers slammed. Laughter echoed. On the surface, it seemed normal.
But Logan hadn’t looked at me once all week. Elise hadn’t either. No pointed comments. No smirks. No staged collisions in the hallways.
The silence scraped at my nerves. There was always something from them. And the absence of it felt deliberate.
As Avery and I turned the corner toward the art classroom after school, Elise stood near the lockers with two girls, laughing at something on her phone. Her gaze lifted briefly, assessing, then moved past us as if we were background.
Avery and I hung out in the art room the way we liked to when there was a moment to breathe—door half-closed, music playing low from her phone, paint streaking across canvas in careless color. For an hour, we were just best friends hanging out again.
She painted abstract chaos in vibrant hues. I worked in charcoal, smudging shadow into shape. We talked about nothing important. Jax’s terrible playlist. Theo’s refusal to follow a recipe. The way Tori had finally stopped hovering at the edges and just joined in.