“And protect your teammates?” Stella cut back in, smooth as glass.
My eyes flicked to her. “My job is to do what the game requires,” I snarled back.
Then—“Bea,” another reporter called, shifting the angle without even trying to hide it. “Can you speak to the organization’s role in managing the narrative around this situation? There’s been some suggestion?—”
“There’s always suggestion,” Bea cut in smoothly, stepping forward just enough to be seen without overtaking the frame. “Our role is to communicate clearly and accurately. That’s what we’ve done.”
“But with your relationship?—”
“Is not relevant to the legal process,” she finished, still calm. Still composed. “And not something we’re discussing in that context.”
“Alois,” Stella again, voice cutting back through before anyone else could claim the space. “Do you feel the perception of you has changed today?”
“Perception changes every time someone decides it should,” I answered.
“Do you care?” she asked.
“I care about the people in that room,” I said, jerking my chin vaguely toward the ice beyond the walls.
“And Bea?” someone else added, quick, opportunistic. “Does she factor into that?”
A few heads turned.
“Yes,” I said. Simple. Uncomplicated.
CHAPTER 18
BEA
The apartment wrapped around us in that quiet, familiar way that usually felt like control.
I dropped my bag onto the chair by the door, the leather hitting wood with a dull, heavy thunk. My fingers were already moving—phone out, screen lighting up, notifications stacking faster than I could read them. Mentions. Messages. Alerts. Work waiting to be handled.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders down as I scrolled, already drafting responses in my head, already reorganizing the narrative—a soft sound cut through it.
Bento sat near the edge of the living room, tail curled neatly around his paws, golden eyes locked on the doorway like he’d been waiting. Not aggressive. Not puffed up.
Just… watching.
Waiting.
And then his gaze shifted. Past me. To Alois.
I felt it before I turned—the way the space behind me settled into something heavier, something quieter. He hadn’t moved far from the door. Boots still planted on the hardwood,shoulders squared out of habit more than intention, like he hadn’t decided yet if he belonged in the room or not.
Which was new.
Weeks of this—of sharing space, of navigating each other around tight corners and tighter routines—and he’d never hesitated before. Not physically. Not like this.
Bento’s ears flicked once. His tail twitched.
And then, slowly—deliberately—he stood.
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt whatever silent negotiation was happening in the middle of my living room.
Bento took one step forward. Then another.
Alois didn’t react. His hands stayed loose at his sides, his posture unchanged, but I caught it anyway—the micro-tightening through his shoulders, the almost imperceptible shift in his weight like he was bracing for impact.