Cori POV: The deafening bass of the victory party at the downtown lounge vibrated through the soles of my shoes. I had slipped away from the crowded VIP booth to find my boyfriend, Brandyn—an AHL bubble player clinging desperately to the fringes of our franchise's roster. Instead, as I turned the corner toward the back alley, the breath froze in my throat. There was Brandyn, pressing my supposed best friend, Dallas—a wealthy trust-fund socialite—against the brick wall. They were locked in a heated, desperate embrace, utterly oblivious to the world. My heart shattered, but the cold, rational instinct of a girl who had fought for everything she had kicked in. If I confronted them right now, a humiliated, cornered athlete might lash out or ruin my hard-earned career out of spite. My hands shaking, I pulled out my phone and snapped a geo-tagged photo in the dark. Evidence secured. I stumbled away, downing three cheap tequila shots at the bar to numb the sting of betrayal, and staggered recklessly into the VIP drop-off lane. I thought I was climbing into my Uber. I literally threw myself into the back of a black, armored Cadillac Escalade. My memory blurred into a chaotic, feverish haze. I vaguely remembered stumbling into a dark, leather-scented interior, falling against a solid, unyielding chest. I had clung to a stranger in the dark, seeking comfort with reckless, drunken desperation. The man had gone completely rigid for a long moment before his strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close, grounding my spinning world with a fierce, intoxicating warmth that wiped my mind completely blank. A blinding shaft of morning light pierced straight through my eyelids. I tried to roll over, groaning from the jackhammer pounding against my skull, but my body wouldn't move. A strange, heavy lethargy weighed down my limbs, accompanied by a faint, unfamiliar soreness that made my cheeks burn at the implications. Across my ribcage lay a heavy, bare arm. It was thick with solid muscle, pinning me flat against the mattress. Slowly, fighting the nausea of an epic hangover, I looked down at the tangled silk sheets. Inked across the dark golden skin of that forearm was a black, hyper-detailed hockey crest—crossed sticks wrapped in barbed wire, leading down to the initials KD. My stomach dropped straight through the floor. I turned my head an inch at a time, my neck joints clicking in the dead silence. Next to me lay Kurt Duran. The undisputed captain of the New York franchise. The most ruthless, untouchable man in the entire National Hockey League, and the absolute ruler of the sports empire that paid my meager entry-level salary. I hadn't just slept with a stranger. I had spent the night with my boss. The Ice Tyrant himself. This was an unmitigated disaster. Panic flared hot and sharp behind my ribs. I began edging toward the side of the mattress, sliding a fraction of an inch at a time, desperate to sneak away before he woke up. Before I could clear two inches, the heavy arm flexed. With a smooth, effortless motion, Kurt pulled me backward. My spine pressed directly against the wall of his bare chest. His skin was burning hot, radiating the sheer physical power of an elite athlete, and the scent of cold cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around me. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of his handsome, sleeping profile. His breathing was even. It was just a subconscious reflex. I let out a quiet sigh of relief and tried to wiggle away again. But this time, a much stronger, deliberate pull yanked me entirely into his embrace. We were pressed so tightly together I could feel the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against my back. Refusing to give up, I carefully reached down, trying to pry his thick fingers open. Just as I managed to peel his thumb away, his hand flipped over, his long fingers effortlessly capturing mine. He laced our hands together in an unbreakable, intimate grip, his thumb resting gently against my racing pulse. A deep, raspy vibration rumbled straight against my back. "Awake already?" The sound paralyzed me. His voice was thick with sleep, dragging low and smoky, carrying a hint of dark, wicked amusement. "Captain..." My voice cracked, shaking so violently I barely recognized it. "I... I don't know why I'm here. I drank way too much last night." The bed shifted behind me. Fabric rustled as he propped himself up on an elbow. His warm breath grazed the sensitive hollow behind my ear, sending an involuntary shiver straight down my spine. "Don't know?" Kurt's tone held a slow, wicked edge that made my blood run cold. "Last night, you were the one clinging to my neck, Pittman. Refusing to let go, begging me to stay with you." The heat hit my cheeks with the force of an open furnace. Humiliation stripped away my paralysis. I ripped the duvet off my body, tumbled off the high mattress, and hit the floor running. My legs felt weak, my gait awkward and unsteady from the sheer intensity of the night before, but I scrambled up, scanning the luxurious penthouse floor for anything to cover myself. I grabbed a heavy, oversized black hoodie lying by the dresser and yanked it over my head. "Mr. Duran, last night was a complete mistake," I said, staring at the brass door handle across the room, my voice trembling. "Please treat it as an accident. I swear on my life, no one will ever hear a word about this." I didn't wait for his reply. I scooped my broken-heeled pumps and my purse off the rug and bolted out the heavy double doors, lunging into the elevator. Only when the car began its silent descent did I let myself breathe. I raised my head toward the mirrored walls of the elevator cab. Right beneath the collar of his enormous hoodie, stark against my pale collarbone, were two faint, dusky marks. Step one: find a drugstore and buy emergency contraception. Step two: get to the arena's design department and pretend I was nothing more than an invisible girl. Kurt POV: I leaned back against the headboard, listening to the heavy slam of the suite door echo through the empty room. A low, satisfied smirk curved my lips as the lingering scent of her sweet vanilla shampoo mixed with my cedarwood sheets. I lifted my right hand, brushing my thumb over the faint, stinging mark just above my collarbone where she had bitten me in the hazy heat of the night. Three years. Ever since I shattered my tibia on the ice, staring into the dark abyss of a career-ending surgery, she had been the only one who didn't look at me like an investment on the verge of bankruptcy. She had just handed me a warm cup of coffee in that sterile clinic hallway, completely unaware of who I was, her eyes full of genuine, quiet kindness. I had played the long game. I had bought the building, funded the design firm, and watched her endure every piece of garbage that AHL nobody threw at her, admiring her fierce, quiet resilience. Now, she was finally inside my walls. The way she had trembled in my arms, the fierce, breathless tension of her trying to escape my grip this morning... it only made my blood run hotter. Run all you want, Cori. You aren't getting away.

Cori POV: I barely made it twenty paces past the hotel's revolving glass doors when a low, aggressive engine hummed to my left. A sleek black Land Rover Defender rolled smoothly up to the curb, cutting off my path toward the subway entrance. The tinted passenger window slid down with a quiet hiss. Behind the steering wheel sat Duncan Ross. He wore a tailored jacket with no tie, looking every bit the relaxed executive assistant, though everyone in the front office knew he was Kurt's closest shadow. "Morning, Miss Pittman," Duncan said, resting his wrist on the wheel. His sharp hazel eyes swept over the massive black hoodie switching against my bare knees. "The boss gave strict orders to ensure you arrived safely." My entire body went rigid. I gripped the neckline of the sweatshirt, pulling it tight against my throat to hide the red marks on my collarbone. "Come on, Cori. Manhattan rush-hour subway in bare legs and a man's gym wear? You want TMZ getting their hands on that picture before lunch? Hop in." The mention of the press made the blood drain straight from my face. I swallowed my pride, walked around the open door, and climbed into the passenger seat. The door shut with a heavy, soundproof thud. The interior smelled of rich leather and fresh espresso. Without a word, Duncan picked up a paper cup from the center console and handed it to me. "Oat milk latte. No sugar." My fingers tightened around the warm cardboard. He knew my exact order. Duncan merged the Defender seamlessly into the crawling traffic of Seventh Avenue. He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, glancing sideways with an amused smirk. "Hell of a celebration last night," he noted smoothly. "Some people seemed pretty attached to the VIP section. Literally attached." I took a burning sip of the coffee. "I had too much to drink. Most of the night is a blank." "Sure it is," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching. As the car rounded the corner near Forty-Second Street, the bright red sign of a CVS Pharmacy caught my eye. "Mr. Ross, stop here, please." Duncan glanced at the sign, then back at me. "We're ten blocks from the arena." "I have a migraine," I lied, keeping my eyes fixed on the glass storefront. "I need some extra-strength Tylenol, or I won't survive Axel's morning meeting." Duncan studied my face for two excruciating seconds. He didn't challenge the excuse. He pulled the SUV to the curb and engaged the hazard lights. "No! The arena is an easy walk from here. Thanks for the ride." I opened the door and bolted out before he could say another word. I stood on the sidewalk and waited until the black Defender disappeared completely into the morning traffic, ensuring Duncan was out of sight. Then I turned and pushed through the pharmacy doors. I walked straight to the family planning aisle, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. There it was. A small, purple-and-white box of Plan B. I grabbed it, marched to the front register, and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. Ten seconds later, I was back on the windy sidewalk. My hands shook as I ripped the cardboard open and tore through the foil backing. I didn't have water. Without any water, I forced the bitter pill down my dry throat, swallowing it dry. It scraped roughly against my esophagus, bitter and chalky, but the sharp physical discomfort finally anchored my spiraling mind. I crumpled the empty box into a tight ball and hurled it straight into the nearest municipal trash can. That was it. The slate was wiped clean. Nothing happened, and nothing ever would. Ten minutes later, I walked through the service entrance of the team's arena. The smell of Zamboni exhaust, frozen ice, and rubber flooring hit me like a familiar wall. My thighs still ached with a dull throb from last night, making my stride slightly awkward, and every time I shifted my weight, unbidden flashes of Kurt's fierce, consuming heat made my knees go weak. I hurried up the service stairs to the third floor, where the Duran Sports equipment and uniform design department was housed. I pushed open the frosted glass door, hoping to slip into my cubicle unnoticed, but I slammed directly into Chloe. She was carrying a towering stack of synthetic jersey swatches, her blonde hair pinned in a sleek, competitive bun. She stopped dead in her tracks, her sharp green eyes raking over me from head to toe. "Holy shit, Cori," Chloe gasped, her voice loud enough to carry across the open-plan office. "Where did you wake up? That hoodie is clearly designer, and it's definitely not yours." My pulse spiked, but I kept my chin level. "My brother came into the city last night. I crashed on his couch in Queens and didn't have time to stop home." Chloe's eyes narrowed. She clearly didn't buy the lie, but she had bigger fish to fry. "Well, you better get your act together and hit the restroom. Axel is on a rampage. He's picking the final candidate for the Milan Design Summit this morning." The Milan Summit. My breath caught. It was the most prestigious technical sportswear showcase in Europe. For an underpaid, nameless designer like me, it was the only ladder out of the shadows. "Thanks for the heads-up," I said, sidestepping her neatly. I ducked into the staff restroom, locked the stall, and leaned against the door. I pulled my makeup bag from my purse, grabbed my heavy-coverage concealer, and began dabbing the cream over the dark marks on my neck until the skin looked completely smooth. I walked back out to my desk, opening my laptop to pull up the 3D render files for the alternate jersey collection. Before the progress bar could hit one hundred percent, my desk phone let out a sharp, piercing ring. "Cori, grab your portfolio binders and get to the main boardroom right now," our design director, Axel, barked into the receiver. "The executive suite wants to review the concepts in person." As I hung up the phone, it vibrated violently against the desk. I glanced down at the glowing screen. A text banner from Brandyn dropped from the top: "Babe, where are you? Dallas said you left the lounge early. I'm worried sick. Let me take you to dinner tonight, please." A cold, mocking smirk touched my lips.

Cori POV: The hard leather portfolio felt like an anvil in my arms as I marched down the rubber-matted hallway toward the executive elevator bank. I reached the stainless-steel elevator doors and tapped the call button. Footsteps approached from behind—measured, heavy, carrying that unmistakable, steady rhythm that set my nerves on fire. The scent of winter pine and tobacco hit me a second before his shadow fell over the wall. I turned my head. Kurt was standing less than two feet away. He had shed his casual clothes, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit cut so sharply it accentuated every inch of his broad, athletic frame. His dark hair was styled back, and his hands were resting easily inside his trouser pockets. Before either of us could speak, the elevator arrived with a soft chime. The brushed-chrome doors slid open, revealing five people already packed inside. Two junior marketing coordinators, a corporate accountant, and standing right in the center with a fresh iced matcha was Chloe. I hesitated, planning to wait for the next car, but a group of interns rushed up behind us, pushing forward. I was shoved straight into the crowded elevator cab, losing my balance. My portfolio slipped, and I stumbled backward, landing directly against a solid, unyielding chest. Strong, familiar hands instinctively caught my waist, steadying me in the cramped corner. I looked up, my face burning, only to meet Kurt's icy blue eyes. A faint, teasing smile played on his lips as he looked down at me trapped against him. The elevator was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Everyone was facing the doors, completely oblivious to the fact that the billionaire owner of the franchise had just been shoved into the back corner with a junior designer. Kurt simply shifted his stance, using his broad frame to shield me from the crush of bodies, maintaining a subtle, highly inappropriate proximity to my back that set my nerves on fire. The doors slid shut. The elevator began its climb toward the executive suites. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the hum of the motor. Chloe nudged the marketing girl next to her, whispering in a tone that was supposed to be quiet but bounced off the metal walls with agonizing clarity. "Did you hear about the captain?" Chloe murmured behind her hand. "You know how he never lets a woman within ten feet of him? Half the front office was convinced he was secretly into guys." The marketing girl giggled. "Yeah, he's like a monk. Why?" "Well, not anymore," Chloe sneered. "Someone saw his Escalade parked outside the Duran Hotel at dawn. The ice machine actually brought a girl back." I gripped the leather edges of my portfolio until my knuckles turned white. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs I was terrified Kurt would hear it. "Yeah, apparently some aggressive Puck Bunny managed to sink her claws in," Chloe continued, her voice dripping with venom. "I heard from security that she practically rode him in the back of the car, kissing and biting him like a wild animal. And the boss didn't even push her away!" A wave of cold dread washed over me. I wanted to sink through the floorboards. I shot a panicked, flustered glare over my shoulder at Kurt, silently begging him not to react. Kurt's eyes glinted with deep, magnetic amusement at my flushed, flustered expression. He was clearly enjoying this. With agonizing slowness, he raised his left hand to his throat. His long, scarred fingers caught the silk knot of his tie, deliberately loosening it by half an inch. The stiff collar parted. The bandage was now completely exposed. If anyone in front of us simply turned their head, they would immediately see the undeniable proof of my handiwork from last night. My eyes widened in sheer panic. I shook my head frantically, my pleading gaze screaming at him to stop. Kurt's lips simply curved into a faint smile, thoroughly entertained by my panic, the thrill of our secret driving his adrenaline. "Whoever she is, she's just another desperate gold-digger," Chloe muttered, adjusting her matcha cup with a sniff, emboldened by the gossip. "Probably some cheap slut from the lower levels trying to sleep her way to the top." I stared down at the black rubber floor. The urge to shove my portfolio into her face was almost overwhelming. Suddenly, Kurt spoke. His voice was dead calm, dropping the temperature in the car below freezing. The gossiping girls jumped out of their skin, whipping their heads around to find the apex predator standing right behind them in the shadows. "Is the equipment department this underworked?" He didn't raise his voice. He just stared at the digital floor indicator above the door. "Because if design staff have enough free time to spew vile, baseless gossip in my elevator, we can easily downsize the payroll by noon." Chloe's face went from smug triumph to the color of wet chalk in half a second. She choked on her breath, clutching her cup so hard the plastic lid popped off, splashing green liquid onto her patent-leather shoes. The marketing girls stared at the floor as if their lives depended on it. A sudden, unexpected wave of gratitude swelled in my chest. To them, he was just a ruthless boss defending his own privacy, but I knew the truth—he had stepped up to shield me from their malicious insults. Nobody dared to breathe. The elevator chimed loudly. Floor 12. The boardroom level. The doors parted, but the suffocating, terrified silence inside the cab lingered, leaving the gossips frozen in place.