Page 18 of Love so Cold

"Olivia, honey," I call out, putting on my best "everything's-fine" smile as we close the distance. "Practice was great today!"

She beams at me, oblivious to the tension. Meanwhile, Victor stands there, that unfathomable look in his piercing blue eyes, silent for now. I brace myself. Whatever this is, whatever game he thinks he's playing—it ends here.

"Time to pack up, though," I call out, cutting through the clinking of skate blades and muffled conversations. "It's getting late."

"Okay, Mom!" Olivia's cheerful voice rings out as she nods and skates off toward the locker room, her ponytail swishing behind her.

The coach offers Victor a firm handshake before departing, leaving just the two of us in a bubble of awkward silence amidst the dispersing crowd. Samantha and Emily stand a little ways back, as if waiting to see what will happen.

"What are you filling my daughter's head with?" The question leaps from my lips before Victor can even blink.

He smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, and it grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "Olivia's a curious kid," he says coolly. "She comes to ask me questions."

"Save it." I cross my arms, feeling my heartbeat hammer against my ribcage. "I'm not buying your nice-guy routine, Stone. Your development plan won't bulldoze us withouta fight."

For a moment, he just stares at me, those icy blue eyes trying to drill past my defenses. But I stand my ground, every muscle tensed, ready for whatever comes next.

Without a word, he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me there with a mix of triumph and frustration swirling in my chest.

Chapter Ten

Victor

I pushopen the door to the coffee shop, a blast of warm, roasted air hitting me square in the face. It's part of the daily grind now, this ritual I can't say I love. Back in Boston, my penthouse kitchen houses a Nuovo Simonelli that spits out espresso like it's nectar from the gods. I asked for it to be shipped to the corporate apartment, but I was told that wouldn't be a good PR move.

Jenna insists it's all about mingling with the locals, making nice with the neighborhood. "Support local businesses, Victor," she chirped. And, oh, how she knows it grates on me.

I shuffle into the line, and that's when I see her.Chestnut. Those wild, tawny curls that tumble down her back are hard to miss and even harder to take my eyes off. My heart picks up its pace—thud, thud, thud—like it's trying to win some kind of race. Just looking at her stirs something in me I can't quite name.

I hate it.

Last week, when she cornered me at the rink with accusing eyes and spitfire remarks, I was lost for words. Clammed up and walked away. I hate that she thinks I'm here to play the villain, to tear down her world brick by brick. I've been on the receiving end of that narrative too many times. Foster care doesn't let you forget what it feels like to be disposable.

"Hey, watch it," someone mutters as I realize I've been standing still, lost in my thoughts. I shuffle forward, keeping an eye on Chestnut at the counter. She's got this vibe about her, like she can take on the world and win. It's addictive to be around, even if she's on the opposite side of where I want her to be.

I inch closer, pretending to check my phone as Chestnut orders. "Can I have a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese, toasted, and a medium caramel macchiato with almond milk, please?" she tells the barista. Her voice has this warm, no-nonsense edge to it. I store her order away in my head, like a secret code I might need someday.

I don't know why I would ever need to know herbreakfast order, but I try to convince myself that having information on one's enemies is never a bad thing. Something in the recesses of my brain asks whether that's really what she is, though. My enemy?

The idea feels off, sure, but then her opinion of me is pretty clear. Villain #1.

A few more people order before it's my turn to stand at the counter. "I'll take a double-shot, ristretto, oat milk latte with a dash of cinnamon," I say, trying not to sound as pretentious as the order itself. The barista nods without batting an eye. It's the same thing I always get, so they're used to it now.

I step over to the right to wait for my order, and there she is, Chestnut, fiddling with a cardboard sleeve as she waits for her coffee. She's dressed down today, jeans and a loose t-shirt, somehow making casual look stunning. Sunlight from the window catches in her curls, turning them to rich, burnished gold. My hands dive into my pockets, seeking refuge. This is not my stage.

I'm more Sebastian than Lawrence or Roman when it comes to social graces. Few words, less fuss. Chestnut though, she’s different. I sense she could spark up a chat with a brick wall and leave it feeling like they've been friends for years. And right now, I can't tell if I'm dreading or hoping she'll unleash that gift of gab on me.

"Fancy seeing you here," she says, her eyes skimming mine with a hint of challenge that has nothing to do withserendipity. I nod, tight-lipped, because what's there really to say? The coffee shop is small, this city even smaller.

"Think strutting around Main Street buys you goodwill?" Her voice is sharp as an autumn chill. "It's a poor act."

"It's not an act," I counter, feeling the need to defend my morning ritual. "I like coffee. Breakfast too."

A scoff tumbles from her lips, disbelief painted clearly across her face. "Lives are being turned upside down, and you're here playing resident."

That stings, more than I let on. I'm not blind to the upheaval, to the worry etched into the furrows of locals' brows. But before I can say anything, the barista holds up her order. "Here you go!"

She strides over to collect it—a steaming cup and a brown paper bag—and starts to make her way out of the store. I'm suddenly compelled, driven by an impulse I don't fully understand, to close this widening gap between us.

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