Page 80 of The Sweetest Revenge

Sterling's gaze lifted over my shoulder. "Oh, yeah," he raised his brows. "I think you're wrong." He nodded behind me, and I spun.

My smile faded as my eyes narrowed on Ariella, storming towards me on the ice without skates. "He?—"

Her fist connected with my jaw, cutting off my words. "Fuck you, Zaiden." Her voice shook with fury.

"Yeah," Sterling said. "I'm gonna head out." I didn't bother turning to tell him goodbye. I had bigger problems.

Ariella spun around like she was going to hit me and leave.

"What the fuck?" I growled, throwing my hockey stick to the ground as I pushed off the ice, sliding up to Ariella. My arm looped around her waist, and I lifted her off her feet, holding her against me as I slid to a stop.

"Let me go, or we'll both hit the ice."

I stopped at the edge of the rink, dropping her to her feet. "What is your fucking problem?"

She spun, pressing her finger into my chest. "You." Her lip curled into a snarl. "You are my fucking problem."

I backed her into the glass, close enough to feel the heat radiating between us despite the chill of the rink. Her breath hitched—barely perceptible, but I caught it.

"That's not what you were screaming last night." My voice dropped lower, watching the flush creep up her neck.

"Get out of my way." But her pupils dilated, betraying the fury in her voice.

My palms pressed flat against the glass on either side of her. She tilted her chin up in defiance, but I noticed how her eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

"No." The word came out rough. "Tell me what your problem is." The space between us crackled with something darker than anger.

Her jaw flexed as her gaze challenged mine. "You got what you wanted."

"I usually do."

She dipped under my arm, and I let her go. "I hope you're fucking happy."

"You're going to have to be a little more specific, Ariella." I followed her, gliding on the ice as she slipped and slid towards the exit. "Because I usually am happy to get my way."

She slipped, tumbling backward and hitting her butt. "Ahhhh," she screamed out as she worked to correct herself. She rolled to her knees, and I skidded to a stop in front of her. Her gaze lifted, meeting mine, and I could see the hatred flicker in her eyes. "Fuck you." She shoved her hands against my thighs, pushing me back. "I got kicked off the team today because of you."

My head recoiled in confusion. "Because of me?"

Her angry facade cracked, and her voice trembled. "Not only did I lose my entire team, but I also lost my spot on the dance team. The only thing I ever wanted is gone because of you." Tears filled her eyes, and my chest tightened. "Now, I've lost my scholarship, so it doesn't even matter that I'm being investigated for possible expulsion because I can't afford to go to school without a scholarship."

I slid forward, hooking my arms under hers, and pulled her to her feet.

"Ariella, what are you talking about?" My words came out soft. The familiar surge of satisfaction at seeing her hurt had vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar ache in my chest. This wasn't what I'd wanted—not anymore.

She cleared her throat. Her spine stiffened as she lifted her chin, that same stubborn pride I both hated and admired. "Dean Sweeney and Coach Hillard told me my behavior was unacceptable." Her voice cracked on the last word. "I'm off the team."

"What behavior?"

"Because someone sent them the video." Her tone dropped to a whisper, shoulders curling inward. "Of me—and you. At the football party." Each word seemed to cost her something. When she looked up, a single tear carved down her cheek. "The perfect revenge for killing your sister, right?"

The rink fell silent.

Her next words hit like a blade between my ribs: "Except I didn't kill her."

Those five words echoed in my head, a truth I'd only recently accepted after months of burning hatred. Each time she'd tried to tell me, I'd refused to listen. Now, seeing her destroyed by my revenge, the guilt was suffocating.

Each tear tracking down Ariella's face carved away at the certainty I'd carried for months. I'd orchestrated her isolation, convinced she deserved to lose everything for what happened to my sister. I'd been wrong. It wasn't her fault. It was mine. The only problem was that what happened that night, at the party, had to happen.

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