Page 10 of Face Off
And the fallout, Sophie cutting off Murphy, Murphy white-hot with anger, my father’s voice cutting through the phone.Control the story or you’ll lose everything.
I still smell the roses from the centrepieces, sickly sweet. Still hear the click of cameras like gunfire.
That night is the reason Murphy hates me. The reason Sophie will never trust me. The reason Ollie glares like he can’t decide whether to joke or shield his friend from me.
And the reason my father decided I needed discipline.
The truth is, I was reckless. Ashamed, even now, of how far I went. I’d told myself it was journalism, told myself I was only chasing a story. But really, I was desperate. Desperate to prove I deserved the chance, desperate to be more than “Miller’s daughter” playing at a career I hadn’t earned. I thought if I landed the headline, the kind of splashy, scandalous piece that couldn’t be ignored, then maybe people would stop seeing me as a name on someone’s payroll and start seeing me as a reporter in my own right.
So, I cut corners. I pushed too hard. I crossed lines that can’t be uncrossed.
Looking back, it wasn’t bold or clever. It was immature. It was me clutching at straws, thinking that blowing up someone else’s life was the only way to prove I had one of my own.
And that’s why the shame clings so tightly, thicker than the perfume, heavier than the roses. Because I can’t pretend I didn’t know better. I just convinced myself there was no other option.
I slam the laptop shut, pulse racing. Enough.
The clock on the wall says just past nine. Too early for bed, too late to pretend I’ll get any real work done. I pour a glass of water and carry it to the window, pulling the curtain back just a fraction. The city sprawls outside, lights, movement, possibility. Somewhere out there, normal people live their lives without the weight of family expectations pressing into every decision.Somewhere out there, someone like Ollie laughs with teammates and doesn’t think about how fragile it all is.
I wonder what it would be like. The thought is dangerous, so I bury it. I let the curtain fall shut. I finish the water and set the glass down with deliberate care, lining it perfectly on the counter. Control. Order. That’s how I survive.
Because if anyone finds out the truth, that I’m not just some freelance journalist clawing my way up, that I’m my father’s plant, that The Raptors’ season is tied to his money, I won’t survive at all.
Not with Murphy waiting for me to slip. Not with Ollie torn between protecting me and protecting the team.
Not with my father watching from above, measuring, always measuring.
I close my eyes and breathe. Tomorrow, I’ll be sharper. Tomorrow, I’ll be stronger. Tomorrow, I’ll be the version of Chloe my father believes he bought.
Tonight, though, it’s just me. Alone, in the silence I asked for.
And I can’t tell if it feels like freedom or a cage.
CHAPTER FIVE
OLLIE
The early-morning light hits the Raptors’ stadium with that sharp, clinical brightness that makes every surface gleam, even the scuffed rubber of the locker-room floor. I step in, coffee in hand, the warmth seeping into my fingers, and immediately catch the hum of activity, the familiar clatter of sticks, the squeak of skates against the polished ice, Murphy’s voice cutting through like a whip. It’s Monday, and the team’s energy is already bordering on aggressive.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting it hit the back of my throat before I push the door open to the rink. Jacko is already in his usual spot near the boards, stretching with a precision that borders on surgical. Dylan is leaning against the bench, scowling at his phone. And Murphy, well, Murphy is Murphy; coiled, ready to snap at any movement that even smells like a mistake.
And then I spot her.
Chloe is standing near the edge of the rink, notebook clutched in one hand, pen poised in the other, eyes darting between Murphy barking instructions and Jacko coaching some drills. The way she’s balanced on the tips of her shoes, the faint crease of concentration between her brows, I swear I’ve seenthat crease before on my own face when I’m trying not to laugh at some disaster on the ice.
“Morning,” I say, careful not to let the weariness of my voice show.
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face before she smooths it into polite neutrality. “Morning, Ollie.” Her voice is measured, professional, but there’s a tension underneath it I recognise. The way she holds herself, a little too perfect, as if she’s trying to convince the world she belongs here, even though every muscle in her body is screaming that she doesn’t.
I grin, letting it linger a second too long. “First Monday back, and you look like you’re auditioning for some high-stakes espionage film. You sure you’re ready for this?”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but she shakes her head. “I’ve survived worse. Trust me, I know how to blend in.”
“You don’t look like a blend-in type.” I can’t help the teasing note in my voice, even as I step closer. “More like someone who makes everyone else blend around her.”
She freezes, pen hovering over her notebook. Then she laughs, it’s soft, sharp, and entirely unexpected. My chest tightens a little.
“Careful,” she says, eyes flicking back to Murphy, who is now shouting at Dylan to move faster. “If you keep talking like that, I might write it down.”
