You Gave Her Our Suite, Now Call Me Your Boss

ELENA'S POV

I ended the call and stepped off the elevator landing into the private garage.

A convoy of four midnight-black Maybachs sat idling in a neat row, their tinted windows gleaming under the recessed lighting. Standing beside the second car was Arthur, our family's chief steward for over two decades. He wore an immaculate charcoal three-piece suit, his posture straight and deferential.

As I walked toward him, two drivers in white gloves stepped forward, opening the rear door and taking my battered suitcase without a word.

"Welcome back, Miss Sterling," Arthur said, bowing his head with quiet reverence.

Arthur took my trench coat and helped me into an ivory cashmere coat. From a slim case he offered my Sterling black card and the security token for the family investment portal.

I put the card and token in my purse. The engraved family crest felt strange beneath my thumb after so long away.

Glancing down at my left hand, I looked at the thin, silver-plated wedding band Marcus had bought off a clearance rack before our courthouse wedding. With a single fluid twist of my fingers, I pulled the ring from my knuckle and dropped it into a stainless steel trash bin by the elevator doors.

It hit the metal bottom with a faint clink.

"Your voting proxy has been restored," Arthur said. "The board will consider your appointment at nine. Your father also sent the Storm file. He has been negotiating with their owners for months."

"Take me to their training facility," I said. "Ask the general manager whether we can meet there. Tonight."

By two in the morning, I was outside a private arena on the north side of Boston. Arthur had called ahead; the general manager was waiting in his office. He had left the rink lights on for his captain.

The Storm were the Blades' fiercest rivals. Their playoff run had ended weeks ago. According to the file I had read in the car, their owner's investment group had withdrawn a promised cash injection, leaving forty million dollars in overdue obligations. The roster was within the salary cap. The owner simply couldn't pay the bills.

The manager's assistant admitted us. Arthur went upstairs with the financing papers while I followed the sound of a stick striking ice.

The biting chill of the ice rink greeted me, carrying the sharp scents of ozone and shaved ice. The massive arena stood dark, save for the overhead floodlights illuminating the center rink.

A lone figure moved across the white sheet with terrifying speed.

Jaxson Vance, the Storm's captain, drove a puck into the net. He shared Marcus's surname, not his family; their lack of any relationship was a running joke among Boston commentators.

His sleeveless compression shirt clung to his shoulders, and sweat darkened the collar above his padded hockey pants. He turned hard at the boards, spraying shaved ice against the glass.

Hearing the gate latch click, Jaxson turned. His dark eyes locked onto me through the glass.

He didn't flinch. He glided smoothly toward the bench, unclipped his helmet, and tossed it onto the rubber mat. Shaking his damp hair out of his eyes, he rested his forearms on the dasher board, studying me from head to toe.

"The public entrance closed hours ago," he said, breathing hard. "Please tell me you're not here for an autograph."

"No autographs, Captain Vance," I replied, stepping onto the rubber runners beside the bench.

His gaze paused on my face. He straightened and looked again.

"Toronto," he said. "Six years ago. The junior hockey scholarship dinner."

I met his gaze steadily. "You have a sharp memory."

"You introduced me to your father," Jaxson said. "Then told a sponsor to stop discussing my knee as though I wasn't sitting there. Elena Sterling. I remembered."

"I took a detour," I said smoothly. "Now I'm back."

He rested his stick against the boards. "So what brings Sterling's daughter here at two in the morning?"

"I'm here to offer you a lifeline," I said.

I set the copy Arthur had given me on the boards between us. The sellers' draft agreement was flagged with tabs; the financing schedule sat on top.

"Your owners have six days to meet their next payroll and satisfy a lender," I said. "They have already accepted our price in principle. We can fund the bridge loan while the sale goes through review."

Jaxson's jaw tightened, the casual amusement fading from his features. "We'll find local sponsors."

"Sponsors won't cover that shortfall in six days," I said. "This is committed capital. Read the operating plan."

He hesitated for a second, then flipped open the cover.

His eyes scanned the first page, widening slightly as he read the numbers.

"A billion-dollar purchase, including the debt," he read. "Medical facilities. A funded ten-year development plan." He looked up. "The cap still applies."

"Every season. I'm buying stability, not permission to ignore the rules."

"Nobody puts up a billion dollars without a reason," he said. "What do you want?"

"I want the Storm to win," I said. "And the next time you meet Marcus Vance, I want him to discover exactly how small his world has become."

Jaxson stared at me in silence for several seconds. Then, a low, dangerous laugh rumbled in his chest.

He came through the bench gate and stopped on the rubber mat. Up close, he was taller than I remembered. I could still step back. I found I didn't want to.

He reached out, his gloved fingers lightly tapping the edge of the leather folder.

"I've spent four years trying to knock him off his pedestal," Jaxson said. "Give this team a future, and I'll make him watch us take his."

I opened the last tab and set a pen beside it. "This page acknowledges the player-support plan. The owners sign the sale agreement, not you. Your contract stays with the general manager."

Jaxson read the page before signing. "Clear enough. When do we start, Boss?"

"The board and the league still have work to do. Your part starts now."

"Good." He handed back my pen. "And the money buys the team's work, Elena. You don't have to buy my company."

My phone chimed in my coat pocket with an encrypted high-priority notification. I pulled it out and unlocked the screen.

Arthur had sent a link to a reporter's public livestream from the Blades' club reception. The caption was already spreading: VANCE ADMITS SECRET MARRIAGE AFTER CALLING HIMSELF SINGLE.

Onscreen, Marcus stood among team executives with a champagne bottle. Chloe was beside him, still wearing the diamond choker. He laughed when a reporter called out a question about the woman who had left his apartment.

On the screen, Cynthia was raising a glass to a room full of reporters.

"A toast to my son!" Cynthia declared. "And to our eighty-million-dollar Sterling Capital proposal! We expect the final decision tomorrow!"

Marcus took a swig of champagne, leaning down toward a journalist with an arrogant smirk.

"My wife walked out tonight," Marcus said into the reporter's microphone. "My private life isn't the story. She'll calm down and come home. Without me, where else would she go?"

I watched him raise his glass. So much for keeping the marriage secret. He had found a use for it the moment he could make me the joke.

I closed the feed. Beside me, Jaxson had stopped smiling. "Your husband?"

"For as long as the paperwork takes."

"Then he doesn't get to decide where you go tonight."

I slipped the phone into my pocket and looked out over the frozen arena. "He thinks he's celebrating his future," I said. "Tomorrow, he finds out whose money he was counting on."