His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 206: Olive's Pov

I stared at the scene before me through the tinted windows of my car, watching people dressed in black gathering around the graveyard.

And right at the corner, standing apart from the rest with her shoulders squared despite the tears streaming down her face, I could see her—Michelle Byron, the woman whose son I had last seen alive just before he was found murdered, the woman whose son was being buried today while questions about his death remained unanswered.

It was a painful sight, made worse by the guilt gnawing at my insides, the voice in my head whispering that somehow this was my fault, that if I hadn't agreed to that dinner, if I hadn't been the last person to see Judy alive, maybe he'd still be breathing instead of lying in that casket waiting to be lowered into the ground.

My phone vibrated in my lap and when I looked down at the screen, Zane's name flashed there like an accusation, a reminder of all the secrets and lies and complications that seemed to follow me everywhere I went.

My heart beat faster than it should have, my fingers shaking slightly as I swiped to answer, and for a long moment after I pressed the phone to my ear there was only silence broken by the sound of both of us breathing.

"Hello, Muffin," Zane's voice finally broke through the quiet, rough and concerned in a way that made my chest ache. "Are you sure you don't want me there with you? I can be there in fifteen minutes. Less if I speed."

I closed my eyes for a second, trying to steady myself, and when I opened them again they landed immediately on my mother standing near the funeral gathering, her head turning toward my car like she could sense me watching even through the tinted glass she couldn't possibly see through.

Her hand rested on her slightly rounded stomach, more than a month pregnant and it was just barely starting to show, just enough that you could tell if you knew what to look for—and even from this distance I could see the disapproval written all over her face.

"No, Zane," I managed to say, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. "I can handle it. I need to do this alone."

"Are you sure about this, Muffin?" Zane pressed, and I could hear something in his voice that sounded almost like fear. "I really don't care what anyone says about my presence. I just want you to be safe. Want to make sure you're okay."

I almost chuckled at that, the sound catching in my throat because safety felt like a foreign concept lately.

I was anything but safe, my life was fucked up in ways I was only beginning to understand, complicated by secrets and threats and a dead brother whose murder thirteen years ago seemed to be connected to everything falling apart around me now.

"No," I said firmly. "Trust me. It's best you aren't here. This is already going to be hard enough without adding fuel to whatever fire people want to start."

I ended the call before he could argue further, not caring if he was going to call back a hundred times or maybe do something dangerously Zane-like and show up anyway despite my explicit request that he stay away.

The second I set my phone down, a sharp knock sounded against my car window, making me jump slightly even though I'd known it was coming, had seen my mother heading in this direction with that particular expression on her face that meant she was about to tell me exactly what I was doing wrong.

My phone rang again immediately—my mother's name flashing on the screen this time, obviously deciding that knocking wasn't enough to get my attention.

I ignored the call and instead rolled down my window slowly, watching as her face came into view, disappointment etched into every line and wrinkle, her hand still resting protectively on her growing belly like even the baby could sense her disapproval of me.

"Olive Monroe," she said sharply, her voice carrying that particular tone she used when she was trying very hard not to cause a scene but wanted to make absolutely sure I understood how thoroughly I was disappointing her. "What are you doing sitting in this car? You're meant to be out there with Michelle, consoling her. She personally invited you to this funeral. The least you could do is show some respect."

"And I'm here, Mother," I shot back, my voice coming out sharper than I'd intended, cutting through her words like a knife. "I'm fucking here, aren't I? I showed up. That should count for something."

Her eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching in that way that meant she was biting back whatever truly harsh thing she wanted to say.

"Come down from that comfortable zone right now and go speak with Michelle properly," she demanded, her voice dropping lower but somehow becoming more intense. "She's looking over here. We're causing a scene. How do you think she feels about your selfishness? About you hiding in your car like a coward while she buries her son?"

I almost huffed at her words, almost let the anger building in my chest explode outward, but then I made the mistake of looking past her toward where Michelle was standing.

And our eyes met across the distance.

Michelle's face was streaked with tears, black mascara running down her cheeks in devastating ways that destroyed her normally elegant appearance, and something about seeing her like that—so broken, so raw—made guilt slam into me harder than any of my mother's accusations could.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath, taking a deep breath and forcing myself to smile at my mother even though it felt like my face might crack from the effort.

"Great," I said, opening my car door with perhaps more force than necessary. "Let's go console Michelle. But if anyone out there dares to speak some insane accusation about me—if anyone suggests I had anything to do with Judy's death—trust me, Mother, I will not take it lightly. I will not stay quiet. I will make a scene that will make whatever you're worried about right now look like nothing."

My mother's lips pressed into a thin line but she didn't argue, just turned and started walking back toward the gathering with her shoulders stiff and her hand still protectively cradling her stomach.

I followed behind her, each step feeling heavier than the last, and the second I reached the perimeter of the funeral gathering where more people were clustered in small groups, every single pair of eyes seemed to turn and lock onto me.

I tried so hard—so fucking hard—to ignore their stares, to hold my head high and act like I belonged here, like I had every right to mourn Judy despite the circumstances of his death.