His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 189: Olive's POV

I stumbled through Judy's suite and out into the hallway, my vision blurring at the edges as I tried to navigate through a house I didn't know while my entire understanding of my childhood was crumbling around me.

Klaus was gay.

Klaus had been in love with Judy Byron.

Klaus had kept this enormous secret from me, his little sister who'd thought she knew him better than anyone.

My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone, and somewhere behind me I could hear Michelle calling my name, her voice getting more distant as I moved further away, as I desperately searched for somewhere I could be alone.

I found a door that led outside and pushed through it without thinking, stumbling out into what appeared to be some kind of garden area—perfectly manicured lawns, flowering bushes arranged in artistic clusters, stone pathways winding through the greenery.

It was quiet out here, blessedly empty, just the sound of birds and the distant hum of voices from the reception still happening somewhere on the other side of the house.

I walked further into the garden until I found a bench partially hidden by a large flowering bush, and I collapsed onto it, my legs finally giving out completely.

The album images were burned into my brain—Klaus's smile as he looked at Judy, the tenderness in the way he touched him, that kiss that proved beyond any doubt what they'd meant to each other.

And I'd had no idea.

Not even the slightest clue.

I'd been a kid, sure, only perhaps thirteen years old when Klaus died, but I'd known what being gay meant even at that age. I'd seen it on TV, heard adults talking about it, understood on some basic level that sometimes boys loved boys and girls loved girls.

If Klaus had been gay, wouldn't I have noticed something?

Wouldn't there have been signs?

But then I remembered the girlfriends Klaus had paraded through our house, the way he'd talked about girls constantly around our parents, the carefully constructed performance of heterosexuality he'd maintained so thoroughly that even his own sister had believed it.

He'd been hiding.

Terrified enough to create an entire false identity rather than risk telling the truth.

And I'd been too young, too naive, too trusting to see through it.

My breathing was getting faster now, shorter, each inhale feeling like it wasn't bringing in enough oxygen, and I recognized the warning signs even as I tried to fight against them.

Panic attack.

I hadn't had one in years—not since I was a teen dealing with the trauma of Klaus's death and the aftermath of watching my family fall apart—but I'd never forgotten what they felt like.

The tightening in my chest, the way the world seemed to narrow down to a pinpoint, the sensation of drowning on dry land.

"Take a deep breath, Olive," I whispered to myself, my voice shaking. "Come on. You know how to do this. Just breathe."

But my body wasn't cooperating, my lungs refusing to expand properly, my heart hammering so hard against my ribs I thought it might actually break through.

My hands were still shaking, trembling so violently that when I tried to grip the edge of the bench to steady myself my fingers kept slipping.

"Take a deep breath," I repeated, trying to focus on the words, on the technique my childhood therapist had taught me. "You're a good girl. You're doing great. Just focus on breathing."

In through the nose, count to four.

Hold, count to four.

Out through the mouth, count to four.

Repeat.

I forced myself through the breathing exercise, counting in my head, and slowly—painfully slowly, I felt my heart rate start to decrease, felt the crushing weight on my chest begin to ease.

The panic was still there, lurking just beneath the surface, but I'd regained enough control to think, to process, to feel something other than pure terror.

And what I felt was rage.

Burning, consuming rage at everyone who'd kept this secret.

At Michelle for using me as a tool to fix her son's grief.

At Judy for never telling me the truth, for letting me develop feelings for him when he knew he could never return them.

At Klaus for dying before I was old enough to understand, for keeping this huge part of himself hidden even from the little sister who'd worshipped him.

But most of all, I felt rage at my parents.

Because if Klaus had been so terrified of coming out, so scared of being honest about who he loved, there had to be a reason for that fear.

And I had a sinking suspicion I knew exactly what that reason was.

My phone was still clutched in my hand, and I looked down at it, pulled up my contacts with fingers that were finally steady enough to function.

I found my father's number—Walter Monroe, the man who'd spent thirteen years carefully avoiding any real conversation about Klaus's death, who'd shut down every attempt I'd made to ask questions about what had really happened.

The man who might have known his son was gay and chosen to keep it secret rather than let me know the truth about my own brother.

I hit the call button before I could second-guess myself, before I could talk myself out of this confrontation.

It rang once.

Twice.

On the third ring, he picked up.

"Olive?" Walter's voice came through the speaker, surprised and cautious. "Is everything okay? Your mother said you went back to the Byron house after the funeral—"

"Was Klaus gay?" I interrupted, my voice coming out flat and cold.

The line went completely silent.

So silent I could hear my father's breathing change, could hear the exact moment he realized what I was asking and what it meant.