His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 212: Olive's Pov

"What?" he finally said, but his voice was wrong, too careful, too controlled.

"Was Klaus gay?" I repeated, louder this time, enunciating each word. "Was my brother gay? Did you know?"

"Olive, I don't know where this is coming from, but—"

"Answer the fucking question!" I screamed, all my carefully controlled composure shattering. "Was my brother gay? Yes or no?"

Another long silence, and in that silence I heard my answer.

"How did you find out?" Walter asked quietly, and my entire world tilted again because those words were as good as a confession.

He'd known.

My father had known Klaus was gay, had kept that secret for over a decade, had let me grow up thinking I knew my brother when I'd actually known nothing at all.

"You knew," I breathed, tears streaming down my face now. "You fucking knew. How long? How long did you know?"

"Olive, this isn't—this has nothing to do with you. What Klaus was or wasn't, that's not something you need to concern yourself with—"

"BULLSHIT!" I screamed. "He was my brother! I had a right to know! I had a right to understand who he really was instead of spending thirteen years mourning some sanitized version you and Mom decided I should remember!"

"We were protecting you," Walter said, his voice getting defensive now. "You were just a child. You didn't need to know about Klaus's... complications. We thought it was better to let you remember him simply, without all the complicated details—"

"Complications?" I repeated, my voice dropping dangerously low. "You're calling your son being gay a complication? Like it was some problem that needed to be managed rather than just who he was?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"When did you find out?" I demanded. "When did you know Klaus was gay?"

Walter was quiet for a long moment.

"We suspected for a while," he finally admitted. "The way he acted, certain things he said. But we didn't know for certain until... until we found some things after he died. Letters. Photographs. Evidence that he'd been in a relationship with someone."

"With Judy Byron," I said.

"Yes," Walter confirmed. "With Judy Byron. And we made a decision—your mother and I—that you didn't need to know. That it was better to let Klaus's memory remain uncomplicated in your mind."

"You had no right," I said, my voice breaking. "You had no right to make that decision for me. No right to keep lying to me for thirteen years."

"Where are you?" Walter asked suddenly, his tone shifting to something that sounded almost like concern. "Olive, where are you right now? Are you safe?"

"I'm at the Byron estate," I said bitterly. "Michelle showed me the photo album. The one with all the pictures of Klaus and Judy together. The one that proves everything you and Mom tried so hard to hide from me."

"You need to leave there," Walter said urgently. "Right now. Get in your car and—"

I ended the call before he could finish, my hand shaking again as I lowered the phone.

My father had known.

My mother had known.

They'd both known Klaus was gay, had found evidence after his death, and had made the conscious choice to erase that part of him from the family narrative.

To pretend it didn't exist.

To keep me in the dark about who my brother really was.

How many other truths had they hidden?

How many other secrets were there about Klaus that I didn't know?

I thought about the article Judy had mentioned, Klaus investigating racing corruption right before his death.

I thought about the threatening messages telling me to stop asking questions.

I thought about how Klaus had actually died, whether it had really been just an accident or something more sinister.

And I wondered how Klaus had been treated when people found out he was gay.

Had our parents said cruel things to him?

Had they made him feel ashamed?

Was that why he'd been so careful to hide it, so terrified of anyone knowing the truth?

And now Judy was dead too, murdered just hours after trying to tell me something about Klaus.

I'd never wished for someone to be brought back to life so badly, never wanted so desperately to be able to ask someone questions and get honest answers instead of more secrets and lies.

I needed to leave this place.

Needed to get away from Michelle and this house and all these revelations that were tearing apart everything I thought I knew.

I stood up from the bench, my legs still shaky but functional, and turned to head back toward the house so I could find my way to my car.

And walked directly into someone.

It felt like hitting a wall, solid and unmovable, and a scent hit me immediately, heavy, intoxicating, somehow both familiar and completely foreign.

I looked up and found myself staring into a pair of silver eyes that made my breath leave my body completely.

The scar I'd noticed briefly at the funeral was even more evident now, even clearer with him standing this close—a thin line that ran from his left eyebrow down across his cheek, the kind of scar that spoke of violence and pain.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the man who'd been standing alone at Klaus's funeral, the man Michelle had called Simone, and something about being this close to him sent fear crawling down my spine in a way I couldn't fully explain.

There was something about him, something I couldn't fathom, something that made every instinct I had scream danger.

"I'm sorry," I managed to say, stepping back quickly, my heart hammering. "I didn't see you there. I wasn't watching where I was going."

I was too scared to even look at him properly now, too unnerved by whatever energy he was radiating.

I needed to leave.

Needed to get away from him as quickly as possible.

I moved to step around him, to get past him and back to the house, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist gently.

Not painfully, not threateningly, but firmly enough that I couldn't pull away without making it into a confrontation.

"Be careful," he said, his voice quiet but filled with so much weight, so much meaning that I didn't understand.

Then he released my wrist and walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and my mind spinning with questions.

Be careful of what?

Of whom?

And why was he warning me when I didn't even know who he was?

I watched him disappear back into the garden, and only then did I realize I was shaking again—not from the panic attack this time, but from something else entirely.

Something that felt disturbingly like premonition.