His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 40: Olive's Pov

"Here." He pulled out an envelope, then dropped it. Let it flutter to the floor between us like trash. "Your invitation."

Then he moved.

So fast I didn't have time to process it. His hand was around my throat—not tight enough to cut off air completely, but tight enough. Cole tight. The kind of grip that said I could squeeze harder if I wanted to.

"And don't you fucking dare," he hissed, face inches from mine, "try to play games with me. Don't bring Zane Mercer to my party on your arm like you've won something. I want you there dressed like the pathetic nobody you are. You understand me?"

My eyes started watering. Not from lack of air. From memory.

This wasn't new. Cole had always been like this—hands that gripped too hard, words that cut too deep, and a temper that flared when things didn't go his way. I'd told myself it was passion. That he cared too much. That I was overreacting. That this was what love looked like when it was real and intense and all-consuming.

I'd been so fucking stupid.

So weak.

Still that same weak Olive who took it all and smiled and asked what she'd done wrong.

The knife was in my hand before I realized I'd moved.

I pressed the blade against his cheek—not quite touching, but close enough that he'd feel the cold metal. Close enough to draw blood if I pushed just a little harder.

His hand dropped from my throat immediately.

I gasped, hand flying to my neck. It hurt. God, it hurt. I could already feel the bruises forming, the skin tender and swollen where his fingers had been.

"Don't." My voice shook but I kept the knife steady. "Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

Cole stared at me like he'd never seen me before. Like I was a stranger wearing Olive's face.

"You can't hurt me," he said slowly, but there was uncertainty creeping into his voice. "You don't have it in you."

He took a step forward, testing.

I took a step closer too, knife coming up between us.

"Try me." The words came out raw, vicious. "Take one more fucking step and I will stab you with this knife and scream so loud the entire building hears me. You want that? You want the cops showing up? Photos of you getting arrested all over the internet?"

He froze.

The shock on his face was almost worth it. Almost made up for the pain in my throat, the trembling in my hands, and the way my heart was trying to explode out of my chest.

He lifted his hands slowly, backing toward the door.

"Okay, Olive." His voice was different now. Careful. "Just know this isn't over. You're still nothing. Still that pathetic girl I wasted two years on."

He looked at me one more time, laughed—sharp and cruel—and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood there for a second, knife still in my hand, unable to move. Then my legs gave out.

I slid down against the door, hitting the floor hard. The knife clattered out of my grip, skittering across the tile. The engagement invitation sat a few feet away, white envelope stark against the dark floor.

And I broke.

The sob that tore out of me was ugly, thick, the kind that hurt coming up. I pressed my hands against my throat, feeling the tender spots where his fingers had been, and cried until I couldn't breathe.

Everything hurt.

My throat. My chest. My pride.

Maybe Cole was right. Maybe I was still that pathetic girl. The one who spent years begging her father to love her, to see her, to choose her over his new perfect family. The one who'd taken Cole's abuse and called it passion. The one who'd looked at Zane Mercer and thought maybe, maybe this time would be different.

But it wouldn't be different.

Because I was still me. Still the girl who wasn't enough. Who'd never been enough.

I pulled my knees to my chest, pressed my back against the door, and let myself fall apart in my brand-new apartment that suddenly felt like the loneliest place in the world.