His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 57: Zane's Pov

I was halfway to the elevator when I heard it.

The explosion.

Not literal—though that might've been quieter. This was worse. This was my father's voice, raised to a volume I hadn't heard in years, echoing through the hallway even through the closed conference room doors.

He was losing control.

Good.

I pressed the elevator button, checking my phone while I waited. Three missed calls from Walter. Two texts from Sophia telling me about her birthday party tomorrow night. Nothing from Olive.

That last one bothered me more than it should.

The elevator arrived and I stepped in, alone, watching the doors close on the chaos I'd left behind.

They thought I didn't know about the Hopkins offer. Thought it had blindsided me along with the rest of them.

They were wrong.

I'd known about it for two days.

Had the full proposal sitting in my personal email before it ever reached the board. Had copies of every communication between Hopkins and our investors. Had a detailed breakdown of which board members would support the partnership and which would oppose it.

Because I had someone on the inside.

Someone who reported directly to me and only me. Someone my father didn't even know existed within his own company.

And the best part? The partnership wasn't even Hopkins's idea.

It was mine.

I'd planted the seed two weeks ago. Made sure the right person mentioned it to the right investor at the right dinner party. Let it germinate naturally until Hopkins's board thought they'd come up with it themselves.

Brilliant, really.

And Grayson Sinclair—Olive's stepfather, CEO of Hopkins—he'd opposed it. Fought against it in their board meetings, from what my source told me. Called it a bad investment. Said partnering with Mercer Company was a mistake they'd regret.

But the board had voted him down.

Four to one.

Because their stock had risen twelve percent, and they thought it was because of general market interest in sports management.

It wasn't.

It was because of Olive.

The second I'd made our relationship public, the second those photos of us hit every media outlet, Hopkins's stock had started climbing. Investors saw the connection—Grayson's stepdaughter dating the Mercer heir—and assumed it meant an eventual merger.

They'd thrown money at Hopkins in anticipation.

And now? Now Hopkins's board was forcing Grayson to partner with the one company—the one man—he hated most.

All because of his stepdaughter.

The elevator doors opened to my private floor.

I walked to my office, poured myself a drink even though it was barely noon, and stood at the window overlooking the city.

Somewhere out there, Olive was at work. Probably still angry at me. Probably still thinking about space and distance and all the things I had no intention of giving her.

She didn't know.

Didn't know that her presence in my life had shifted the entire playing field. That her stepfather was being forced to shake hands with me, smile for cameras, pretend we were partners when what he really wanted was to bury me.

She didn't know I'd orchestrated all of it.

That I'd used our relationship—used her—to back my father into a corner he couldn't escape from.

The partnership would go through. It had to. Refusing it now would make Mercer Company look weak, would send our stock into freefall. My father would have no choice but to accept.

And Grayson? Grayson would have no choice but to work with me. To see me at every board meeting, every investor dinner, every company event.

To watch me with his stepdaughter and know he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

My phone buzzed.

A text from my inside source: It's done. Partnership approved. Signatures next week.

I smiled, taking a slow sip of whiskey.

Everything was moving exactly as planned.

Olive wanted space? Fine. I'd give her today. Tomorrow. Maybe even the weekend if I was feeling generous.

But Monday?

Monday she'd be back in my bed, in my house, in my life, whether she'd forgiven me yet or not.

Because the thing about being ten steps ahead of everyone else?

You never lost control.

You just let people think you had.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was a message I'd been expecting.

Henry Norman: Party's tomorrow night. You coming?

The engagement party. Cole proposing to Sophia. The event Olive would be attending. She'd never told me fully what happened between her and Cole that day he showed up at her apartment, but I'd guessed.

Cole got jealous. Couldn't handle seeing her with me. Got aggressive.

Put his hands on her throat.

I hissed through my teeth, my grip tightening on the glass until it shattered in my hand. Shards bit into my palm, whiskey mixing with blood, the sting sharp and immediate.

I didn't care.

And now Olive was probably thinking she could avoid me at this party. That she could show up alone and maintain her distance.

"Fuck, Olive," I muttered, watching blood drip onto the floor. "You have no idea."

I typed back with my uninjured hand: Wouldn't miss it.

Then I sent another text. This one to Walter.

Zane: Make sure you're at the party tomorrow. I'll need you there.

His response came immediately: Everything okay, boss?

Zane: It will be. Just be there.

I set the phone down, grabbed a towel from the bar cart, and wrapped it around my bleeding hand. The pain was grounding. Reminded me why I was doing all of this.

Control.

Tomorrow night was going to be interesting.

Cole thought he was going to humiliate Olive by proposing to my sister in front of her. Thought he'd get to watch her break, get to see her realize what she'd lost.

He was wrong.

Because I wasn't going to let anyone break Olive.

That was my job.

And when I did it—if I did it—it would be on my terms, not his.

I unwrapped the towel, examining the cuts. Not deep. Nothing that wouldn't heal.

Unlike what I was planning to do to Cole.

That familiar darkness settled over me. The one that whispered I was exactly what everyone said I was. Manipulative. Dangerous. Willing to use anyone to get what I wanted.

Even her.

Especially her.

But that was tomorrow's problem.

Today, I'd let my father scramble to save face with the board. Let him try to figure out how I'd known about the Hopkins deal, how I'd managed to stay three moves ahead.

He'd never figure it out.

Because the game wasn't about hockey or companies or stock prices.

It never had been.

It was about control.

And I never lost control.

Not of the company. Not of my father. Not of Antonio.

And definitely not of Olive Monroe.

She just didn't know it yet.