His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 61: Olive's Pov

A small, satisfied, absolutely delighted smile that curved her lips like she'd just tasted something sweet.

Then it was gone, replaced by a carefully constructed expression of concern, but I'd seen it.

I'd fucking seen it.

Why was she smiling? What did she have to do with this?

Cole was walking toward me now, and the entire crowd parted for him like he was some kind of savior coming to rescue the damsel in distress, his expression perfectly crafted to show concern and confusion, like he couldn't possibly believe what he was seeing, like this was just as shocking to him as everyone else.

But his eyes—his eyes told a different story entirely.

They looked almost satisfied. Almost gleeful. Like this was exactly what he'd been waiting for.

"Olive," he said, voice loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, projecting his concern like he was on stage. "What is this? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"It's not me," I said, and my voice was shaking so badly I barely recognized it. "Cole, you know that's not me, you know I would never—"

"Then who is it?" He gestured at the screen with this dramatic sweep of his arm, playing to the audience. "Because that looks exactly like you. That sounds exactly like you. That person up there is you."

The whispers started then, building from a murmur to a roar.

"Oh my god, she was using him the whole time—"

"I knew something was off about her from the beginning—"

"Total gold digger—"

"Poor Zane, he must be devastated—"

"She's disgusting—"

"I can't believe she'd do that—"

My chest was too tight. I couldn't get air into my lungs no matter how hard I tried, couldn't think past the noise and the stares and the video still playing on that goddamn screen, repeating my alleged confession over and over like some kind of torture device designed specifically to break me.

I needed to find him.

My eyes started searching the crowd frantically, desperately looking for the only person whose opinion actually mattered, the only person who might possibly believe me over the evidence playing on loop above our heads.

Zane.

I needed to see his face, needed to know if he believed this obvious setup, if he actually thought I would do something like this, if he thought I was capable of the cruelty and manipulation that video was accusing me of.

I found him standing exactly where he'd been before the video started, still holding that glass of whiskey in his hand like nothing had changed, like the world hadn't just ended.

His face was completely unreadable.

Not angry. Not hurt. Not disgusted or betrayed or any of the emotions I'd expected to see written across his features.

Just... blank.

Empty.

Like he was looking at a stranger he'd passed on the street and already forgotten.

And that blank expression hurt worse than anything else in this entire nightmare.

Worse than the fake video. Worse than the whispers and pointing and recording. Worse than Sophia's vicious smile or Cole's perfectly performed concern.

Because Zane was looking at me like he didn't know me at all, like I was exactly what that video claimed I was—a con artist, a manipulator, a woman who'd used him for money and connections and laughed about it behind his back.

Like maybe he actually believed it.

My vision went blurry again and this time I couldn't stop it, couldn't hold back the tears that had been building since the moment I saw myself on that screen. Hot, humiliating tears spilled over and ran down my face, probably ruining the makeup I'd spent an hour perfecting, and I couldn't be here anymore.

Couldn't stand in this room with hundreds of people staring at me like I was something disgusting they'd found on the bottom of their shoes, couldn't listen to them whisper about what a terrible person I was, couldn't watch them record my breakdown for their social media feeds.

I had to get out.

I turned and ran.

"Olive, wait—" Hunter's voice called after me but I didn't stop, couldn't stop, my legs were already moving.

I pushed through the crowd and they parted for me but not in a respectful way, more like they were afraid I might contaminate them if they got too close. Their words kept hitting me like physical blows—gold digger, user, liar, whore—and the video sound was still playing in the background, my voice that wasn't my voice still confessing to crimes I never committed.

People stepped back like I was contagious, like whatever moral failing I supposedly had might spread to them if they weren't careful.

I found the exit doors and shoved through them so hard they slammed against the walls.

Then the hallway with its expensive wallpaper and crystal light fixtures.

Then the stairs because waiting for an elevator meant standing still and I couldn't stand still, couldn't stop moving or I'd collapse right here.

And I ran.

Just ran and ran and ran like I could somehow outrun what had just happened, like I could leave it all behind if I just moved fast enough.