His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 68: Olive's Pov

It had been almost two weeks since I made a deal with Zane Mercer, and a lot of things had happened—most of which involved getting my entire life turned completely upside down.

I knew I should've left when I had the chance.

Should've listened to Grayson, to my father, to everyone who'd warned me that being with Zane Mercer came with a kind of danger I'd never experienced before. The kind that didn't just threaten your reputation—it threatened everything you thought you knew about yourself.

And now my life was on fire.

Everyone I loved probably hated me or was waiting for me to drop a full episode explaining why the video they'd seen was fake, wasn't real, wasn't me at all.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in Zane's bedroom, watching as his black Mercedes pulled out from the circular driveway below, disappearing down the tree-lined path that led away from his estate.

I released a deep breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

A sharp hiss escaped my lips the second I took a step toward the bed.

I chuckled lightly despite myself. I was still sore from last night's marathon with Zane—the kind of sore that reminded you exactly what you'd been doing and with whom every single time you moved.

After what happened at my apartment—after he'd fucked me in the bathtub like he was trying to erase every bad thing that had happened that day—we'd ended up back here at his place. And it had been quite a long night.

Multiple rounds. Different positions. His hands everywhere, his mouth claiming every inch of my skin like he was trying to prove a point that still made my mind blurry.

I could still feel him—every inch of him—in my body, in my core. Could still feel his hands inside me, his tongue on my breasts, the way he'd whispered "mine" against my skin like it was a prayer and a threat all at once.

"Fuck, Olive," I whispered to myself, pressing my palm against my forehead. "You just got publicly framed and you're standing here thinking about a dick."

Now that Zane was gone, now that I was alone in this massive bedroom, I could actually think about what had happened. Process it. Face it.

I'd been too scared to open my phone last night. Too terrified of seeing the notifications, the alerts, the messages that would confirm my worst fears—that my life as I knew it was completely over, that I'd need to flee the country and change my identity just to escape the scandal.

I took a deep breath, clutching the towel wrapped around my body tighter, and bent down to grab my phone from where I'd left it charging on the nightstand.

"Okay, Olive. You can do this." I closed my eyes for a second, steadying myself. "You can take the abuse. You can endure seeing a fake woman on the media who isn't you. It doesn't matter. It was never you."

I whispered the words like a mantra, like if I said them enough times they'd actually become true.

Taking one more deep breath—the kind that made my chest expand and my hands shake—I opened my phone and turned off airplane mode.

At first, nothing happened. My screen stayed blank except for the time and my wallpaper—a photo of me and Brenda at some work event, both of us laughing at something stupid.

That was weird.

Then I heard it—a vibration. Then another. Then another. Different messages dropping in all at once, my phone buzzing like an angry hornet in my hand.

I stared hard at the screen, my heart hammering, because all the messages dropping were from my SMS inbox. None from social media. None from news apps. None from the celebrity gossip sites that had probably been having a field day with my alleged scandal.

"That's weird," I muttered, my fingers shaking as I scrolled through the messages.

Texts from my mom. Texts from Brenda. A few from Hunter that I didn't have the emotional capacity to read yet. But none—absolutely none—from media outlets or random numbers or the kind of hate messages I'd been expecting.

That wasn't possible.

I should've had at least fifty different bullet points from the media, from random people who'd somehow gotten my number, from reporters asking for comments or exclusive interviews.

But there was nothing.

I quickly opened Gram, my thumb hovering over the app icon for a second before I forced myself to tap it.

My profile loaded and I braced myself for the onslaught—the comments, the tags, the viral posts about "Olive Monroe, gold-digging fraud."

But there was nothing.

It was as if nothing had happened at all. As if that video had never existed. As if I'd imagined the entire nightmare.

How was that possible?

Instantly, I received a ping—a notification from Brenda, followed immediately by her calling.

My hands were still shaking as I swiped to answer.

The second I picked up, her voice exploded through the speaker, vibrating through my skull like she was physically shaking me.

"What the fuck, girl! Where the hell are you, babe? I've been calling you—your number's been switched off, not going through—what the fuck is going on? Zane is in Grayson's office. He's having a meeting. Where the hell are you?"

Brenda had this auto-tone quality to her voice when she was stressed—sharp, fast, borderline frantic—and when she spoke this quickly, I had to work overtime just to catch every word.

"Zane—as in Zane Mercer—is at Hopkins right now?" I asked, my head suddenly feeling like it was filled with cotton, my thoughts sluggish and confused.

"Yes, he is!" Her voice pitched higher. "Where the hell are you? You were trending last night and—you know what, get your ass here now. Grayson is going feral."

"Grayson?" My heart started beating faster. "Why? Did something happen to the company? What's going on?"

My mind immediately went to worst-case scenarios—Hopkins stock falling apart and crashing, investors pulling out, the entire company collapsing because of my scandal.

Or maybe Zane had done something. Said something. Made things worse.

Oh my god.

"Get to the company, Olive," Brenda snapped. "I can't tell you much here because I'm literally running into the conference room right now."

"Brenda—Brenda—"

The call ended.

I stared at my phone, my reflection staring back at me from the black screen, looking pale and disheveled and completely lost.

"Fuck," I whispered. "What the hell is going on with my life?"

I scrolled through my missed calls and messages with trembling fingers. Three missed calls from my mother. Tons of messages from her that I didn't have time to read. One missed call from Grayson. Five from Hunter. And a whole bunch from numbers I didn't recognize but were probably family members or distant relatives who suddenly cared about my existence.

I threw the phone onto the bed and practically sprinted into the bathroom.

I'd never gotten ready so fast in my entire life.

Shower—two minutes. Hair—thrown into a messy bun. Makeup—minimal because I didn't have time and honestly, who cared at this point. Clothes—I grabbed the first professional-looking outfit I could find in the bag I'd hastily packed last night, a navy blazer and black pants that screamed "I'm here for business, not scandal."

Different questions kept brewing in my mind as I rushed around Zane's bedroom, my hands fumbling with buttons and zippers.

Zane never told me he was heading to Hopkins today. He'd just walked out this morning like it was a normal day, kissed my forehead while I was still half-asleep, and told me to stay back at home until he "sorted this out."

But I was never the kind of woman to sit down and watch others clean up my mess.

And now it seemed the mess had gotten a whole lot bigger.

I grabbed my purse, my phone, my keys, and practically ran out of the bedroom, down the grand staircase, and toward the front entrance.

I pushed the heavy door open, and instantly two heads turned to stare at me.

Two men—both dressed in dark suits, wearing sunglasses that made them look like secret service agents, their builds large enough to make me feel like a child standing next to them.

I hadn't seen them here before. Not last night when we'd arrived. Not this morning when I'd woken up.

Had Zane stationed them here specifically to watch me?

I ignored them, my eyes finding my car parked beside Zane's fleet of luxury vehicles—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, that matte black Bugatti he'd fucked me in once.

For a second, I looked at my modest sedan and felt genuinely shameful on its behalf.

I started walking toward it, keys already in hand, but one of the men stepped directly into my path, blocking me.

"Ma'am," he said, his voice deep and professional. "I don't think it's advisable for you to leave. Mr. Mercer instructed me to—"

"Fuck you," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "And tell Zane to go fuck himself."

I glared at the man, watching as his jaw twitched, his nose flaring slightly before he nodded once and stepped aside, clearing my path.

I made a mental note to tell Zane later—preferably while we were arguing—to never involve me with his bodyguards again. I wasn't some damsel who needed protecting. I wasn't his possession to be guarded and monitored.

But I had two more important things to think about right now.

My stepfather's company.

And making damn sure I wouldn't be the reason for his second downfall.