His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 73: Olive's Pov

"What happens now?" I asked, changing the subject because I wasn't ready to dive into the ethics of protecting family members who didn't deserve it.

"Now," Zane said, his voice dropping lower, taking on that dangerous edge that made my stomach flip, "you go back to work. Act like nothing happened. The story is dead. The partnership is moving forward. And tonight—" he traced my bottom lip with his thumb, and I had to resist the urge to bite it, "—you're coming with me to my club."

My stomach did a full somersault. "Your racing club?"

"The one and only." His eyes were dark now, intense. "I told you you'd see my biggest secret. Or maybe one of them. Time to deliver on that promise."

"Zane—"

"No arguments, Muffin." He kissed me again, softer this time, almost tender. "I'll pick you up at eight. Wear something you don't mind getting dirty." He paused, his expression shifting to something more serious. "And you should change your key locks. Tonight, before I pick you up."

Before I could ask what he meant by that—why it sounded like a warning instead of a suggestion—he was gone, striding out of the office like he owned the building, leaving me standing there trying to remember how to breathe normally.

*****

The rest of the day passed in a blur of emails and spreadsheets and pretending I wasn't completely distracted by the memory of Zane's hands on my body.

Brenda cornered me at my desk around lunch, her eyes sharp with curiosity and concern. "Okay, spill. What did Zane say? What happened in the meeting? Are you okay? And why do you look like you just got thoroughly kissed in a supply closet?"

I gave her the abbreviated version—Zane proved the video was fake using forensic analysis, the partnership was back on track, everything was fine, and no we did not fuck in the supply closet even though she clearly thought we did.

She didn't look entirely convinced, but she also didn't push. Brenda knew when I needed space, and right now I needed a lot of it.

Grayson sent me a text around three PM: Good work today. We'll talk later.

Not exactly effusive praise, but coming from Grayson—who rarely praised anyone for anything—it might as well have been a standing ovation.

My mother called twice, but I let both calls go to voicemail. I'd deal with Hunter's party and whatever family drama was brewing there tomorrow. One crisis at a time was my new motto.

By the time five o'clock rolled around, I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. The kind of bone-deep tired that made you want to sleep for a week and wake up in a different timeline where your life wasn't a constant series of dramatic revelations.

But when I finally made it home, dragging myself up the stairs to my apartment with my purse feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, I stopped short.

There was a box at my doorstep.

I cocked my head, staring at it suspiciously. I wasn't expecting a package. Hadn't ordered anything online. And after everything that had happened with all of this, I was understandably paranoid about unexpected deliveries.

But curiosity won out over caution.

I bent down and picked it up—surprisingly light, elegant black packaging with no return address—and slowly opened it.

Inside was a keycard. Sleek, black, obviously expensive. The kind of high-tech security card you'd see in a luxury building or a corporate headquarters.

And beneath it, a simple white note card with Zane's unmistakable handwriting—sharp, confident, slightly aggressive even in the way he formed his letters.

"I didn't have the patience to wait. Changed your key locks and had your apartment thoroughly cleaned. Every surface, every corner, every trace of anyone who shouldn't have been here. Remember—tonight, you're going to see my secret. A date, I suppose you could call it. —Z"

I read it twice, then a third time, my emotions ping-ponging between touched and annoyed and slightly unnerved.

He'd changed my locks. Cleaned my apartment. Done exactly what he'd told me to do, but without asking, without waiting for my permission.

Classic Zane—solving problems by throwing money and resources at them until they disappeared, whether you wanted his help or not.

I should've been angry. Should've called him and told him he couldn't just make decisions about my life without consulting me first.

But instead, I found myself smiling, and unlocking the door with the new key card.

Because underneath the arrogance and the control issues and the complete disregard for normal social boundaries, he'd done it to protect me. To make sure I felt safe in my own home even though I didn’t know the issue he had with changing my locks.

And tonight, I had a date with Zane Mercer at his underground racing club—his biggest secret, or one of them at least.

Despite everything. Despite the scandal that had almost destroyed me. Despite the chaos that seemed to follow him like a shadow. Despite the very rational part of my brain screaming that I was in way over my head with this man.

I was excited.

Maybe even a little turned on by the danger of it all.

Which probably meant I needed therapy.

Definitely meant I needed therapy.

But I was going anyway.

I looked down at the keycard in my hand, running my thumb over the smooth surface, and felt something shift in my chest.

This thing with Zane—whatever it was—wasn't fake anymore.

It hadn't been for a while.

And that terrified me more than anything else.