His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 74: Zane's Pov

Eight hours ago.

The plan had been simple—walk into the Hopkins office, present the forensic evidence about the deepfake video, secure the partnership, and walk out before my father could interfere.

Simple. Clean. Effective.

Except nothing involving William Mercer was ever simple.

He'd been calling me nonstop since yesterday—emails, texts, voicemails, each one more demanding than the last. End the deal with Hopkins. Cut ties with the girl. Come back to the game. Focus on the next hockey season while I clean up your mess.

A mess he'd helped create by manipulating Sophia into her little revenge scheme.

He thought I didn't know. Thought I was too distracted by Olive to see the strings he'd been pulling behind the scenes.

He should've known better than that.

I'd orchestrated everything before it even happened—the meeting this morning, the forensic analysis, the media blackout. Every piece positioned exactly where I needed it.

Now I just had to deal with the fallout.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling to a contact I hadn't called in weeks.

The line picked up on the first ring.

"Boss." Lucifer's voice was steady, professional. He never asked questions.

"I'm sending you an address," I said, my voice clipped. "Change all the locks. Install a new security system—top of the line, unhackable. And sweep the apartment for cameras. There are at least three hidden somewhere. Make sure every surface is cleaned. Thoroughly."

"Got it, Boss."

I ended the call, my fingers tapping against the mahogany desk in my office.

One. Two. Three.

Right on cue, the door to my office burst open.

William Mercer strode in like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. Owned this building, this company, this city, probably half the people in it.

His face was twisted with barely contained rage, his usual mask of cold control slipping.

"What did you do?" he demanded, slamming his hands down on my desk hard enough to make my laptop jump.

I didn't flinch. Didn't react at all.

"I'm asking you a question, Zane."

"What question?" I said, my voice calm, controlled. I let a smirk curl at the corner of my mouth just to piss him off further.

It worked.

"You pushed the merger through," he spat. "You were supposed to end it. Walk away. Let Hopkins collapse under the weight of their own incompetence. And now I have five investors asking about opening new hockey clubs and hosting the next league tournaments through our corporation. The scandal should've been enough to tell you she's using you!"

"The scandal," I repeated, standing slowly, deliberately, until we were eye to eye across the desk. "Or the one you orchestrated?"

His expression flickered—just for a second, but I caught it.

I tapped a button on my desk and the projector mounted on the wall flickered to life, displaying the deepfake video in all its damning glory.

"What is this?" William asked, his voice tight now. "Why are you showing me this again? Shouldn't you be ashamed?"

"Ashamed?" I huffed. "You think it's real?"

"Of course it's real," he snapped. "And you have nothing to prove otherwise. Zane, if you're going to sit in my office and try to accuse me of something, you'd better have actual evidence. She's a con artist, and she's going to bring you down with her."

He reached forward and slammed the projector button, cutting off the video mid-frame.

"You need to think clearly about this partnership," he continued, his voice dropping into that dangerously calm tone he used when he was about to destroy someone. "Hopkins is our competitor. They don't like us. If anything happens, it affects us first. And that girl—she will destroy you."

"Then I suppose you'll have to learn to accept the truth," I said quietly.

He laughed. Actually laughed—this dark, hollow sound that echoed off the walls.

"The truth?" He leaned forward, his eyes burning into mine. "Oh, the truth can be deadly, Zane. You think I don't know your games? I'm your father. I know every single move you make, every secret you keep, every lie you tell yourself." He paused, letting the words sink in. "But she doesn't."

My jaw clenched. My hands curled into fists at my sides. But my face stayed blank, emotionless.

Never show weakness. That was the first rule he'd taught me.

"What do you have on me, William?" I asked, using his first name deliberately. A power play. A reminder that he might be my father, but he wasn't my master.

He chuckled, leaning back, looking at me like I was a chess piece that had just made a predictable move.

"Oh, the truth," he said softly. "I know the truth about what happened six years agoand coupes with the other secrets that we have been keeping. And you don't want her finding out about all of them."

My blood went cold.

The room tilted for just a second before I forced myself steady.

"That's what I thought," William said, reading my silence like a book. "You don't have anything to say. Because you know I'm right. I hold all the cards here, son. All of them."

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold.

"End it with the girl," he said without looking back. "Or I'll end it for you. And trust me—my way will be much messier."

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

For a second—just a second—I couldn't breathe.

My chest constricted, tight and painful, like someone had wrapped barbed wire around my lungs. Sweat beaded at my temples. My hands shook.

That memory. That fucking memory I'd buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself it wasn't real.

It came crashing back now—images, sounds, smells, sensations I'd kept locked away for years.

‘Blood on the pavement. Screaming. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. Her face—’

No.

I slammed my fist down on the desk, the pain sharp and grounding.

I needed to get out of here. Needed to move, to race, to feel adrenaline burn through my system until the memories faded back into nothing.

I grabbed my phone, dialing a different number this time.

"Boss," DD answered immediately. He always did.

"Andrew Cooper," I said, my voice flat, emotionless. "I want his tech warehouse hit. Not bombed—I'm not trying to kill anyone. But I want a fire. Electrical malfunction. Make it look like faulty wiring. Destroy everything he has stored there—inventory, servers, backups. Everything."

"Understood."

"And DD?" I added. "Send his wife the video. You know which one."

There was a pause. "The one with the secretary?"

"And the personal trainer. And the intern from last summer. Send all of them."

"Boss—"

"Do it."

I ended the call before he could argue.

My phone buzzed immediately. Walter.

I answered.

"Don't," Walter said, his voice tight. "Whatever you're about to do, don't."

"Too late."

"Zane, listen to me—"

"Andrew Cooper framed Olive," I said coldly. "He created that deepfake. Used his company's AI technology to destroy her reputation because Sophia paid him to. So yes, Walter, I'm destroying him back. Thoroughly."

"He deserves consequences," Walter said carefully. "But his wife? You're dragging an innocent woman into this."

"When did you become pathetic?" I asked.

Silence.

"She deserves to know who she's married to," I continued. "And if that destroys their marriage, that's on him, not me."

"You're playing a dangerous game."

"I've been playing dangerous games my entire life," I said. "This is just another move."

I hung up before he could respond and grabbed my keys from the desk drawer.

I needed to drive. Needed to feel metal and speed and the edge of control slipping just enough to remind me I was still alive.

I ignored the stares as I walked through the Mercer Corporation lobby—employees, fans, people hoping for autographs or photos or a moment of my attention.

Not today.

The valet handed me the keys to my Bugatti without a word, and I slid into the driver's seat, the engine purring to life beneath me.

I drove.

Fast. Too fast. Weaving through traffic like I was on a track instead of a public highway.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Buzzed again. Still ignored.

The third time, I glanced at the screen.

Nikolai: Where are you?

I didn't respond. Just pressed harder on the accelerator.

The city blurred past me—buildings, lights, people—all meaningless noise.

And then I saw it.

The turn I'd taken a thousand times. The entrance to the underground lot beneath the warehouse district.

Home.

Not my mansion. Not my office.

The club.

I pulled into the private entrance, the garage door rolling up automatically as my car approached. The underground parking lot was already packed—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, McLarens, custom bikes, all lined up like soldiers waiting for war.

I parked and sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

Then I got out and walked toward the elevator that would take me down.

Down to the only place I'd ever felt like I could breathe.

The racing club.

My kingdom.

The doors slid open, and the sound hit me first—engines revving, tires squealing, the roar of the crowd watching through reinforced glass.

I stepped inside, and for the first time all day, I felt something other than rage.

I felt alive.