Page 11 of Checks & Bonds

Liam shook his head, exasperation written all over his face.

“Ivy,” I began, trying to steady my voice. “Would you go?—”

“There’s no way in hell Ivy is getting near that place,” Liam cut me off, his voice low and dangerous. He leaned forward, his eyes darkening. “You think this is a game?”

I took a step back, even though there was a bar between us. The intensity in Liam’s eyes made my heart race with fear.

“She’s married,” I protested, my voice weaker than I wanted it to be.

“You think that matters?” he asked, incredulous. “The rules in Ravenwood are very different from society’s norms. And I know Leo would claim Ivy just to fuck with me. He’d be allowed to do whatever he wanted to her and be protected by the society.”

“Surely, the cops?—”

“You don’t think they have cops?” Liam interrupted, his tone almost mocking. “At least two different police chiefs are Ravenwood alumni, and that’s not including the bribes. Why do you think no one has been arrested for my father’s murder? My uncle doesn’t want them found. When I tell you it affects your future, I’m not kidding.”

The gravity of his words hit me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just about breaking off an engagement anymore; it was about navigating a world of power and corruption far beyond anything I’d imagined.

Ivy reached out, her fingers brushing against mine in a silent show of support. “Freya,” she whispered, her eyes filled with concern.

I squeezed her hand, drawing strength from her presence. “I have to do this,” I said firmly, meeting Liam’s gaze head-on. “I can’t just let Henry control my life.”

"If you want to fuck up your life, fine," Liam said indifferently. "Now, get the fuck out so I can fuck my wife."

"Liam," Ivy said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling.

I sighed, beginning to collect my things. The weight of the card in my pocket felt heavier now.

"Don't listen to him, Frey?—"

"No, it's fine," I cut Ivy off, forcing a smile. "He's not wrong. At least about overstaying my welcome."

Liam leaned against the fridge, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression unreadable.

"You know," I told him as I slung my bag over my shoulder. "This is me playing the game."

Liam smirked. "I don't think you know what game you're playing," he muttered. "Nor do I think you realize who you're playing against."

"The society?" I asked, feeling a cold shiver run down my spine.

Liam shook his head slowly. "Henry himself."

4

Henry

Iarrived at Pandora's Box early, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The air inside the ice rink was crisp, carrying the faint smell of menthol and ice shavings. The locker room was empty, silent except for the hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of a Zamboni smoothing the ice. This was my sanctuary, the one place where everything made sense.

I slowly unzipped my bag, taking out each piece of gear with care. First, my skates. I ran my fingers over the laces, feeling the worn leather under my touch. They had been with me for years, molding perfectly to my feet. Then came my gloves, helmet, and pads, each item placed meticulously on the bench next to me.

Rebecca had texted me earlier, asking if we could hang out before her class today. The thought of being around her felt like a weight pressing down on me. Not that I didn't like Rebecca—she was decent enough to pass the time with—but lately, it seemed like every interaction drained more energy than I had to give.

I stripped down, feeling the chill of the rink seep into my bones. My clothes lay in a heap on the bench, a forgotten pile as Ifocused on the task at hand. Piece by piece, I pulled on my gear. The familiar motions were automatic, muscle memory guiding me through the routine I had known since I was six years old. Back then, my grandfather took me to the rink every day without fail.

First came the tights and the rashguard, a second skin, providing comfort and protection in equal measure. Next came shin guards and socks before I used clear tape around the middle, ensuring my socks would be held up. After that, hockey pants, offering cushion and more protection. From there, shoulder pads, elbow pads, and then my jersey. Finally, my helmet.

The skates were last.

As I laced them up, I allowed myself to sink into the familiar routine. The methodical movements calmed me, each tug of the laces grounding me in the present moment. The world outside these walls could be chaotic and demanding, but here on the ice, it was just me and my thoughts.

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