Page 31 of Misconducts & Temptation

I headed upstairs to my room on autopilot, each step heavier than the last. Once inside, I locked the door and finally let myself cry. The tears came hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks in silent sobs.

How was this my life? How had everything spiraled so far out of control? The weight of it all pressed down on me, leaving me feeling small and powerless.

I didn’t understand any of it—the cruelty of fate or the coldness of those around me. All I knew was that I had to find a way out before it consumed me entirely.

I sat on the edge of my bed, my thoughts a tangled mess. Maybe I could find Keaton at school. Maybe I could ask him if he was serious about marrying me…

And what? Have him laugh in my face?

He was probably saying those things because he thought that was what I wanted to hear. Because he wanted more from me and thought he was being romantic.

No, a voice insisted.I saw his eyes. He's just as trapped as I am.

But even the thought sounded ridiculous. Keaton Douglas, the untouchable hockey star, feeling trapped? It seemed impossible. He had everything—wealth, status, control over his own life. How could someone like him ever understand what it felt like to be me?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion swirling inside it. No. I was on my own. Relying on someone else had never worked out for me before, and it wouldn't start now.

I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers to all my problems. But no answers came—only more questions and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about what lay ahead.

Tomorrow would bring another day at Crestwood Academy—a place where I'd never felt more out of place or invisible—and maybe then I'd have a chance to find Keaton and ask him what he'd meant.

If he even remembered who I was in the first place.

Chapter 10

Keaton

Derek didn't text back all day.

I slammed another puck into the net, the sharp crack echoing through the empty rink. The cold air bit at my skin, but I barely noticed. My father's words from last night still echoed in my mind, each one like a knife twisting deeper.

Marry Lola, or kiss your inheritance goodbye.

Another puck flew across the ice, smashing into the boards with a satisfying thud. I leaned on my stick, breathing heavily, trying to exorcise the anger boiling inside me. Hockey had always been my escape, my sanctuary from the demands and expectations that suffocated me at home.

I skated back to the center of the rink, gathering more pucks. The NHL had always been my dream—a ridiculous one, maybe, but it was mine. It was something I wanted for myself, not for my father's business empire or his relentless pursuit of control.

Mom believed in me. She used to sit in those freezing stands for hours, watching every game, every practice. She'd wake up early to get me to practice at six in the morning, and she convinced my father to invest in sticktime, one-on-one coaching on the ice that lasted an hour and was sixty bucks a pop, plus an ice fee. She’d smile that soft smile of hers and tell me I could do anything. After she died, that belief became a lifeline. A way to keep her with me.

Another shot. Another crash of rubber against wood.

“Give up the inheritance,” Damien had said last night, as if it were that simple.

I launched another puck toward the goal with a fierce slap shot. The thought of walking away from everything I'd ever known gnawed at me—Dad's control might be suffocating, but it was familiar suffocation. And what girl would want someone like me? Cold, distant—always pushing people away before they got too close?

The puck missed wide this time, ricocheting off the post and skittering across the ice. I chased after it mechanically, not even feeling the exhaustion creeping into my muscles.

Dreams seemed so simple when Mom was around. Now they felt like chains pulling me in every direction but forward.

I lined up another shot and let it fly.

“Your shot’s off.”

The voice cut through the cold air like a blade. I turned to see Thomas Morgan, my old coach, standing at the edge of the rink. Tall and muscular, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a nightmare, all rugged lines and brooding intensity. His dark hair had started to gray at the temples, adding to the menacing aura that always surrounded him. He had that same piercing look in his eyes that made you feel like he could see right through you.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, itching for a cigarette to steady my nerves.

“I could ask you the same damn question,” he replied, his tone sharp and unforgiving.

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