Chapter 1 - The Fire on the GlassThe echo of shattered crystal vibrated against the soaring glass dome of the Manhattan ice arena. The orchestra faltered, the violins dying out into a hollow, tense silence. Around the perimeter of the private rink, over two hundred high-society guests in tuxedos and evening gowns stood frozen, their breath hanging in thin white clouds within the chilled air.
I remained locked in Vincent Blackwood’s arms at the center of the rink. My ivory skating dress, woven with tiny crystal sleeves that caught the overhead spotlights, glistened like fresh frost over polished steel. Beneath the fabric, my muscles were taut, keyed into the familiar, electric rhythm of competitive ice.
Vincent’s broad hand rested against the small of my back, his broad frame towering over me at six-foot-three. His icy blue eyes—usually so cold, calculated, and terrifyingly unreadable—were dilated with a sudden, chaotic mix of shock and fierce, rising intensity.
Across the ice, standing near the velvet-draped barrier, Arthur Blackwood—Vincent’s seventy-year-old father and the founder of the Blackwood Syndicate—was pale as marble. His hands trembled against his cane, his eyes wild as he stared at my face.
"DON'T LET THAT WOMAN LEAVE ALIVE!" Arthur screamed, his voice cracking with an ancient, desperate panic.
BOOM!
The massive oak doors surrounding the upper balcony slammed shut with a heavy, hydraulic thud. Three men in dark tactical suits stepped through the elevated gallery, pulling suppressed submachine guns from beneath their coats, aiming down toward the ice rink.
The crowd erupted into screams. Women in silk gowns shrieked, ducking behind ice sculptures and marble pillars, while private security guards reached for their holsters.
I didn't move. My hazel eyes locked onto Arthur Blackwood, the man who had paid two arsonists three hundred thousand dollars five years ago to burn down the Riverside Ice Arena, erasing my career, my identity, and my life to cover up a multi-million-dollar land heist.
"Vincent..." Vanessa, Vincent's glamorous socialite girlfriend, shrieked from the edge of the rink, her crimson dress catching the light as she backed away. "Shoot her! She’s an imposter! She tricked you!"
Vincent didn't look at Vanessa. He didn't even draw the heavy sidearm tucked beneath his black velvet dinner jacket.
Instead, his arm tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid, warm chest. He shifted his stance, using his broad, six-foot-three frame to completely shield my body from the sightlines of the snipers on the balcony.
"Is it true, Emily?" Vincent whispered, his low, velvety baritone dipping so close to my ear that I felt the warmth of his breath against the chill of the arena. "Are you Emily Carter? The gold medalist who supposedly burned to ashes five years ago?"
"The ashes were fake, Mr. Blackwood," I replied softly, my voice smooth as ice, refusing to let my posture shake. "The fire was real. And your father signed the order."
A dark, lethal smile slowly touched Vincent’s handsome, severe features. The black tattoos crawling up his neck and over his chest seemed to pulse with a sudden, dark vitality.
"Good," Vincent murmured, his gray-blue eyes flashing with an unholy, brilliant light. "I’ve been looking for a reason to tear my father’s empire apart for ten years."
Before the snipers on the balcony could acquire a clear shot, Vincent raised his left hand, snapping two fingers in a sharp, crisp command that echoed through the arena.
FLASH-CRASH!
Four flashbang grenades arced down from the catwalks above, exploding in mid-air with a blinding white brilliance and a thunderous report that shattered the remaining glass sculptures along the edge of the rink!
"COVER THE DON!" Marcus Vance, Vincent’s chief of security, thundered through the smoke, leading six heavily armed operatives onto the ice.
Vincent swept me off my feet into his arms, carrying me effortlessly across the slick ice as gunfire erupted in the balcony above. He moved with a terrifying, predator-like grace, dodging behind the heavy reinforced glass of the private box while his men engaged Arthur’s hitmen.
"You said if I skated without falling, you'd give me the files and marry me tonight," I said, looking up into his severe face as he set me down behind the bulletproof partition.
May you like
Vincent looked down at me, his fingers gently pushing a strand of dark hair away from my forehead, his thumb tracing the sharp line of my jaw with a quiet, fierce reverence.
"I am a man of my word, little maid," Vincent swore, his voice an absolute, iron promise. "Tonight, you get the files. And tomorrow morning, you become the Queen of New York."
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