Chapter 1. October
FIONA
The Legacy Hotel hadn’t changed. Not in any way that mattered. The chandeliers still dripped with excess, the marble floors gleamed like no one had ever walked on them, and the air was thick with the scent of wealth — perfume, whiskey, and the sharp bite of judgment.
I stepped through the entrance, my heels clicking against the polished stone, and scanned the crowd. High society at its finest. Women in designer gowns, diamonds flashing under the light, laughter artificial and perfectly measured. Men in tailored suits, exchanging handshakes and backhanded compliments. The annual charade of civility, all under the guise of charity.
Philip, my best friend and the only reason I hadn’t already fled, let out a dramatic sigh beside me. Tall, lean, and effortlessly stylish, he was a walking contradiction — impeccably dressed in a deep emerald suit that shouldn’t have worked but absolutely did, his wavy blond hair artfully tousled in a way that suggested he hadn’t spent too much time perfecting it. His sharp green eyes flicked over the crowd with the practiced precision of someone cataloging every potential disaster before it unfolded.
“Ah, the annual gathering of the benevolent elite,” he mused. “It’s like the Met Gala, but for people who pretend they care about underprivileged children.”
I bit back a smile.
“Please. You know it’s about networking and self-congratulation. The children are just the aesthetic.”
His grin was sharp. “And yet, here we are, drinking their champagne.”
I took a flute from a passing server and lifted it in mock salute. “Might as well get something out of the evening.”
The weight of expectation settled over me as my gaze landed on my father — Charles Kensington. He stood near the ballroom entrance, posture rigid, expression unreadable. But I knew him too well. He’d already cataloged everything about me — dress, demeanor, worthiness of carrying the Kensington name.
He looked as he always did: impeccably tailored in a charcoal suit, silver hair combed back with precision, his sharp, chiseled features betraying not a single ounce of warmth. I had inherited that part of him — the high cheekbones, the defined jawline, the eyes that could turn unreadable in an instant. A Kensington face, through and through.
I inhaled deeply, steeling myself. The night had just begun, and I was already suffocating.
He approached before I had made it five steps before he approached. Charles Kensington never needed to raise his voice to command attention; his mere presence did the job for him.
His gaze swept over me, assessing. “Fiona.”
“Father.” I took a sip of champagne, as if that could shield me. It didn’t.
His lips pressed into a thin line before he turned his attention to Philip, who, to his credit, didn’t cower. Instead, he lifted his glass in a casual toast.
“Mr. Kensington. Always a pleasure.”
Charles didn’t even acknowledge him before his gaze flicked back to me.
“Still wasting your potential, I see.”
Ah, there it was. Right on schedule.
“At some point,” he continued, his voice calm but edged with that signature Kensington disappointment, “you’ll need to take something seriously, Fiona.”
He let his words linger before adding, almost as an afterthought, “You’re thirty. What do you even do with your time?”
Philip exhaled through his nose as if he was physically restraining himself from responding. This was my battle to fight.
I gave my father my sweetest, most insincere smile.
“Oh, you know. Indulging in reckless spending and bad decisions. Just keeping the family name alive.”
His expression didn’t change, but I caught a flicker of irritation in his eyes.
A small victory, but I’d take it.
Before he could continue his sermon, Jessica Carter materialized at his side, all blonde ambition and perfect poise. She rested a hand on his arm like she belonged there.
Jessica had been a fixture in my life since childhood — a rival I never asked for but somehow couldn’t shake. We were the same age, both raised in the suffocating world of high society, but where I had spent my years resisting it, she had mastered it. Perfect daughter, perfect investor, perfect socialite. If my father had ever wished for a different Kensington heir, I had no doubt Jessica would have been his first draft pick.
Of course, since she wasn’t me, she had her sights set on another role in my father’s life.
“Charles, I was just telling Senator Beckett about your latest expansion in London,” she purred, before turning her gaze to me with a saccharine smile. “Fiona, lovely to see you. It’s been too long.”
Not long enough.
Charles, satisfied that he’d planted the seed of my supposed inadequacy, turned his attention fully to Jessica, who, no doubt, would spend the rest of the evening subtly reminding me how much better she was at playing this game.
Philip leaned in, his voice low. “So, do we fake a medical emergency to escape, or are we committing to the full misery tour?”
I exhaled, draining my champagne. “Let’s see how the night plays out. There’s always time for an exit strategy.”
And with that, Philip steered me toward the ballroom with the determination of a man on a mission.
“Alright, darling, let’s go bear witness to the great capitalist showcase of the evening.”
The ballroom was just as extravagant as I remembered from other events — gold-trimmed tables, cascading floral arrangements, and enough sparkling crystal to finance a small country. Servers wove through the crowd with trays of champagne, ensuring no glass stayed empty for long. It was all so meticulously curated, so painfully predictable.
Philip grabbed two fresh flutes off a passing tray and handed one to me. “We’re going to need these.”
I sighed, tilting my head toward the stage, where the auctioneer had already begun his well-rehearsed theatrics.
“Let me guess, another collection of completely practical, everyday necessities?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Philip deadpanned, settling into his role as my personal color commentator. “For example, up for bid now — an exclusive week-long retreat in the Maldives, complete with a private island.” He arched a brow. “Totally necessary for survival.”
I huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course. Can’t function without my own slice of the Pacific.”
The auctioneer’s gavel slammed. “Sold! To the gentleman in the back for eight hundred thousand dollars.”
Philip let out a low whistle. “Ah, nothing like spending a small fortune to flex in front of your peers. Beautiful.”
Another item was brought out, a tiny white fluff-ball of a dog adorned with an absurdly tiny bow.
Philip nearly choked on his drink.
“Oh, and here we have the pinnacle of luxury — an actual puppy. Because a regular dog just won’t do. This one is genetically superior and comes with a monogrammed gold collar, obviously.”
I barely heard him. The evening pressed down on me, dulling the edge of my usual amusement. Every year it was the same gala, the same people, the same empty conversations. I felt untethered, restless, like I was watching my own life from a distance.
Philip nudged me with his elbow. “You’re doing that thing again.”
I blinked. “What thing?”
“The thing where you stare off into the void like it personally offended you.”
I forced a smirk. “Maybe it did.”
But even as I said it, I knew something was coming. Something I hadn’t prepared for.
The auctioneer cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our next item is quite special,” the auctioneer announced, his voice ringing through the ballroom. “A rare opportunity for those with both vision and a love of the game.”
I barely registered his words at first, swirling the last of my champagne in my glass, already half-checked out.
“The next item up for bid — majority ownership of the Ironvale Blizzard.”
The air shifted. A ripple of surprise moved through the crowd. Some guests murmured in mild curiosity; others laughed like it was some kind of joke.
My glass froze midair.
The Ironvale Blizzard.
A hollow, breathless feeling settled in my chest.
Philip glanced at me, then back at the stage.
“Wait. What?”
But I already knew.
I knew the Blizzard were struggling, that they’d been bleeding money for years. I knew the franchise had been drowning under mismanagement, dwindling ticket sales, and a losing streak that had become less of a slump and more of a death spiral — everyone knew that.
But it didn’t matter.
When I heard the name, the only thing that came rushing back was the sound of skates cutting into the ice. The roar of the crowd. The cold air of the Frost Tank, sharp against my cheeks.
And him.
I hadn’t let myself think about the Blizzard in years. Not since he left. Not since I turned my back on the sport entirely.
I forced myself to exhale, to shove those memories back where they belonged. It was just another auction item. Just another rich idiot’s next vanity project.
I heard a scoff.
A sharp, dismissive sound undefined cut through the noise of the ballroom.
I turned just in time to see my father lean toward Jessica, not bothering to lower his voice. “A lost cause,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Nothing but a black hole for money.”
Jessica hummed in agreement. “Sad, really. But then again, hockey was never a serious investment.”
Something inside me ignited.
It wasn’t even about the Blizzard. Not really. It was about every snide remark, every time my father had reduced my life to a “game” I wasn’t playing well enough. It was about the look he always gave me, the one that said I would never be enough.
Before I knew what I was doing, my fingers tightened around my champagne glass.
Philip, watching me carefully, leaned in. “Fiona,” he drawled. “I know that look. Whatever you’re thinking? Don’t.”
But it was already too late. I could feel the moment pressing down on me, suffocating and electric all at once. My father’s words — a lost cause — echoed in my head, needling at something deep and unresolved inside me.
The auctioneer’s voice cut through the hush. “We’ll open the bidding at five million.”
No one moved.
No one wanted a sinking ship. Not unless it came with an easy way to flip it for profit or gut it for parts.
Eventually, the man in a navy suit standing at the back raised his paddle. “Five.”
A smattering of polite murmurs rippled through the crowd. A low bid. Not serious. A placeholder until someone with real money and even less interest in hockey decided to make a move.
Charles exhaled quietly, chuckling and shaking his head. “It’ll fold within a year.”
I felt it like a spark to dry tinder.
Before I even knew what I was doing, my fingers lifted, cool and deliberate.
The auctioneer hesitated, scanning the room. “I have five point five from Ms. Kensington.”
Philip inhaled sharply beside me. “I’m sorry — did you just bid on an actual hockey team?”
More whispers spread. Heads turned, eyes narrowing with interest, intrigue.
“Six.” The man in the back again. Unbothered, detached.
I didn’t hesitate. “Six point five.”
Philip’s grip on my arm tightened. “Fiona.”
“Seven million,” another bidder called, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo. I didn’t recognize him, but he looked like the type who collected businesses like decorative trinkets.
The auctioneer glanced my way. “Seven point five?”
My pulse roared in my ears.
I raised my paddle.
Philip made a strangled noise. “Oh my God, you’re serious.”
The man across the room frowned slightly but lifted a hand. “Eight.”
Eight million dollars.
It was a failing AHL team, a disaster of an investment. It was a mistake.
“Nine.”
A collective stir now, more than just murmurs.
Philip’s grip on my wrist was borderline violent. “Fiona, for the love of everything expensive and holy, what are you doing?”
I couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t about the Blizzard at all. It was about my father. The ever-present voice of condescension, the steel edge of disappointment in his eyes. The way he had already written this team off. Like me.
Ten million.
Eleven.
The air in the room was tightening, the tension tangible.
“Twelve.”
A flicker of hesitation from across the room.
“Thirteen million.”
I could see it now — the subtle shift in my opponent’s posture, the calculation in his gaze. How much is this worth?
I didn’t let him answer.
“Fourteen.”
A long, stretching silence.
The auctioneer waited, gaze bouncing between us.
The man in the back gave a slight shake of his head.
“No further bids?”
Another beat.
The gavel lifted.
Philip muttered a prayer.
“Sold — to Ms. Fiona Kensington for fourteen million dollars.”
The gavel came down with a decisive crack.
The gasp that followed was almost deafening.
Philip beside me stared as if I had spontaneously combusted in front of him.
“You just —” He cut himself off, then tried again. “You just bought a hockey team.”
I exhaled slowly, head spinning, but the thrill of it — the recklessness, the sheer audacity — sent a rush of adrenaline through my veins.
“Guess I did.”
A fresh wave of murmurs rippled outward. I felt every gaze in the room on me. The socialites, the entrepreneurs, the people who had spent my entire life whispering behind polished smiles.
But the only reaction I cared about was Charles’.
Slowly, I turned toward him.
His face was unreadable, his expression schooled into something close to indifference. But I wasn’t fooled. His clenched jaw, the stiffness in his posture — he was furious.
Jessica beside him looked more entertained than anything, swirling the champagne in her glass with an air of detached amusement.
“Well,” she murmured, arching a brow. “That was unexpected.”
Philip grabbed my wrist and pulled me sharply toward the exit. “We need to talk about this. Preferably with alcohol. A lot of alcohol.”
I barely registered my own movements, still riding the high of whatever madness had possessed me.
“Fiona.”
Father’s voice stopped me in my tracks.
I turned slowly.
He didn’t look angry. Not outright. That would require emotion. Instead, his expression was something worse.
Discontent.
“This was a foolish mistake,” he said, his tone measured. “And you will regret it.”
Something in my chest twisted, but I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see it.
“Maybe,” I said, voice steady. “But at least it’s mine to make.”
I turned to leave.
As I reached the doors, his voice followed me, quiet but deliberate.
“You just made the worst mistake of your life,” he said.
I didn’t look back.
“So tell me, Fiona — how long before you come begging me to fix it… again?”
