Chapter 4: The Sound of Shattered Ice
Chloe’s own voice, crisp, entitled, and unmistakable, boomed through the Starlight Arena.
“I don’t care how you do it, Dr. Evans. Swap the urine samples in the transit cooler. Put the metabolites in her protein powder. Just make sure Harper’s name is on a positive test before the Gala.”
A man’s voice—the Chief Medical Officer of the Federation—answered on the recording, sounding terrified. “Chloe, if WADA audits the chain of custody, we’re both ruined. And what about the judging panel?”
Chloe’s recorded voice laughed, a chilling, careless sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “My father took care of the judges. Three of them got their offshore deposits yesterday. They’ll underscore her components. If she still manages to out-jump me, the doping scandal will strip her of the gold anyway. Just do your job.”
The audio clicked off.
The four hundred athletes, officials, and eighteen thousand guests were paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare they had bought premium tickets for.
“You set me up,” Chloe hissed, her composure shattering into raw, venomous hatred. She pointed a trembling finger at me, but her hand was shaking so badly she could barely keep it straight.
“You spent months planting stories, Chloe,” I said, my voice steady, projecting to the VIP boxes. “I spent months cooperating with the World Anti-Doping Agency and Interpol.”
As if summoned by the name, the heavy security gates at the far end of the rink swung open.
A dozen men and women in dark windbreakers bearing federal and international insignias stepped out onto the ice. They wore heavy grip-shoes, marching over the pristine surface with a grim, militaristic purpose that destroyed the illusion of the graceful Gala.
The crowd parted for them. No one breathed.
The lead investigator walked straight past the stunned elite, his eyes fixed on Chloe.
“Chloe Sterling,” he said, flashing a badge. “You are under investigation for sports fraud, bribery, and tampering with international athletic testing protocols.”
Chloe staggered back as if she had been slapped. Her skates wobbled. She looked up toward the glass-enclosed VIP box hovering over center ice.
“Dad!” she screamed, her voice cracking into a pathetic, terrified whine. “Dad, do something! Tell them this is a misunderstanding. Fix it!”
Every camera lens in the stadium pivoted upward, zooming in on Richard Sterling, the billionaire President of the World Skating Federation. He was standing at the edge of the glass, his face flushed a dangerous, mottled red.
He hadn’t built a sports empire by playing fair, but he also hadn’t built it by sinking with a sinking ship. He understood, with terrifying clarity, what the presence of Interpol meant. It meant I wasn’t bluffing. It meant they already had the bank records.
Richard reached for the microphone on the podium in his suite.
The entire world held its breath to see how a king would save his princess.
