Blaze's POV
Sophie looks impossibly small wrapped in the soft blanket I pulled from our bedroom closet.
She sits curled into the corner of the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea that's been growing cold for the past twenty minutes. She hasn't taken a single sip.
Eric hasn't left her side since we came upstairs, his hand gently stroking her arm in a continuous rhythm that seems to calm them both.
Asher finishes cleaning the cut above her eyebrow, his movements careful and precise. He applies a butterfly bandage with the gentle touch of someone who's dealt with plenty of injuries—both his own and his teammates'.
The wound isn't deep, but head injuries always bleed dramatically, and the rust-colored stains on Sophie's shirt are a stark reminder of how close we came to losing her tonight.
"That should hold," Asher says quietly, stepping back to survey his work. "But you should probably see a doctor tomorrow, just to be safe."
Sophie nods absently, her eyes distant.
True to our agreement, we haven't called the police yet. Her desperate plea on the street bought her the chance to explain everything before we involve authorities.
But my patience is wearing thin, and the protective fury that's been building in my chest since I heard her scream through the phone demands answers.
"Start from the beginning," I say firmly, settling into the chair across from her. "And don't leave out any details this time. We can't help you if we don't know what we're dealing with."
Sophie takes a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around the mug. When she finally speaks, her voice is hollow with exhaustion.
"My father came back a few months ago. Right after your proposal, actually."
She laughs bitterly.
"Perfect timing, as always. He showed up at my door with another business venture—another scheme guaranteed to make us both rich if I just invested a little money."
"You told him no," Eric says. It's not a question.
"I told him to go to hell."
Sophie's jaw tightens.
"But that wasn't the end of it. He didn't just disappear this time. He... he listed me as an accomplice in various documents. Partnership agreements, loan applications, things I never signed but that have my name all over them."
"Can he do that?" Asher asks, frowning. "Forge your signature on legal documents?"
"Apparently he can, and he did. The people who attacked me tonight—they believe I'm involved in whatever scheme he's orchestrated. They think I have access to money that doesn't exist, that I can give them what my father promised."
Her voice cracks. "He crossed the wrong people this time, and he made sure I couldn't escape the fallout."
The three of us exchange grim looks. Asher's jaw tightens with barely suppressed anger, while Eric's protective instincts have clearly shifted into overdrive—his grip on Sophie's hand growing more secure with every word she speaks.
"He's done this before—makes promises he can't keep, takes money from dangerous people, then disappears when things get complicated."
Sophie continues, the confession spilling out like poison from a wound. "When I was younger, he'd leave me and my mother to deal with the creditors, the threats, the mess. I thought when I grew up I'd be free of him, but..."
She shakes her head. "Some parents never stop being parasites."
"Why didn't you tell us?" I ask, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. "We could have helped months ago, before it got this bad."
"Because I didn't want to drag anyone else into my chaos. Especially not you two—you had your own problems to deal with. The wedding, your marriage, all the adjustments..."
She meets my eyes, and I see genuine remorse there. "I thought I could handle it alone. I was wrong."
"Damn right you were wrong," I say, but there's no real anger behind it. "You're not alone, Sophie. You never have been."
"We're going to fix this," Asher adds, his voice carrying the same captain's authority I've heard him use on the ice. "All of us, together."
"But first we need to involve the police," I continue. "What happened tonight was assault and attempted kidnapping. These people are dangerous, and they need to face legal consequences."
Sophie nods slowly. "I know. I just... I needed you to understand the full picture first. The police are going to have questions, and the answers are complicated."
"Then we'll help you navigate them." Eric's voice is steady, certain. "Whatever you need, Sophie. I'm not going anywhere."
The look that passes between them makes something warm bloom in my chest despite the heaviness of the evening. What had seemed like casual friends with benefits has clearly evolved into something much deeper.
Eric's concern isn't performative or obligatory—it's genuine and profound, the kind of care that suggests real emotional investment.
Sophie deserves that. After everything she's been through, she deserves someone who will fight for her.
"I need to make some calls," I say, rising from my chair. "I know people who can help us track down your father and deal with his creditors safely. A private investigator I've worked with before—very discreet, very effective."
I move toward the kitchen counter where I left my phone earlier, already mentally composing the conversation I'll need to have.
Sophie's situation requires professionals, people who understand how to navigate the dangerous intersection of financial crime and personal vendettas.
My phone lights up as I pick it up, notifications crowding the screen. Most are the usual noise—social media alerts, team group chats, promotional emails.
But one catches my eye: a photo posted by an acquaintance from the industry, someone I follow but rarely interact with.
The image appears innocent enough at first glance. A woman taking a selfie at what looks like an after-party, her smile bright and carefree, champagne glass raised toward the camera.
The kind of photo that populates social media feeds by the thousands, forgettable and unremarkable. But my eye snags on something in the background.
Two figures on a couch, partially obscured by other partygoers but still visible enough to identify. One of them I recognize instantly—the familiar curve of his shoulders, the dark curls I've run my fingers through a thousand times.
Asher. My husband. At a party I didn't know he attended. And pressed against him, lips clearly meeting his in what is unmistakably a kiss, is Kieran.
My blood turns to ice.
The phone nearly slips from my suddenly trembling hands as I stare at the frozen moment of betrayal captured accidentally by a stranger's camera.
The timestamp shows it was taken the night of the network after-party—the same night Asher came home early and kissed me so passionately.
The night we made love like we were rediscovering each other, when I thought we'd finally turned a corner in our struggling marriage.
All of it suddenly feels tainted. Poisoned by this image I can't unsee.
He came home and touched me with the same hands that had been on another man. Kissed me with the same lips that had just kissed someone else. Made me believe we were healing while hiding this secret like a knife behind his back.
From across the room, I hear Asher's voice, something about calling the investigator tomorrow, about keeping Sophie safe, but the words blur into meaningless noise.
My vision swims as everything I thought I knew about our reconciliation crumbles around me.