The Cold Superstar Demands A Second Chance

The driver behind them held down his horn, the sound piercing through the glass.

Quinn cursed, hitting the gas and jerking the Range Rover down the ramp into the underground VIP parking garage.

The inside of the car was dead silent. Quinn gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were bone white, waiting for Avery to finish her sentence.

The SUV hit a speed bump, bouncing violently. Avery used the physical jolt to force the words out of her throat.

"He's my ex-boyfriend," Avery said, staring blankly at the dim fluorescent lights passing overhead.

Quinn sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands jerked, and the heavy SUV swerved, missing a concrete pillar by less than an inch.

Quinn slammed the car into park in a VIP spot and whipped her entire body around to face Avery.

Before Quinn could open her mouth to scream, a frantic pounding hit the passenger side window.

Three girls wearing black masks and heavy cameras around their necks had clearly bribed a guard or slipped through the broken service elevator, bypassing security entirely. They were pressing their faces against the glass.

One of the girls recognized Avery. She ripped off her mask and shoved her middle finger right against the window.

Even through the thick glass, Avery could hear the muffled screams. "Homewrecker! Slut!"

Quinn saw red. She reached for her door handle to get out and fight them.

Avery's hand shot out, clamping down hard on Quinn's wrist.

"Don't," Avery commanded, her voice ice-cold. "You'll just give TMZ another headline."

Avery picked up her black sunglasses and slid them on. She pushed open her door and stepped out into the humid garage.

She stood perfectly straight, her posture rigid, completely ignoring the girls screaming inches from her face.

The paparazzi froze for a split second, intimidated by her absolute lack of reaction, before they started snapping photos frantically.

Avery's heels clicked sharply against the concrete as she walked toward the VIP elevator bank.

Just as she neared the doors, the heavy metal fire exit to her right burst open.

Four massive bodyguards flooded into the garage.

Blinding beams from their tactical flashlights swept across the dark space, hitting the paparazzi. The girls shrieked and scrambled backward.

Surrounded by the wall of muscle, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows.

Avery's feet stopped moving. Her heel scraped against the floor, making a harsh, abrupt sound.

It was Graham.

He was wearing a dark, custom-tailored suit. The boyish softness she remembered from seven years ago was entirely gone, replaced by the suffocating, heavy aura of a man who owned the world.

Avery stared at him through her dark lenses. All the oxygen vanished from the garage. Her chest tightened so painfully she couldn't breathe.

The paparazzi girls saw him and lost their minds, screaming his name and trying to lunge forward, but the bodyguards shoved them back.

Graham didn't look at the girls. He walked straight toward the elevators, his strides long, heavy, and completely unbothered.

Avery instinctively took a half-step back, her fingers curling tightly into the pockets of her suit jacket.

The distance between them vanished.

As he walked past her, the crisp, cold scent of cedarwood hit Avery's senses, violently dragging her back to a rainy night in New York.

Avery lifted her chin slightly, bracing herself for the anger, the questions, or the mockery she deserved.

He walked past her, his gaze not shifting a single millimeter, as if she were an insignificant crack in the concrete wall. But as the distance between them disappeared, Avery felt the temperature around her plummet to freezing, a suppressed, suffocating chill as the man swept past her with the chill of a raging storm.

Avery stood frozen on the concrete. A massive, crushing weight of disappointment and a sharp, stinging pain gripped her heart.