Epilogue
Roman
Five years ago, I thought power was a zero-sum game. I thought that in order to have it, you had to take it from someone else. You had to hoard it, protect it, and build walls so high that no one could climb over them.
I was an idiot.
Power wasn't about walls. It was about the woman in the emerald green silk gown standing in the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, and laughing at something the Mayor of Chicago just said.
We were at the grand opening of Sterling & Volkov, Vanessa’s flagship store on the Magnificent Mile. The space was massive—industrial chic, exposed brick, and lighting that cost more than my first car. The air smelled of expensive candles and fresh peonies.
I stood by a mannequin wearing a suit that looked suspiciously like the one I was wearing—because it was. I was the muse, after all.
"You look bored, Captain," a voice drawled from my left.
I turned to see Carter "Banksy" Banks. He was wearing a suit that was too loud—checkered blue—and holding a crab cake. Banksy was my backup goalie now. We had been traded together, drafted together, and survived together.
"I am not bored," I said, taking a sip of my sparkling water. "I am vigilant."
"Vigilant," Banksy snorted. "You're drooling. You've been staring at your wife for twenty minutes. It’s embarrassing. You’re Roman Volkov. You’re a Stanley Cup champion. You’re supposed to be scary."
"I am scary," I said. "Ask the Red Wings."
"You're a marshmallow," Banksy corrected. "A giant, Russian, dangerous marshmallow. Look at you. You're holding her purse."
I looked down. I was, in fact, holding Vanessa’s small, glittery clutch.
"It matches my tie," I said defensively.
Banksy shook his head, clapping me on the shoulder. "God, I love a happy ending. Who would have thought? The Ice Man and the Princess. You guys really showed everyone, huh?"
I looked back at Vanessa. She caught my eye across the crowded room.
The mask she used to wear—the "Brat," the "Spoiled Girl"—was gone. In its place was pure, unadulterated confidence. She wasn't President Sterling's daughter anymore. She wasn't Roman Volkov's wife. She was Vanessa. She had built this empire from scratch, stitching her soul into every seam.
She winked at me. A slow, deliberate wink that promised trouble later.
I felt that familiar pull in my chest. The gravity.
"Yes," I murmured to Banksy. "We showed them."
A reporter from Vogue approached Vanessa. I watched her handle it. She was graceful, sharp, and commanding.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out. It was a notification from my portfolio manager.
Dividend Payout: Volkov Holdings.
I swiped it away.
My father was still alive. He was still rich. He was still miserable in Moscow.
He had tried to sue us, of course. He had tried to block the draft. But he hadn't counted on the Chicago Blackhawks legal team, or the fact that Vanessa had leaked the story of his blackmail to a New York Times reporter.
The article—The Price of a Prospect: How a Billionaire Father Tried to Sell His Son—had destroyed his leverage. The NHL had stepped in. He was banned from contact.
I hadn't spoken to him in five years.
And looking around this room, filled with friends, teammates, and the woman who loved me... I realized I didn't miss him. Not even a little.
Vanessa excused herself from the reporter and walked toward me. The crowd parted for her. She moved like water.
She stopped in front of me, placing a hand on my chest.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," I said. "You are the most beautiful thing in this room. And I am including the architecture."
She smiled. "You're biased. And you're holding my purse."
"I am accessorizing."
She laughed, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "Are you ready to go? My feet are killing me, and I want to see the dog."
"I have the car waiting," I said.
"Good. Because if I have to talk to one more person about 'fabric drape,' I might stab someone with a heel."
"That would be bad for PR," I noted.
"Take me home, Volkov," she ordered.
"Yes, ma'am."
I handed her the purse. I took her hand. And we walked out of the gala, leaving the cameras and the noise behind, stepping into the cool Chicago night as a united front.
Vanessa
The loft was exactly as I had pictured it all those years ago in that hotel room in Boston.
It was in the West Loop. Top floor. Massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the skyline. Exposed brick. Hardwood floors that creaked just enough to feel like home.
Roman unlocked the door.
Immediately, we were assaulted.
"Ivan! Down!" Roman commanded, though his voice lacked any real authority.
Ivan, our Great Dane, did not get down. He was a hundred and seventy pounds of grey fur and affection. He placed his massive paws on Roman’s shoulders, looking him in the eye, and licked his face.
"Disgusting beast," Roman grumbled, scratching the dog behind the ears. "You are a monster. A slobber factory."
"He loves you," I said, kicking off my heels by the door. "He missed his dad."
"He is hungry," Roman corrected. "That is not love. That is opportunism."
He walked Ivan to the kitchen to feed him. I watched him go.
Roman Volkov in a tuxedo feeding a giant dog. It was my favorite genre of art.
I walked into the living room and collapsed onto the massive, cloud-like sectional. I closed my eyes.
The store opening had been perfect. The sales were astronomical. I had done it.
But the success felt... different than I thought it would.
In college, I thought success would fix me. I thought if I proved I was talented, the "Imposter Syndrome" would vanish.
It hadn't vanished. But it was quieter now. Because I knew that even if the store burned down tomorrow, even if I never sold another dress... I had this.
I had the loft. I had the dog. I had Roman.
"Water," Roman said, appearing above me. He handed me a glass. "Hydrate."
"You're still bossy," I smiled, taking the glass.
"I am a Captain," he said, sitting down next to me. He loosened his tie, letting it hang undone around his neck. He undid the top button of his shirt.
The sight of his throat, the pulse beating there, made my mouth dry.
Five years.
Five years of waking up next to him. Five years of learning every scar, every mood, every trigger. And I still wanted him with a desperation that scared me.
"You were amazing tonight," he said, resting his arm on the back of the sofa, playing with a strand of my hair. "Mrs. Volkov, the mogul."
"Mr. Volkov, the muse," I countered. "You sold a lot of suits tonight."
"I felt like a mannequin," he grumbled. "People were touching the fabric. I do not like being touched."
"You let me touch you," I whispered.
He looked at me. His eyes darkened. The blue shifted to black.
"That is different," he said. "You own the merchandise."
He reached out and ran a finger down the strap of my dress.
"Speaking of merchandise," he murmured. "This dress. It is... complicated."
"It has a zipper," I said. "In the back."
"Efficient," he noted.
He pulled me into his lap. I went willingly, straddling his waist, careful of the silk.
"I missed you today," he said, burying his face in my neck. "You were busy. I didn't like it."
"I was busy being successful," I teased.
"I prefer you busy being mine," he growled.
He found the zipper. The sound of it sliding down was the loudest thing in the room.
The dress pooled at my waist. I wasn't wearing a bra.
Roman pulled back to look at me. His gaze was physical. Heavy. He traced the curve of my breast with his thumb.
"Perfect," he whispered. "Still perfect."
"Roman," I breathed, my head falling back. "Bedroom."
"No," he said. "Here. The windows."
I looked at the massive windows. The city lights were bright.
"Someone might see," I said.
"Let them see," he said. "Let them be jealous."
He stood up, carrying me with him. I wrapped my legs around his waist.
He walked us to the window. He pressed me against the glass. The city of Chicago was spread out below us, a carpet of diamonds.
But the only thing I saw was him.
The Sanctuary
We made love against the glass, suspended above the world.
It wasn't frantic. It was a slow, deep conversation.
Roman knew my body better than I did. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply.
He stripped off his shirt, tossing it aside. His chest—broad, tattooed, scarred—pressed against mine.
"Look," he commanded, turning me so I faced the reflection in the window.
I looked.
It was breathtaking. The city lights behind us. And in the glass, the reflection of a massive, powerful man wrapping himself around a woman who looked... claimed.
"Tell me who you belong to," he whispered in my ear, his hands gripping my hips.
"You," I gasped, watching his reflection thrust into mine. "I belong to you."
"Forever," he promised.
He drove into me, deep and steady.
"I love you," he groaned. "Vanessa. My life."
"I love you," I cried.
When the end came, it was a tidal wave. I shattered in his arms, screaming his name, leaving my mark on the glass with my hands.
He followed me seconds later, burying his face in my hair, his body rigid with release.
We collapsed onto the rug—a thick, white fur rug that we bought specifically for this purpose.
Ivan trotted in from the kitchen, looked at us, sighed, and lay down on his dog bed in the corner.
Roman laughed. A deep, rich sound.
He pulled the throw blanket off the sofa and covered us.
We lay there in the afterglow, staring at the ceiling.
"Roman?"
"Mm?"
"I have to tell you something," I said.
My heart started to race.
I had been waiting for the right moment. The store opening. The quiet.
"Is it bad?" he asked, turning his head to look at me. He looked worried. The protective instinct flaring up.
"No," I said. "It's... big."
I sat up, wrapping the blanket around myself.
I walked over to my purse on the counter. I pulled out the small gift box I had hidden there.
I walked back and handed it to him.
"Happy opening day," I whispered.
He frowned. He sat up. He took the box.
He opened it.
Inside was a pair of tiny, knitted hockey skates. Baby skates.
And a positive pregnancy test.
Roman stared at the box.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
"Roman?" I whispered. "Say something."
He looked up.
His eyes were filled with tears.
The Ice Man. The Tsar. The monster of the midway. Crying.
"Is this real?" he choked out.
"It's real," I said. "I found out this morning."
He looked at the skates. He picked one up. It was so small in his massive hand.
"A baby," he whispered. "Our baby."
"Actually," I bit my lip. "About that."
He looked at me. "What?"
"I had an early ultrasound," I said. "Because... twins run in my family."
His eyes went wide.
"No," he breathed.
"Yes," I nodded, smiling through my own tears. "Two heartbeats, Roman. We're having twins."
The box fell from his hands.
He lunged for me. He pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my stomach. He kissed my skin. He kissed my hands.
"Twins," he laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. "You were right. You are a witch. You predicted this."
"I told you," I said, running my hands through his hair. "I have a vision."
He looked up at me. He looked terrified and exhilarated.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "Two of them? I can barely handle Ivan."
"You'll be great," I promised. "You're a Captain. You know how to lead a line."
"This is different," he said. "This is... legacy."
He placed his large hand over my stomach.
"I will protect them," he vowed. "I will protect you. No matter what."
"I know," I said.
He kissed me. It was the sweetest kiss of our entire lives.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For saving me. For giving me this."
"Thank you for letting me in," I said.
Six months later.
The nursery was painted a soft, dove grey. It was filled with light.
Two cribs stood side by side.
I sat in the rocking chair, heavy with the weight of two growing boys. My ankles were swollen. My back hurt.
Roman walked in. He was wearing his game suit. He had just come home from the arena.
He walked over to me. He kissed my forehead.
"How are they?" he asked, looking at my stomach.
"Active," I said. "They're playing hockey in there. High sticking."
He smiled. He knelt down. He pressed his ear to my belly.
"Be nice to your mother," he commanded softly. "Or I will bench you."
I laughed.
He looked up at me.
"I have to go back," he said. "Team dinner."
"Go," I said. "We're fine."
"I don't want to go," he said. "I want to stay here. In the bubble."
"The bubble is always here," I said. "Go lead your team, Captain."
He stood up. He walked to the door.
He stopped and looked back.
The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the room. Over the cribs. Over me.
"You know," he said. "The problem with revenge..."
I smiled. The first sentence of our story. The night I broke into his locker room.
"...is the footwear," I finished.
"No," he shook his head. "The problem with revenge is that it's lonely. I'm glad I chose this instead."
He looked at his life. The life we built out of broken pieces and stubborn hope.
"I love you, Vanessa Volkov."
"I love you, Roman Volkov."
He walked out the door.
I looked out the window at the city lights.
I thought about the girl in the pink coat. I thought about the boy with the scar.
We had started as a collision. We had turned into a war.
But in the end?
We were the only victory that mattered.