Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mila
The silence in the Fortress was not peaceful. It was predatory.
I sat at the kitchen island—the scene of yesterday’s crime—staring into a mug of black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
My skin still felt too tight.
Every time I moved, I felt the phantom pressure of Theo’s hand on my waist. The memory was visceral, a sensory imprint that refused to fade.
I could still smell the sandalwood and cold air clinging to his suit jacket.
I could still hear the rough, gravel-slide of his voice whispering against my ear.
I’m the one who ends the game.
I shivered, pulling my oversized cashmere cardigan tighter around my body.
It was ridiculous. I was Mila Kensington.
I had dated senators' sons and tech heirs.
I had been propositioned by men with yachts bigger than this entire house.
I shouldn't be rattled by a hockey player who treated conversation like a contact sport.
But I was.
I was rattled because for a terrifying ten seconds on that dance floor, I hadn't been acting. I hadn't been playing the "brat" to get a rise out of him. I had been… reacting. I had wanted him to bite me. I had wanted him to drag me into the dark and ruin me.
And that was a problem.
Because Theo Volkov wasn't a hookup. He was a wall. He was an obligation. And worse, he was working for my father.
My phone buzzed on the granite counter, vibrating against the stone with a jarring brrr-brrr.
I looked at the screen. It was an email notification.
From: The Metropolitan Museum of Art – Internship Program
Subject: Application Status Update
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. The escape hatch. The only thing I had kept secret from my father, from my friends, from everyone. If I got this, I could leave Blackthorne. I could go to New York. I could be someone other than the Kensington Princess.
I swiped the notification open, my fingers trembling.
Dear Ms. Kensington,
Thank you for your interest in the Summer Restoration Intensive.
While your portfolio shows promise, the committee feels that your current academic standing and lack of demonstrated field discipline do not align with the rigor required for this program.
We encourage you to apply again when you have developed a more serious commitment to the craft.
Sincerely, Dr. Arthur Evans.
Lack of demonstrated field discipline.
Not serious.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
It was like a physical slap. They didn't see the hours I spent in the studio.
They didn't see the chemistry textbooks I memorized to understand solvent reactions.
They just saw the last name. They saw the headlines.
They saw the "party girl" my father complained about in the press.
I felt a crack form in the center of my chest. A deep, hairline fracture running through the armor I wore so carefully.
I wasn't an artist to them. I was a joke. A socialite playing dress-up with paintbrushes.
"Damn it," I whispered, the sound choking off in my throat.
I couldn't be here. I couldn't be in this cold, masculine house with its smells of aggression and order. I needed to breathe.
I grabbed my bag, shoving the phone deep into the bottom where I wouldn't have to look at it. I grabbed my keys—the spare set for the beat-up Honda Civic my father had graciously allowed me to rent after seizing the G-Wagon—and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
The voice stopped me with my hand on the doorknob.
I didn't turn around. I couldn't. If I turned around, he would see the redness in my eyes. He would see the crack.
"Out," I said, keeping my voice flat.
"Rule One," Theo said. I could hear him walking down the hallway. Heavy, deliberate steps. "Sunday is a recovery day. We stay in."
"I have a project," I lied, staring at the grain of the wood on the door. "For class. If I don't finish it, I fail. And if I fail, my father pulls the plug on this whole 'rehabilitation' charade, and you lose your draft pick. So really, I’m doing this for you."
Silence.
I waited for the command. I waited for him to tell me to sit, to stay, to heel.
"Be back by six," Theo said. His voice was tired. "And keep your phone on."
I didn't answer. I just ripped the door open and fled into the biting Vermont wind.
The Blackthorne Art Restoration Lab was my Sanctuary.
It was located in the basement of the Fine Arts building, a windowless, climate-controlled bunker that smelled of turpentine, old canvas, and silence. Most students avoided it. It was too quiet, too clinical.
I loved it.
I had been here for six hours.
I was sitting on a high stool, hunched over a massive easel.
illuminate by the harsh, color-correcting lights of a magnifying lamp.
In front of me was a 19th-century portrait of a grim-looking magistrate that the university collection had neglected for decades.
The varnish was yellowed and cracked, obscuring the brushwork underneath.
I held a cotton swab the size of a pinhead in my hand. I dipped it into a mixture of ethanol and isooctane—a solvent blend I had spent three weeks perfecting.
With the breath held in my lungs, I touched the swab to the canvas. I moved it in a tiny, circular motion, no bigger than a dime.
Slowly, agonizingly, the yellow grime lifted. Beneath the age and the neglect, a vibrant, deep blue emerged. The color of the magistrate’s coat.
It was magic. It was the only thing in my life I could control. I couldn't fix my reputation. I couldn't fix my relationship with my father. I couldn't fix the fact that I was a twenty-one-year-old virgin who was terrified of intimacy.
But I could fix this. I could heal the paint.
"Focus," I whispered to myself, my hand steady despite the caffeine tremors. "Just focus on the blue."
But the email kept flashing in my mind. Lack of serious commitment.
My hand slipped.
Not much. Just a fraction of a millimeter. But the swab dragged across a flake of loose paint, lifting it.
"No!" I gasped, dropping the swab.
I stared at the tiny speck of blue paint on the cotton tip. I had damaged it. I had hurt the thing I was trying to save.
The frustration that had been building all morning—the rejection, the shame, the confusion about Theo—erupted.
I grabbed the solvent jar and hurled it across the room.
It smashed against the far wall with a satisfying, violent crash. Glass shattered. The smell of alcohol filled the room instantly.
"I hate this!" I screamed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "I hate everything!"
I buried my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking. The tears finally came—hot, ugly, humiliating sobs that racked my entire body. I felt small. I felt stupid. I felt exactly like the little girl my father said I was.
"Impressive arm."
I froze.
The voice was low, rumbly, and familiar.
I spun around on the stool, wiping my face frantically with the back of my hand, smearing solvent and tears across my skin.
Theo was standing in the doorway of the lab.
He looked… different.
He wasn't wearing the suit from last night. He wasn't wearing the workout gear I usually saw him in. He was wearing jeans—dark wash, worn at the knees—and a grey cable-knit sweater that softened the harsh lines of his shoulders. He looked softer. Or maybe just more tired.
He was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. But his eyes weren't cold. They were scanning the room—the shattered glass, the half-cleaned painting, my tear-streaked face.
"What are you doing here?" I choked out, my voice thick. "Are you tracking me?"
"Your phone GPS," he admitted without shame. "You’ve been here six hours, Mila. You didn't eat lunch. I brought food."
He held up a brown paper bag from the sandwich shop on campus.
I stared at the bag. Then I looked at the glass on the floor. "I broke a jar."
"I see that," Theo said. He walked into the room. He didn't step carefully; he moved with that innate confidence that the world would move for him. He set the bag on a clean workbench and walked over to the shattered mess.
He crouched down, picking up a large shard of glass.
"Don't," I warned, sniffing. "It’s chemical waste. You shouldn't touch it."
"I’ve touched worse," he muttered. He stood up, dumping the glass into a hazardous waste bin. Then he turned to look at the painting.
I wanted to cover it. I wanted to hide it. It was too exposing. It was like he was looking at my diary.
"This is what you do?" he asked. He stepped closer to the easel, peering at the tiny circle of blue I had revealed. "You clean old pictures?"
"It’s called conservation," I corrected defensively, sliding off the stool. My legs felt shaky. "And yes. It’s what I do. When I’m not being a 'distraction' or a 'brat.'"
Theo looked at the painting, then at me. His gaze lingered on my hands. They were stained with yellow varnish and chemicals. My nails, usually perfectly manicured, were chipped.
"You have good hands," he said quietly.
I blinked. "What?"
"Steady," he clarified. He nodded at the magnifying glass. "To work that small… you have to have discipline. You have to control your breathing. Your pulse."
He looked me in the eye. "It contradicts the data."
"The data?" I laughed bitterly, crossing my arms. "You mean the file my father gave you? 'Mila is reckless. Mila is loud. Mila can't focus on anything for more than five minutes.'"
"Something like that," Theo admitted.
"Well, maybe the data is wrong," I snapped. The anger flared again, fueling me. "Maybe I’m actually good at something. But it doesn't matter. Because nobody cares. To them, I’m just a checkbook with legs."
I gestured to the phone in my bag. "I just got rejected from the only internship that matters. They said I lack 'discipline.' They think I’m a joke."
My voice broke on the last word.
Theo didn't say anything for a long moment. He just watched me. The silence stretched, but it wasn't the heavy, suffocating silence of the house. It was thoughtful.