Chapter 2
Maeve
I groaned, pulling my faux-fur coat over my head, trying to burrow deeper into the makeshift nest of fabric scraps and old pattern paper I’d constructed on the floor. My neck felt like it had been fused into a permanent crick, and my mouth tasted like stale Cabernet and regret.
Good girl.
The words echoed in my skull, louder than the radiator clanking in the corner.
My eyes snapped open beneath the coat.
God. I had hallucinated that. I must have hallucinated that. There was no universe where Kai Volkov—the Ice King of Blackstone, a man who looked at emotions the way most people looked at roadkill—had murmured praise to me while I did his laundry.
But my body remembered.
I shifted on the hard floor, and a phantom heat flared low in my belly, a treacherous little pulse that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
It was humiliating. I was Maeve Sterling.
I was supposed to be the untouchable, high-maintenance queen bee of the marketing department.
I dated finance bros who bought me jewelry I didn’t wear.
I didn't get turned on by hockey captains treating me like a naughty child.
I sat up, pushing the coat away. The studio—my Sanctuary—was a chaotic explosion of color.
Mannequins draped in half-finished lace bodices, spools of thread scattered like confetti, sketches of lingerie pinned to the corkboards.
This was the only place I was real. Everywhere else, I was the Dean’s daughter.
Here, I was just a girl trying to figure out how to make silk behave.
I checked my phone. 10:14 AM.
Fourteen missed calls.
Twelve texts.
All from Harper.
My stomach dropped. Harper Lee, my roommate and best friend, was the human equivalent of a tornado. If she was calling this much, it wasn’t to ask for bagel orders. It was a Category 5 disaster.
I unlocked the screen, squinting against the brightness.
HARPER: ANSWER THE PHONE MAEVE.
HARPER: IT’S BAD.
HARPER: THEY FOUND THE STASH.
HARPER: DAD IS COMING.
HARPER: WE ARE EVICTED.
The phone slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the hardwood floor.
Evicted.
The air left my lungs.
We lived in the Alpha Chi house—technically. It was the "Annex," the luxury off-campus townhouse the sorority owned for seniors. It was the only housing approved by my father because it had a security system and a house mother who was supposed to be watching us.
But Harper… Harper liked to push boundaries. And apparently, the "stash"—which I assumed referred to the unauthorized mini-bar she’d installed in the ventilation shaft—had been discovered.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the dizziness. I had to fix this. I always had to fix this.
Forty minutes later, I was standing in the Dean’s office.
The Administration Building was a fortress of mahogany and intimidation. It smelled of lemon polish and old money. The receptionists all wore cardigans and silent judgment. They knew who I was. I was the problem child. The one who spent too much on clothes and not enough time in the library.
I smoothed the front of my oversized cashmere sweater, wishing I had time to change out of yesterday’s leggings. I felt small. I always felt small in here.
“He’s ready for you, Miss Sterling,” the secretary said, not looking up from her typing.
I walked to the double oak doors. My hand hovered over the brass knob. I took a breath. Armor up, Maeve. Don’t let him see you sweat.
I pasted on my best bored expression—the one that said I’d rather be in Paris—and pushed the door open.
Dean William Sterling was sitting behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from the hull of a warship. He didn’t look up as I entered. He was signing papers, his gold pen scratching aggressively against the parchment.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. The leather chair was cold.
“I assume you’ve spoken to Miss Lee,” he said, still writing.
“It was a misunderstanding, Daddy,” I started, my voice pitching higher than I wanted. “Harper just—”
“Harper Lee has been suspended for the remainder of the semester for possession of illicit substances and violation of housing conduct codes,” he cut in.
He finally looked up. His eyes were the same color as mine—violet-blue—but where mine were usually wide with anxiety, his were narrow and hard.
“She is on a plane back to Connecticut as we speak.”
I gripped the armrests of the chair. Harper was gone? Just like that?
“Okay,” I swallowed. “So… I’ll find a new roommate. I can ask Chloe to move into the Annex—”
“The Annex is closed for renovation,” he said. “The sorority board has revoked the charter for that house due to the… incident. You have twenty-four hours to vacate the premises.”
The room started to spin.
“Vacate?” I choked out. “Daddy, it’s February. In Vermont. Where am I supposed to go? The dorms are full. The apartments are all leased.”
“I am aware,” he said calmly. He capped his pen and set it down. “Which is why I have had to call in a significant favor. This is embarrassing, Maeve. You are a senior. You represent this university. And yet, I am constantly cleaning up your messes.”
The shame burned hot in my chest, rising up my neck. I wanted to scream that I hadn’t done anything. It was Harper’s stash. I was just the idiot who lived next door to it. But it didn't matter. In William Sterling’s world, guilt was by association.
“I didn't ask you to clean it up,” I muttered, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I can stay at a hotel.”
“You maxed out your credit card last week at Saks,” he reminded me.
I bit my lip. Right. Retail therapy. My coping mechanism.
“I have made arrangements,” he announced, opening a drawer and pulling out a key. It wasn't a normal key. It was a heavy, silver fob. “You will be staying at the Blackstone Tower.”
My heart skipped a beat. The Blackstone Tower was the most exclusive building in town. It was where the alumni donors stayed when they visited. It was penthouse living.
“A hotel suite?” I asked, hope flickering. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Room service. Privacy.
“A private residence,” he corrected. “Owned by the Volkov family. Mr. Volkov—the father—is a dear friend and a major benefactor. He keeps the penthouse for his son, but it is a four-bedroom unit. There is ample space.”
The air in the room suddenly felt very thin.
Volkov.
His son.
My brain short-circuited. A montage of last night flashed behind my eyes: The spilled wine. The command to strip the bed. The way his knee had pressed between my legs. The way he had looked at me like he wanted to break me apart and put me back together in a shape he liked better.
“No,” I said. The word came out breathless, panicked. “No. Daddy, I can’t stay there.”
My father raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t stay with… with a boy,” I stammered, grasping for straws. “It’s inappropriate. What will people say?”
“People will say you are lucky to have a roof over your head,” he snapped. “And Kai isn’t just a ‘boy.’ He is the Captain of the hockey team. He is disciplined. He is focused. Frankly, some of that might rub off on you.”
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. He walked around the desk and held out the key fob.
“Kai is on academic probation,” my father added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.
“I have made it clear to him that his housing situation—and his eligibility to play—depends on his cooperation in this matter. He will behave. You will behave. You will keep your head down, finish your degree, and stop embarrassing this family.”
I stared at the silver fob in his hand. It felt like a handcuff.
Kai was being forced to take me in. He was being blackmailed by my father to let me live with him.
He was going to hate me.
If he thought I was a brat last night, he was going to think I was a parasite today.
“Take the key, Maeve.”
I reached out, my hand trembling. The cold metal pressed into my palm.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered, the words tasting like bile.
Moving out was a blur of tears and expensive luggage.
Since Harper was already gone, I had to pack alone. I threw clothes into my Louis Vuitton duffels without folding them. Silk blouses mixed with sweatpants. Shoes thrown in with toiletries. It was a physical manifestation of my mental state: a complete and utter disaster.
By the time I wrestled my four giant suitcases and three garment bags into the back of my Range Rover, it was dark. The wind was howling off the lake, whipping my hair across my face.
I drove to Blackstone Tower in silence. The building rose out of the snowy landscape like a shard of black glass, ominous and sleek. It looked like a villain’s lair. Which, considering who lived there, was fitting.
I parked in the underground garage. The elevator ride up to the penthouse floor took forever. My reflection in the mirrored doors mocked me. My eyes were puffy. My mascara was smudged. I looked exactly like what I was: a little girl who had lost her way.
Pull it together, Sterling.
I adjusted my coat. I fixed my hair. I reapplied my lipstick, using the camera on my phone.
If I was going to walk into the lion’s den, I was going to do it wearing Chanel.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.
I expected a hallway. I expected a foyer.
I didn't expect to step directly into the living room.
The penthouse was massive. It spanned the entire top floor, an open-concept expanse of dark wood, grey slate, and leather. The far wall was entirely glass, showcasing the glittering lights of the campus below. It was beautiful, cold, and masculine.
And it was occupied.
Kai was in the kitchen. He was standing by the island, eating something out of a Tupperware container with a fork. He was wearing grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up.
He stopped chewing when the elevator doors opened.
He turned slowly. His grey eyes landed on me, then drifted to the mountain of luggage I was dragging behind me.
He didn't blink. He didn't smile. He looked at me with a profound, exhausted irritation.