Chapter 4 #2
I looked her in the eye.
"I am failing Marketing," I said.
She stared at me. Then, she let out a wet, incredulous laugh. "You? The Tsar? Failing? I thought you were perfect at everything."
"I am failing because I do not 'connect emotionally' with the material," I said stiffly. "I need a B to play. I need to write a 'Personal Brand Strategy.'"
Vanessa wiped her eyes. The marketing student in her woke up. I could see the shift. Her posture straightened.
"You don't have a brand strategy," she said. "You're an enigma. You're the 'Ice Man.' That's a brand, Roman, but it's a cold one. You need to humanize yourself."
"I do not want to be humanized," I said. "I want to be drafted."
"Same thing," she countered. "Teams want a story. They don't just draft a stat sheet. They draft a person."
She looked at me, really looked at me, analyzing me like a product.
"I can help you," she said slowly. "I can write your strategy. I can teach you how to fake the emotional connection. I can make you look like the perfect, marketable leader."
"Good," I said. "Then do it."
"No," she said.
I frowned. "No?"
"No," she repeated, leaning forward. A spark of the brat was back. "Why should I help you? You've been nothing but rude to me. You made me clean a locker with a toothbrush. You banished me to a basement."
"It was a towel," I corrected. "And I did not banish you. You invaded."
"Semantics," she waved a hand. "I'm busy, Roman. I have to redesign my entire collection in three weeks or I fail."
"You said you need a model," I said. "Someone who understands armor."
She paused. Her gaze dropped to my chest, then to my shoulders. She looked at the width of me. The way the t-shirt strained across my chest.
"I need a specific type," she murmured. "Someone big. Someone who carries weight. Someone who looks like they could burn the world down but chooses not to."
"I am 6'5"," I said. "I weigh 225 pounds. And I am very good at not burning things down."
She bit her lip. She was considering it.
"You hate being looked at," she pointed out.
"Yes," I admitted. "I hate it."
"You'd have to stand still for hours," she said. "While I pin fabric on you. While I measure you. Everywhere."
My throat went dry.
Everywhere.
The thought of her hands on me—measuring my inseam, my chest, my waist—sent a jolt of heat through my veins that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with desire.
"I can stand still," I said. My voice was rougher than I intended.
She looked at me. The air between us shifted. It wasn't the hostile tension of the party. It was something heavier. A pact.
"Okay," she said softly. "Here is the deal."
She grabbed a charcoal pencil and flipped to a fresh page in her sketchbook.
"I tutor you," she said, writing ROMAN at the top. "I help you write the brand strategy. I make sure you get an A. I make you look like a human being."
"And in return?" I asked.
She wrote VANESSA on the other side.
"You are my muse," she said. "You are my model. You give me your time. You give me your body. For the collection."
You give me your body.
The words hung in the quiet library air.
"For the collection," I clarified.
"Strictly professional," she said. But her eyes weren't looking at my face. They were looking at my mouth.
"And the basement?" I asked. "We need a ceasefire."
"Fine," she said. "Truce. No more loud music. No more hostility."
She held out her hand across the table. It was small, delicate, stained with charcoal dust.
"Do we have a deal, Volkov?"
I looked at her hand. Then I looked at her face. The mascara was smeared, her nose was red, and she was wearing my shirt. She looked messy. She looked real.
And for the first time, I didn't want to fix the mess. I wanted to stay in it.
I reached out and took her hand. Her skin was soft. Mine was rough.
"Deal," I said.
I squeezed her hand. I didn't let go immediately.
"One condition," I added.
Her breath hitched. "What?"
"You stop crying," I said low. "It... bothers me."
She stared at me. Then, a small, genuine smile broke through the sadness. It transformed her face. It was dangerous.
"You have a savior complex, don't you?" she teased.
"I like order," I said, finally releasing her hand. "Crying is chaotic."
"Okay," she whispered. "No more crying."
"Good."
I opened my Marketing textbook.
"So," I said, staring at the page so I wouldn't have to look at the curve of her smile. "Tell me about my brand."
"Well," Vanessa said, her voice lighter now, tapping her pencil against the table. "First of all, we need to work on your 'Resting Murder Face.' It's terrifying."
"It is focused," I defended.
"It scares children," she countered. "We're going to fix it."
I looked up at her. She was sketching again, but this time, her strokes were confident. Fast.
I watched her work.
I was in trouble.
I had just agreed to let the enemy inside my defenses. I had agreed to let her measure me, analyze me, and rebuild me.
But as I watched the tension leave her shoulders, as I saw the spark of creativity come back into her hazel eyes... I realized the pain in my hip had receded to the background.
For the first time all day, the information wasn't pain.
It was hope.
And that terrified me more than anything.