Chapter 6 #2
"Then we adapt," I said. "We control the variables. We limit the contact."
"Limit the contact?" She laughed, a brittle sound. "You live in my basement. You are my model. You are my student."
"We set rules," I said. "New rules. No touching. No talk of... what happened. We finish the project. We survive the semester."
She looked at me, searching my face. She looked desperate for me to fix this. To be the Captain. To create order out of the chaos we had made.
"Can you do that?" she asked. "Can you turn it off?"
I looked at her mouth. I wanted to kiss her so badly my teeth ached.
"Yes," I lied.
"Okay," she breathed. She pulled her wrist from my grip. "Okay. New rules. Strictly professional."
"Strictly professional."
"I have to go," she said. "I have a meeting with my advisor."
"Go."
She fled. She literally ran down the hallway.
I watched her go. I reached into my pocket and touched the cold metal of her ring.
I was a liar. I couldn't turn it off. I wasn't going to turn it off.
I was just going to wait until she broke first.
The breakdown happened sooner than I expected.
It was 9:00 PM. The house was quiet for once. The team was out at a bar downtown, celebrating a birthday. I had stayed behind. Penance.
I was in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. A domestic habit I picked up from my grandmother before she died. It was calming.
I heard the front door open. Then slam.
Then, the sound of boots stomping up the stairs.
Not the confident, rhythmic click of Vanessa’s usual walk. This was frantic. Heavy.
I turned off the stove. I walked to the bottom of the stairs.
"Vanessa?"
No answer. Just the sound of a door slamming on the second floor—the guest room she was using as a studio because the basement lighting was "tragic."
I hesitated. New rules. Strictly professional.
But the sound of that door slam... it wasn't anger. It was despair.
I climbed the stairs.
The door to the studio was ajar. I pushed it open.
The room was a mess. Fabric everywhere. Mannequins draped in half-finished garments.
Vanessa was standing in the middle of the room. She was still wearing her teaching clothes, but she had ripped the blazer off and thrown it on the floor. She was pacing, holding her phone to her ear.
"I understand," she said. Her voice was trembling. "No, Daddy, I... I understand. But the show is in two weeks."
Daddy. President Sterling.
I stopped in the doorway. I shouldn't listen.
"It's not a hobby," she said, her voice cracking. "It's my degree. It's my career... No, I know the Foundation is important, but... I don't want to plan the gala. I want to show my collection."
She went silent. Listening. Her posture crumbled. Her shoulders slumped. She looked like she was shrinking.
"Yes," she whispered. "I know how much you paid for my tuition. I know."
Pause.
"I won't embarrass you. I promise."
She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. Then she ended the call.
She didn't scream. She didn't throw the phone.
She just dropped to her knees.
She sank into the pile of fabric scraps on the floor, wrapped her arms around herself, and let out a sound that tore straight through my chest. A silent, gasping sob.
Rules be damned.
I crossed the room in three strides.
"Vanessa."
She looked up. Her face was ravaged. Mascara running, lips trembling. She looked terrified that I had seen her like this.
"Go away," she choked out. "Please. Not now."
I ignored her. I knelt down in front of her. I didn't touch her yet. I just put myself in her space, blocking out the rest of the room.
"What did he say?" I asked. My voice was low, dangerous. I wanted to punch something. Preferably the President of the University.
"He... he's pulling the funding," she whispered. "For the show. If I don't agree to take the job at the Foundation immediately after graduation. If I don't stop 'playing seamstress.'"
She wiped her eyes aggressively, smearing the black makeup.
"He said I'm embarrassing him," she said. "That my designs are... vulgar. That I'm wasting his investment."
Investment.
The word echoed in my head.
I knew that word. I lived that word.
"He is wrong," I said.
"He's not," she cried. "Look at me, Roman. I'm a cliché. Rich girl playing artist. I'm not talented. I'm just expensive."
"Stop it," I ordered.
I reached out and grabbed her hands. They were ice cold.
"Look at me."
She shook her head, trying to pull away. "Don't. You see it too. You called me a brat. You know what I am."
"I called you a brat because you were acting like one," I said. "But I have seen your work. I have seen you measure a seam to the millimeter. I have seen you awake at 3 AM sketching because you cannot sleep until the idea is out of your head."
I squeezed her hands.
"That is not a hobby," I said fiercely. "That is obsession. And obsession is the only thing that matters."
She looked at me then. Really looked at me. Her eyes were wide, swimming with tears.
"He makes me feel so small," she whispered. "Like I'm just... a doll on a shelf. Something to look at."
"You are not a doll," I said.
I let go of her hands and cupped her face. I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
"You are a storm, Vanessa. You are loud. You are messy. You take up space."
I leaned in, pressing my forehead against hers.
"Do not let him make you small," I commanded. "Expand. Take up more space. Force him to look at you."
She let out a shuddering breath. She leaned into my touch, her hands coming up to grip my wrists.
"I'm scared," she admitted. "If I fail... I have nothing. I am nothing."
"You are not nothing," I said.
I pulled back slightly so I could look into her eyes.
"My father," I said. The words felt heavy on my tongue. I never talked about him. Not to Banksy. Not to anyone. "He does not come to my games."
Vanessa blinked. "What?"
"He sends his assistant," I said. "Or his lawyer. He watches the stats online. If I score, I get a text message. 'Good ROI.' Return on Investment."
"Roman," she breathed.
"I am an asset to him," I said. "A stock portfolio with skates. If I get injured, I depreciate. If I lose, I am a bad bet."
I looked at the scar on her soul, and I showed her mine.
"I know what it feels like to be an investment," I said. "To feel like you have to earn the right to exist."
She stared at me. Her sadness shifted into something else. Empathy. Connection.
"He sounds lonely," she whispered.
"He is rich," I said. "He does not care about lonely."
"And you?" she asked. Her fingers traced the tendon in my wrist. "Are you lonely, Roman?"
The question hung in the air.
Am I?
I had the team. I had the game. I had the plan.
But until this girl crashed into my life in a pink coat, I hadn't realized how cold my house was.
"I was," I said softly.
Vanessa made a soft sound. She moved forward, wrapping her arms around my neck. She buried her face in the crook of my shoulder.
It wasn't sexual. It wasn't a grab for power.
It was a hug.
She held onto me like I was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
And I... I melted.
My arms went around her waist. I pulled her off the floor, settling her into my lap. I held her tight, burying my face in her hair.
She smelled like vanilla and salt water.
We stayed like that for a long time. Just holding each other on the floor of a messy studio. No sex. No measuring. No games.
Just two broken investments finding value in each other.
"We're going to fix it," I said into her hair. "The collection. We will finish it. I will model for you until my legs fall off. You will show him."
She pulled back to look at me. Her eyes were dry now, but bright.
"You'd do that?" she asked. "Even though you hate it?"
"I don't hate it," I admitted.
I brushed a stray hair from her forehead.
"I hate that I like it," I whispered. "But for you... I will be your mannequin."
She smiled. It was a small, fragile thing. But it was real.
"Thank you, Roman."
"You're welcome, Myshka."
She leaned her head on my shoulder again.
"Does this violate the 'strictly professional' rule?" she murmured sleepily.
I tightened my arms around her.
"Yes," I said. "But fuck the rules."
I realized then, sitting on that floor, that I was in deep trouble.
I didn't just want to sleep with Vanessa Sterling. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to destroy anyone who made her cry.
I was falling. And there was no ice to catch me.