Chapter 7
Vanessa
There is a theory in fashion design called the "Rule of Thirds." It’s about balance. You never cut a silhouette exactly in half; it’s boring. You want a one-third to two-thirds ratio. It creates visual interest. It creates tension.
Roman Volkov was currently violating every rule of fashion simply by existing, and yet, I couldn't look away.
"This shirt is trying to strangle me," he grumbled, tugging at the collar of the crisp white button-down I had forced him into. "It is a death trap. A cotton garrote."
"Stop fidgeting," I commanded, slapping his massive hand away. "It's not tight; it’s tailored. You’re just used to wearing hoodies that fit like tents."
We were in my "studio"—the guest room—standing in front of the full-length mirror.
It was Friday night. Carter "Banksy" Banks was turning twenty-two, which in hockey years was practically geriatric, and the team was going out for a "civilized dinner" before the inevitable descent into chaos at a bar downtown.
Roman had tried to wear a team polo. I had vetoed it with extreme prejudice.
"I feel like a penguin," he muttered, glaring at his reflection.
I stepped behind him, smoothing the fabric across his broad shoulders. The shirt was one of my own designs—a prototype I’d modified for his ridiculous measurements. It hugged the thick muscles of his back, tapering perfectly at the waist.
"You don't look like a penguin," I said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "You look... expensive."
And he did. With his black hair damp from the shower and styled (by me) to look effortlessly messy, and his jaw freshly shaved, he looked devastating. He looked like the kind of man who owned the building, fired everyone in it, and then burned it down for the insurance money.
He looked like trouble.
Roman caught my gaze in the glass. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened around the edges.
"And you," he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest and into my back where I was pressed against him. "You look like a weapon."
I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress. It was emerald green velvet, slip-style, with a slit that went up to my hip. I had paired it with a leather jacket to toughen it up.
"It's called 'power dressing,' Volkov," I said, leaning my chin on his shoulder. "If you look dangerous, people don't ask you stupid questions."
"People are going to ask questions," he said darkly.
He turned around, breaking the mirror's spell, and looked down at me.
His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach out but was restraining himself.
"They are going to ask why the Captain is wearing a custom shirt and why the President's daughter is looking at him like she wants to undo the buttons. "
My breath hitched.
"Are you worried about your reputation, Captain?" I teased, reaching up to fix his collar one last time. My knuckles brushed the warm skin of his neck. His pulse jumped under my touch.
"I am worried about my self-control," he admitted softly.
The air in the room went tight. It was that familiar, electric tension that had become our constant companion. The "New Normal." We were roommates. We were partners. But every interaction felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.
"We have a deal," I reminded him, though my voice lacked conviction. "Strictly professional."
"Right," Roman said. He captured my hand, pulling it away from his neck. He didn't let go, though. He held my fingers for a second longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Let's go. Banksy is expecting us. If we are late, he will assume we are... measuring inseams."
I felt a flush heat my cheeks. "He needs to get a new joke."
"He needs to get a brain," Roman corrected. "Come on, Myshka. The chariot awaits."
The "chariot" was Roman’s truck. A massive, black beast of a vehicle that smelled of leather, wintergreen gum, and him.
I climbed into the passenger seat, tucking my velvet skirt around my legs. Roman climbed in the driver’s side. The cab was intimate. Warm.
As he drove through the snowy streets of Burlington, I watched his hands on the wheel. He drove one-handed, his left hand resting casually at twelve o'clock, his right hand resting on the center console, inches from my knee.
It was domestic. It was easy.
Over the last week, something had shifted. The sharp edges of our rivalry had worn down. We had developed a rhythm.
Morning coffee (he made it, I drank it).
Afternoon library sessions (I lectured, he took notes).
Evening fittings (he stood still, I tried not to hyperventilate).
Late night talks (we didn't talk about the sex, but we talked about everything else).
We were a bubble. A two-person ecosystem floating through the chaos of university life.
"You are thinking too loud," Roman said, breaking the silence. He didn't look away from the road.
"I'm just wondering if Banksy is going to try to do a shot off a waitress again," I said.
"He is banned from shots," Roman said. "I have instructed the bartender. Beer and wine only. And water every hour."
I laughed. "You're such a dad."
"I am a leader," he corrected. "There is a difference. A dad makes jokes. I prevent lawsuits."
He glanced at me then, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a rare expression, one he saved just for me. It made my stomach do a traitorous little flip.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice dropping a decibel. "With... the public thing?"
He meant the team dinner. This would be our first "official" outing as... whatever we were. The team knew I was living in the basement. They knew we were "close." But we hadn't paraded it around.
"I'm fine," I said. "I'm a Sterling. I was raised in the public eye. I can handle a few hockey players."
"It is not the players I am worried about," Roman said grimly. "It is everyone else."
He reached over. His hand covered mine on the console. His palm was warm, rough, and enormous. He laced his fingers through mine.
"If anyone says anything," he said, "about your dad, or the funding... you tell me. And I handle it."
I squeezed his hand. The memory of my breakdown in the studio—and the way he had held me—was still fresh. He knew my secret shame. He knew I felt like a fraud. And instead of using it against me, he had turned into a fortress.
"I can fight my own battles, Volkov," I whispered.
"I know," he said, giving my hand a squeeze before pulling away to shift gears. "But tonight, you don't have to."
The restaurant, The Gilded Moose, was a Burlington staple. Exposed brick, fairy lights, and overpriced burgers.
We walked in, and the noise hit us instantly. The entire back section had been commandeered by the Sterling Sentinels. It was a sea of flannel, backwards caps, and massive shoulders.
When Roman walked in, the energy shifted. He commanded attention without trying. Heads turned. The chatter dipped for a second.
He put his hand on the small of my back.
It was a possessive, heavy touch. A brand. She is with me.
"Happy Birthday, you overgrown toddler," I announced, walking up to the head of the table where Banksy was wearing a plastic tiara.
"Princess!" Banksy cheered, standing up to hug me. "And the Tsar! You guys actually came together. And look at you, matching. It’s disgusting. I love it."
He pointed at Roman’s white shirt and my black leather jacket. "Yin and Yang. Beauty and the Beast. Barbie and the Butcher."
"Sit down, Banks," Roman said, shoving a gift bag at him. "Before you hurt yourself."
We squeezed into a booth near the end of the table. It was tight. Roman slid in first, and I slid in next to him. Our thighs pressed together from hip to knee.
Usually, I would have pulled away. Tonight, I leaned in.
Under the table, Roman’s hand found my knee. He gave it a squeeze, then left his hand there, his thumb tracing idle circles on my tights.
It was maddening. It was perfect.
The dinner was chaotic fun. Food was flying, insults were being hurled, and the laughter was deafening. For the first time in my college career, I didn't feel like an outsider observing the "jock culture." I felt like I was part of the pack.
"So, Vanessa," Miller (the blonde defenseman Roman had scared off in the kitchen) asked from across the table. He looked nervous but trying to be polite. "How's the... uh... living situation? Is Cap making you do drills yet?"
"He tried to make me run stairs yesterday," I deadpanned, taking a sip of my wine. "I told him my cardio is strictly reserved for shopping and running away from my problems."
The table erupted in laughter. Roman snorted next to me.
"She has terrible form," Roman added, picking up a fry from my plate and eating it. "She runs like a gazelle on ice."
"I run with elegance," I elbowed him in the ribs. "And stop stealing my fries. You have a whole steak."
"Your fries taste better," he said simply. He dipped another one in my aioli and ate it, his eyes locked on mine.
The intimacy of it—the sharing of food, the body contact—sent a ripple through the table. I saw the looks exchanged. The knowing smirks.
They knew. Even if we hadn't said it, they knew.
"You guys are sickening," Banksy groaned. "Get a room. Oh wait, you already have one. Get a soundproof room."
I laughed, hiding my face in my wine glass.
Everything was going perfectly. Until the check came.
The waiter, a guy I recognized from my Sociology lecture, dropped the bill. But before Roman could grab it, a shadow fell over our booth.
"Well, isn't this a cozy little tableau."
I froze.
I looked up. Standing there was Silas Thorne. A senior donor alumni and, unfortunately, a man who played golf with my father every Sunday. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my tuition and a smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes.
"Mr. Thorne," I said, putting on my 'President's Daughter' mask instantly. My spine straightened. My smile became plastic. " lovely to see you."
"Vanessa," Thorne nodded, looking down his nose at me. Then his gaze slid to Roman. He looked him up and down with distaste. "And you must be the... project."