Chapter 14
Vanessa
Happiness, it turns out, is a terrible camouflage.
When you’re miserable, you blend in. Misery is grey. It’s quiet. It walks with its head down and blends into the pavement. But happiness? Happiness is neon. It’s a spotlight. It makes you walk differently, laugh louder, and radiate a kind of energy that people notice.
And I was incandescently, stupidly happy.
It had been three weeks since Boston. Three weeks of living in a bubble of secret romance, stolen kisses, and late-night whispers in the basement.
I was sitting in the front row of the Senior Design Showcase rehearsal. The runway lights were blinding—stark white beams cutting through the gloom of the auditorium. Models were strutting down the catwalk, practicing their turns. The air smelled of hairspray and ozone.
I should have been stressed. My final collection, Modern Armor, was due in two weeks. My advisor, Professor Vance, was prowling the aisles like a panther in a pencil skirt, critiquing hems with surgical cruelty.
But I wasn't stressed. I was humming.
"Stop smiling," Sloane hissed, elbowing me in the ribs. She was sitting next to me, sketching furiously on her iPad. "You look like a Disney princess who just discovered opposable thumbs. It’s unnerving."
"I'm not smiling," I lied, checking my reflection in my phone screen. I was definitely smiling.
"You are," Sloane insisted. "You're glowing. It's disgusting. Is it the retinol or the sex?"
I choked on my iced coffee. "Sloane!"
"Oh, please. I'm an Art major. I know what a muse looks like. And you, my dear, have found a muse." She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Does this muse happen to be six-foot-five and Russian?"
My heart skipped a beat.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, flipping through my notes. "Roman and I are... professional. He's my model. That's it."
"Uh-huh," Sloane drawled. "Professional. Is that why you're wearing his hoodie? Again?"
I looked down. I was indeed wearing the grey Sentinel hoodie. It smelled like cedar and Roman. I had practically moved into it.
"It's comfortable," I defended. "It's oversized. It's... structure."
"It's a flag, V," Sloane whispered, serious now. "You're planting a flag. Just... be careful. People talk."
"Let them talk," I said, feeling a surge of reckless confidence.
I felt invincible.
Why shouldn't I? Roman was playing the best hockey of his life. I was designing the best clothes of my life. We were defying the odds. We were managing the pressure, the secrets, the parents. We were winning.
"Vanessa Sterling!" Professor Vance barked from the stage. "Your model isn't here. Again."
I stood up. "He has practice, Professor! He'll be here for the fitting at six."
"Make sure he is," Vance snapped. "Clothes look different on a body than on a hanger. And that boy is... a lot of body."
A ripple of giggles went through the design students.
I felt a flash of possessiveness. Mine.
"He'll be here," I promised.
I sat back down, pulling out my phone.
Me: Vance is on a warpath. Don't be late. Bring snacks. I'm hangry.
Three dots appeared instantly.
The Tsar: I am never late. Bringing protein bars. And me.
Me: I prefer the second option.
The Tsar: Behave. Or I will punish you in the fitting room.
Heat flooded my cheeks. I bit my lip to suppress a grin.
"See!" Sloane pointed an accusing finger at me. "That face! You look like you just ate the canary and the canary was delicious."
"Shut up," I laughed.
I felt like I was flying.
I didn't notice the girl sitting two rows back—Tiffany, the puck bunny Roman had rejected—watching me with narrowed eyes. I didn't notice her phone raised, camera lens focused on my screen.
I was too busy being happy.
At 6:00 PM, the design studio was chaos.
Students were running around with pins in their mouths, steam irons hissing, fabric flying. It was crunch time.
The door opened.
The room went quiet.
Roman walked in.
He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that fit him like a second skin. He had his gym bag over one shoulder. He looked tired—there were dark circles under his eyes—but he moved with that predatory grace that always sucked the air out of a room.
He scanned the chaos. He found me.
His face didn't change, but his eyes... his eyes lit up. The blue turned electric.
He walked straight to my station in the corner.
"Model reporting for duty," he rumbled.
"You're early," I said, trying to keep my voice steady as twenty pairs of eyes watched us.
"Efficiency," he said. He dropped his bag. "And you said you were hungry."
He pulled a chocolate protein bar out of his pocket and handed it to me.
"My hero," I swooned, ripping it open.
"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but his hand lingered on the table near mine. His pinky finger brushed my wrist. A secret touch.
"Okay," I clapped my hands, all business. "Jacket fitting. Off with the shirt."
Roman sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a martyr. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it off.
A collective intake of breath swept through the room.
His torso was ridiculous. The definition, the tattoos, the sheer scale of him. He stood there, unbothered, waiting for me.
I picked up the prototype jacket—a structured, military-inspired piece in charcoal wool—and walked over to him.
"Arms back," I instructed.
He complied. I slid the jacket onto his shoulders.
I moved around to the front to button it. I was standing in his space. I could feel his heat. I could smell him.
"How was practice?" I murmured, keeping my head down, focusing on the buttons.
"Brutal," he whispered back. "Miller is riding me. He knows I'm... distracted."
"Are you?" I glanced up through my lashes.
"Completely," he breathed.
He looked down at me. His gaze dropped to my lips.
For a second, we forgot where we were. We forgot the students, the professor, the risk.
He leaned in. Just an inch. A magnetic pull.
I leaned up.
It was instinct. Muscle memory.
"Ahem."
The sound was like a gunshot.
We sprang apart.
Professor Vance was standing right next to us, her arms crossed, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"This is a fitting, Ms. Sterling," she said drily. "Not a prelude to a romance novel."
My face burned. "I was just... checking the lapel tension."
"Right," Vance said. She looked from me to Roman. Her eyes were sharp. Intelligent. She saw. "Well, check it with less... humidity. We have a deadline."
She walked away.
I let out a shaky breath. "Sorry."
"Don't be," Roman murmured. But he stepped back. He put his hands behind his back, assuming the soldier pose.
We finished the fitting in silence. But the air around us was crackling.
When he left, he didn't touch me. He just nodded.
"See you at home," he mouthed.
I watched him go.
I felt a prickle on the back of my neck.
I turned around.
Tiffany was standing by the door, holding a garment bag. She wasn't looking at Roman. She was looking at me.
And she was smiling.
It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who had just found the missing piece of a puzzle.
Later that night, I was in the campus coffee shop, The Grind. I needed caffeine to finish my sketches.
The shop was crowded. Students were huddled over laptops, fueled by panic and espresso.
I was waiting for my latte when a shadow fell over my table.
"Mind if I sit?"
I looked up. It was Carter Banks. Banksy.
He wasn't smiling.
That was the first warning sign. Banksy always smiled. He was the team golden retriever. Seeing him serious was like seeing a dog do calculus—unnatural and alarming.
"Sure," I said, moving my bag. "What's up, Banksy? No Roman?"
"Roman is icing his knee," Banksy said, sitting down heavily. He didn't have a drink. He just folded his hands on the table.
He looked at me. Really looked at me.
"We need to talk, V."
My stomach dropped. "About what?"
"About you. And Cap."
I froze. "What about us?"
"Don't," Banksy said. He sounded tired. "Don't insult my intelligence. I'm a goalie. I see everything."
He leaned forward.
"I saw you guys in the parking lot after the BU game. I saw you helping him into the truck. I saw the way you looked at him."
"He was injured," I defended. "I was helping a friend."
"Friends don't look at each other like they're the only two people on earth," Banksy said quietly. "And friends don't sneak out of hotel rooms at 6 AM."
My blood ran cold.
"You saw me?"
"I was going for ice," Banksy said. "I saw you leaving his room. You were wearing his shirt."
He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Look, Vanessa. I like you. You're cool. You make him happy. God knows he needs happy. The guy is a misery robot most of the time."
"But?" I whispered.
"But," Banksy’s eyes hardened. "You're dangerous."
"Excuse me?"
"You're a distraction," Banksy said bluntly. "We have the Frozen Four in three weeks. The scouts are circling. His dad is circling. Roman is under so much pressure I can hear his bones creaking. And now he's sneaking around with the President's daughter?"
He shook his head.
"If this gets out... if Miller finds out, or worse, his dad... it destroys him, V. He loses his focus. He loses his shot."
"I would never hurt him," I said fiercely. "I love him."
Banksy winced. "Yeah. That's the problem."
He stood up.
"Just... be careful," he warned. "Because if he has to choose between you and hockey? He might choose you. And if he does, he'll hate himself for it eventually. And then he'll hate you."
He walked away.
I sat there, staring at my lukewarm latte.
He'll hate you.
The words echoed in my head.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
I opened the message.
It was a photo.
A photo of me and Roman in the design studio earlier. The moment we leaned in. The moment our lips were an inch apart.
It was grainy, taken from a distance, but the intimacy was undeniable. We looked like lovers.
Then, a text followed.
Cute couple. Would be a shame if Daddy saw this.
Panic exploded in my chest. It was a cold, sharp sensation that made it hard to breathe.
Tiffany.
It had to be her.
I looked around the coffee shop. Was she here? Was she watching me?
I felt exposed. Hunted.
I grabbed my bag and ran.
I burst into the basement of the Hockey House twenty minutes later.
I locked the door behind me, leaning against it, gasping for air.
The room was quiet. Roman was on the couch, his leg elevated on a stack of pillows, an ice pack strapped to his knee. He was watching game film on the TV.
He looked up when I entered. His face lit up.
"Hey," he smiled. "You're back. Did you bring coffee?"
He looked so relaxed. So happy.
I couldn't tell him.
If I told him about the photo... about the threat... he would freak out. He would go into "Protector Mode." He would confront Tiffany. He would make a scene.
And then everyone would know.
Banksy’s words rang in my ears. He's under so much pressure.
I couldn't add to it. I couldn't be the reason he snapped.
I had to handle this myself.
"Vanessa?" Roman frowned, sitting up. "What's wrong? You look pale."
I forced a smile onto my face. It felt brittle, like cracked glaze.
"Nothing," I lied. "Just... cold. It's freezing outside."
I walked over to the couch. I dropped my bag. I crawled onto the cushions next to him, mindful of his knee.
"Come here," he murmured, opening his arm.
I huddled into his side. He was warm. Solid. Safe.
But I didn't feel safe.
"You're shaking," he noted, rubbing my arm. "Did something happen?"
"Just stress," I said, burying my face in his chest so he couldn't see my eyes. "The collection. Vance is being a nightmare."
"She is just pushing you," Roman said soothingly. "Because she knows you are brilliant."
He kissed the top of my head.
"You are tough, Myshka," he whispered. "You can handle anything."
I closed my eyes tight, fighting back tears.
I can handle this, I told myself. I can fix it.
I would find Tiffany. I would buy her off. I would threaten her. I would do whatever it took to bury that photo.
"Roman?"
"Mm?"
"I love you," I said. It sounded like a goodbye.
He squeezed me tighter.
"I love you too."
I lay there, listening to his heartbeat, while the phone in my pocket felt like a radioactive isotope burning a hole in my jeans.
We were invincible, I had thought.
I was wrong.
We were glass. And the hammer was already swinging.
The Next Morning
I woke up before him.
I carefully extracted myself from his arms. I grabbed my phone.
I went into the bathroom and locked the door.
I looked at the text again.
Cute couple. Would be a shame if Daddy saw this.
I took a deep breath. I typed a reply.
Me: What do you want?
Three dots.
Unknown: Meet me. The boathouse. Midnight. Come alone.
I stared at the screen.
It was a trap. Obviously.
But what choice did I have?
I looked at the door. On the other side, Roman was sleeping. Dreaming of the Frozen Four. Dreaming of a future I had promised him.
I would protect that future. Even if I had to lie to him to do it.
Me: I'll be there.
I deleted the thread.
I washed my face with cold water. I looked in the mirror.
I looked like a liar.
I unlocked the door and went back to bed, crawling in beside the man I was lying to, and prayed that my silence wouldn't be the thing that destroyed us.