Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The Tsar
The locker room felt like a tomb. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old sweat and the metallic tang of impending disaster.
Silas Kensington stood by the exit, his hand on the doorknob, watching me with the dispassionate gaze of an executioner checking his watch.
Mila stood ten feet away. She was wearing my hoodie—the grey one I had left at the studio. Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide and darting between me and her father. She was holding the piece of charcoal paper I had left her this morning. Chicago. Just wait for me.
It felt like a lifetime ago. It felt like a different universe.
"Theo?" she whispered again. "What’s going on? Why is he here?"
I looked at her. I memorized her. The way her hair was escaping her messy bun. The smudge of paint on her knuckle. The hope that was still flickering, desperately, in her eyes.
I had to kill that hope.
If I didn't, Silas would destroy my mother. He would destroy my career. And eventually, he would destroy Mila too—shipping her off to Europe, cutting her off from her art, punishing her for my arrogance.
I had to be the villain. It was the only way to save her.
I took a breath. It felt like inhaling shards of glass.
"Your father is here because I asked him to come," I lied. My voice was flat. Cold. The voice of The Tsar.
Mila frowned, confusion wrinkling her forehead. "You asked him? Why?"
"To discuss the terms," I said. "Of the contract."
"What contract? The housing agreement? Theo, we moved past that. We—"
"No," I cut her off. I stepped forward, putting distance between myself and the bench where the photos lay scattered like evidence of a crime. "We didn't move past it. We just… renegotiated."
I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the trembling.
"The deal was simple, Mila. I babysit you. I keep you out of trouble. I get the draft pick. That was the transaction."
"Stop," she whispered, taking a step back. "Don't use that word. You told me… in the hotel… you said you loved me."
"I said what I needed to say," I stated.
I looked her dead in the eye. I summoned every ounce of discipline I had built over twenty-two years of poverty and violence.
"I needed you to stay quiet. I needed you to stop making scenes.
If playing the boyfriend kept you calm… then I played the boyfriend. "
Silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence.
Mila stared at me. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. She looked like she had been shot.
"You’re lying," she breathed. "I know you. I know who you are. You aren't like this."
"You don't know me," I said brutally. "You know a projection. You know the Bogart fantasy you made up in your head. But the reality? The reality is I’m a guy from a trailer park who needs a paycheck. And you were the easiest way to get it."
I gestured to the photos on the bench.
"Your father found out. He threatened to pull the plug. So now, the game is over. I choose the draft."
Mila looked at the photos. She saw the images of us kissing. She saw the intimacy.
She looked back at me, tears spilling over her lashes.
"But… the painting," she choked out. "The studio. Last night. You held me. You told me you wanted a life with me. You can't fake that, Theo. Nobody is that good an actor."
"I am," I said. "When five million dollars is on the line? You’d be amazed at what I can fake."
It was a cruelty too far. I saw the light in her eyes flicker and die.
She flinched physically, curling in on herself as if to protect her vital organs.
"So I was just… a job?" she whispered.
"A job with benefits," I corrected coldly.
The slap came out of nowhere.
She moved fast. One second she was standing there, broken. The next, her hand connected with my cheek.
Crack.
It stung. It burned.
I didn't move. I didn't blink. I took it. I deserved it. I deserved so much worse.
Mila stood in front of me, chest heaving, her hand still raised. She was shaking violently.
"I hate you," she hissed. "I hate you so much."
"Good," I said. "Hate me. It makes it easier."
"Easier for who?" she screamed. "For you? Because you get to walk away with your precious career? What about me, Theo? What about what you took from me?"
"You’ll be fine," I said, reciting the script Silas wanted. "You’ll go to Geneva. You’ll marry some rich guy. You’ll forget I ever existed."
"I will never forget this," she vowed. Her voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. "I will never forget that I trusted you with everything, and you sold me for a jersey."
She reached into her pocket. She pulled out the key to the Fortress—the spare one I had given her that first week.
She threw it at me. It hit my chest and clattered to the floor.
"I hope it’s worth it," she spat. "I hope the NHL is worth your soul, Volkov."
She turned. She didn't look at her father. She didn't look back.
She ran out of the locker room. The door slammed shut behind her, echoing like the closing of a coffin.
I stood there, frozen. My cheek throbbed. My heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest and stomped on.
Silas Kensington chuckled. A dry, appreciative sound.
"Well done," he said. "That was… convincing."
I turned on him.
The monster inside me—the one I kept caged with discipline and ice—broke loose.
I crossed the room in a blur. I grabbed Silas by the lapels of his expensive suit and slammed him against the lockers.
His head cracked against the metal. His briefcase dropped.
"You listen to me," I snarled, my face inches from his. "I did what you asked. She’s gone. She hates me. You got what you wanted."
Silas didn't look scared. He looked amused. He smoothed his tie where my fist was bunching the fabric.
"Temper, Theo," he warned softly. "Remember who holds the debt."
"If you touch her," I whispered, shaking him. "If you send her away… if you hurt her… I don't care about the debt. I don't care about the draft. I will find you. And I will take you apart."
Silas’s eyes narrowed. The amusement vanished.
"Let go of me."
I released him, shoving him away with enough force that he stumbled.
"We have a deal," Silas straightened his jacket. "You focus on hockey. I handle my daughter. And your mother stays free. Do we understand each other?"
"Get out," I roared. "Get out before I kill you."
Silas picked up his briefcase. He looked at me with disdain.
"You’re a good player, Volkov. But you’re right. You are trash. She’s better off without you."
He walked out.
I was alone.
The silence rushed back in, louder than the screaming.
I looked at the key on the floor. The little silver piece of metal that had symbolized our home. Our sanctuary.
I picked it up. It was cold.
I sank onto the bench, clutching the key in my fist until the edges cut into my palm.
I didn't cry. Crying was for people who had hope.
I just sat there, staring at the empty locker room, and felt the ice spreading through my veins.
The Tsar was back.
And Theo Volkov was dead.
Mila
I didn't remember driving back to the dorms.
I remembered the slamming door. I remembered the cold air hitting my face. I remembered the sound of my own sobbing, a ragged, animal noise that terrified me.
But the drive itself was a blackout.
I was sitting on the floor of my dorm room. My roommate, Sarah, wasn't there. Thank god.
I was shivering. Violent tremors that started in my bones and rattled my teeth.
I was still wearing his hoodie.
I looked down at the grey fabric. Blackthorne Hockey. The letters were peeling slightly.
I ripped it off.
I clawed at the fabric, dragging it over my head, nearly suffocating myself in my haste. I threw it across the room. It landed in a heap by the closet.
I sat there in my t-shirt, hugging my knees to my chest.
A job with benefits.
The words echoed in my skull. They bounced around, getting louder and louder.
He never loved you. It was a transaction. You were a means to an end.
I felt sick. Physically ill. I scrambled to the small trash can by the desk and dry heaved. Nothing came out but bile and bitterness.
How could I be so stupid?
I was Mila Kensington. I was supposed to be cynical. I was supposed to know that people only wanted me for my name or my money. I had spent twenty-one years building armor to protect myself from exactly this.
And then Theo had come along. With his scars and his silence and his "Good girl" praise. He had dismantled me. He had taken my armor apart piece by piece, promising me that I didn't need it. That I was safe with him.
“I want the house. I want the dog. I want everything I never had.”
Lies. All of it.
He was just a better actor than the rest of them.
I looked at the charcoal note I had shoved in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was crumpled now.
Chicago. Just wait for me. - T
I stared at the handwriting. The sharp, angular letters.
Why leave the note? If he was going to dump me two hours later, why leave the note?
Confusion warred with the pain.
Was it possible…?
No. I shook my head. I saw his face in the locker room. I saw the coldness in his eyes. That wasn't an act. That was disdain. He looked at me like I was pathetic. Like I was a nuisance he was finally getting rid of.
My phone buzzed on the floor.
Daddy (12:30 PM): I heard what happened. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I told you he wasn't right for you. Come home. We can discuss Geneva.
I stared at the screen.
My father knew. Already.
Of course he knew. He probably knew before I did. Theo said he asked him to come.
“Your father is here because I asked him to come.”
They had planned it. My father and my lover. They had sat in a room and decided my fate like I was a piece of inventory.
The rage finally hit.
It burned through the grief, hot and purifying.
They thought I was weak. They thought I would crumble. They thought I would pack my bags and go to finishing school and learn how to pour tea and be a good little heiress.
I stood up. My legs were shaky, but they held.
I walked over to the hoodie. I picked it up.
I didn't cry over it. I walked to the window, opened it, and threw the hoodie into the dumpster three stories below.
"Fuck you, Theo Volkov," I whispered to the wind. "And fuck you, Daddy."
I wasn't going to Geneva.
I wasn't going to crawl into a hole and die.
I walked to my desk. I pulled out my laptop. I opened my email.
There was a message in my drafts folder. One I had written weeks ago but never sent.
It was to the Director of the Restoration Program at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Not as an applicant. But as a donor.
I had my trust fund coming in four years. But I had a smaller account—one my grandmother left me—that I could access now. It wasn't millions, but it was enough.
I typed furiously.
Dear Director Vance,
I am writing to inquire about independent study opportunities. I am not looking for a degree. I am looking for a workspace. I have funding. I have a portfolio. And I am available to start immediately.
I attached the photos of the Magistrate painting I had restored. The one Theo had watched me fix.
I hit send.
I wasn't going to wait for Theo in Chicago.
I was going to go there myself. I was going to build my own life. I was going to be the artist he said I could be, not because he believed in me, but because I believed in me.
I started packing. Not suitcases for Switzerland. Boxes for my life.
I was done being a pawn.
If Theo wanted to win the game, fine. Let him have his trophy.
I was going to win the war.
The Tsar
Two weeks later.
The Combine. Indianapolis.
The stadium was cavernous, smelling of artificial turf and anxiety. Hundreds of prospects were milling around in spandex, measuring vertical leaps and running 40-yard dashes.
I was in the interview room.
Across the table sat the scouting staff of the Chicago Blackhawks.
"So, Volkov," the lead scout said, tapping his pen. "Your tape is impressive. Your stats are elite. But we have some concerns about… stability."
"Stability?" I asked, sitting perfectly still.
"There were rumors," the scout said. "About a girl. A distraction at school. The GM's daughter?"
I didn't flinch. I had practiced this. I had rehearsed it in the mirror every morning while I shaved around the hollow look in my eyes.
"No distraction," I said calmly. "It was a misunderstanding. We were never serious. My focus is, and always has been, on hockey."
The scout studied me. He looked for a crack. He looked for a tell.
He found nothing. Just ice.
"Good," the scout nodded. "We like focus. We like players who know what matters."
He closed his folder.
"We have the first pick, Theo. We’re looking for a franchise center. Someone who can lead. Someone who is willing to sacrifice everything for the team."
He leaned forward.
"Is that you?"
I thought about the key on the locker room floor. I thought about the sound of the door slamming. I thought about the empty bed in the Fortress.
"Yes," I said. "That’s me."
"Good to hear." The scout stood up and shook my hand. "Welcome to the conversation, son."
I walked out of the room.
I should have felt triumphant. I had done it. I had secured the bag. I had saved my mother. I was going to be the number one pick.
But as I walked down the concrete tunnel, alone in the crowd, I felt nothing.
I pulled out my phone.
I opened my photos. I went to the hidden folder.
There was only one picture.
It was Mila. Sleeping in my bed. The morning sun on her hair.
I looked at it for one second. Then I deleted it.
I deleted the folder. I deleted the memories.
I put the phone away.
I was The Tsar. I had won.
And I had never lost so badly in my life.