Chapter 12
Maeve
Silence is louder than screaming.
It has a texture. It’s heavy, suffocating, and cold. It fills the corners of a room like gas, waiting for a spark to ignite it.
The penthouse was silent.
It had been three days since the kitchen. Three days since Kai had looked me in the eye and told me I was a mistake. Three days since he had locked his door and locked me out of his life.
He was a ghost.
I heard him leave before dawn for practice.
I heard him come back late at night, the heavy thud of his boots on the floor, the click of his bedroom lock engaging.
We didn't speak. We didn't make eye contact.
We orbited each other like two planets that had collided and were now drifting apart in the wreckage.
I should have left. I should have packed my bags and moved into a motel. I had money. I had pride.
But I stayed.
Why? Because I was stubborn. Because I had nowhere else to go. And because, deep down in the pathetic, hopeful part of my heart, I didn't believe him.
You used me.
Liar.
I sat at the kitchen island—my torture chamber—sketching. Or trying to sketch. My charcoal stick snapped in my hand, leaving a black smudge across the paper.
"Dammit," I whispered.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Harper: Where are you? We're at the library. Brad is trying to explain crypto to Chloe. I need saving.
I ignored it. I couldn't deal with Harper right now. I couldn't deal with the "real world" where people cared about parties and gossip. My world had shrunk to the four walls of this glass tower and the man who was currently haunting it.
The elevator dinged.
My stomach dropped. It was 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. Kai never came home this early.
The doors slid open.
It wasn't Kai.
It was a woman. She was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored grey suit that probably cost more than my car, and holding a leather briefcase. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She looked like a shark in heels.
She stepped into the penthouse, scanning the room with critical eyes. They landed on me.
"You must be Maeve," she said. Her voice was cool, professional, and entirely devoid of warmth.
"Who are you?" I asked, standing up. "And how did you get in here?"
"I have a key," she said, holding up a fob identical to Kai's. "I'm Elena. Mr. Volkov's personal assistant. The elder Mr. Volkov."
The Boss.
My blood ran cold.
"Is... is Kai in trouble?" I asked.
Elena walked further into the room, setting her briefcase on the dining table. She ignored my question.
"I am here to conduct a quarterly assessment of the asset's living conditions," she stated, looking around with distaste at my sketchpad and coffee cup cluttering the counter. "And to deliver a message."
"Kai isn't here," I said. "He's at practice."
"I know where he is," she said. "I'm waiting for him."
She sat down at the table, pulled out a laptop, and started typing. She didn't look at me again. I was dismissed.
I stood there, feeling like an intruder in my own home. This was Kai's world. Cold. Efficient. Transactional.
I retreated to my room, closing the door. I couldn't sketch. I paced.
Twenty minutes later, I heard the elevator again.
This time, the footsteps were heavy. Familiar.
"Elena," Kai’s voice rumbled through the door. He sounded tired. "What are you doing here?"
I pressed my ear against the wood. I knew I shouldn't eavesdrop. I did it anyway.
"Your father sent me," Elena said. "He is... unhappy."
"About the Dean?" Kai asked. His voice was tight.
"About everything," Elena replied. "The Dean called him, yes. But also the scouts. They say you look... heavy. Distracted. Your numbers are good, Malakai, but your energy? It is off."
"I scored a hat trick last week," Kai snapped.
"And you have been invisible in practice since," Elena countered smoothly. "Aleksei thinks you are getting comfortable. He thinks this arrangement—living with a girl, playing house—is softening you."
"She is just a roommate," Kai said.
The lie stung, even though I expected it.
"Is she?" Elena asked. "Because the photos suggest otherwise."
Silence.
"The photos mean nothing," Kai said. "I handled it. We are done."
"Are you?" Elena’s voice dropped. "Because I am looking at your apartment, Malakai. I see her shoes by the door. I see her coat on the couch. I see her cup on the counter. You are not living separately. You are living together."
"She has nowhere else to go."
"Not your problem," Elena said coldly. "Your problem is the draft. Your problem is the fact that your father is one bad phone call away from recalling you to Moscow."
I heard the sound of a chair scraping back.
"Tell him I'm focused," Kai said. "Tell him I handled the distraction. Tell him to watch the game on Friday. I will destroy them."
"He will be watching," Elena promised. "And he expects results. Not excuses. Get rid of the girl, Malakai. Truly. Or he will get rid of her for you. And his methods are far less... polite."
The door opened and closed. Elena was gone.
Silence returned to the penthouse.
I backed away from the door, my hand over my mouth.
His methods are far less polite.
Kai wasn't just breaking up with me to save his scholarship. He was protecting me. He was shielding me from his father.
My heart shattered all over again.
The next two days were a blur of tension.
Kai was home, but he wasn't really home. He was in "Robot Mode." He spent hours watching game tape in the living room, staring at the screen with dead eyes. He ate protein bars and drank water. He barely slept.
I tried to stay out of his way. But the apartment felt small.
On Thursday night—the night before the Semi-Finals—I found him in the kitchen.
It was 2 AM.
He was standing by the sink, gripping the edge of the granite so hard his knuckles were white. He was breathing hard, fast, shallow gasps.
Panic attack.
I froze in the hallway.
He was shaking. His massive shoulders were trembling. He looked like he was about to collapse.
I forgot the fight. I forgot the breakup. I forgot the rules.
I ran to him.
"Kai," I whispered, reaching for his arm.
He flinched violently, spinning around. His eyes were wild, unseeing. For a second, he looked like he didn't know who I was.
"Breathe," I commanded, stepping into his space. I placed my hands on his chest. His heart was hammering like a trapped bird. "Kai, look at me. Breathe."
"I can't," he choked out. "I can't... the air... it's too thin."
"The air is fine," I soothed. "You're just panicked. It's the pressure. It's okay."
"It's not okay!" he gasped, pulling away from me. He paced the kitchen, running his hands through his hair. "I can't do it, Maeve. I can't be what they want. The Machine. The King. It's... it's too heavy."
He slumped against the fridge, sliding down until he hit the floor. He put his head in his knees.
Seeing Kai Volkov—the strongest person I knew—broken on the floor was terrifying.
I knelt beside him.
"You don't have to be a machine," I whispered. "You just have to be Kai."
"Kai is weak," he muttered into his knees. "Kai wants things he can't have. Kai is... soft."
"Kai is human," I corrected.
I reached out and took his hand. It was cold. I rubbed it between mine, trying to warm him.
"Elena came here," I said softly.
His head snapped up. "You heard?"
"I heard."
"Then you know," he said, his eyes filled with despair. "You know why I did it. Why I had to push you away."
"I know," I said. "You were trying to save me."
"I failed," he rasped. "I'm still hurting you. I see it in your face, Maeve. You look sad. You look lonely. And it's my fault."
"I'm not sad because you pushed me away," I said, looking him in the eye. "I'm sad because you think you have to do this alone."
"I do have to do it alone."
"No, you don't."
I moved closer. I sat between his legs, wrapping my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest.
"I'm not leaving, Kai," I whispered. "Your dad can threaten me. The Dean can expel me. I don't care. I'm staying right here."
He went stiff. "Maeve, don't. It's dangerous."
"Let it be dangerous," I said fiercely. "I'm tired of being safe. I'm tired of doing what I'm told."
He looked down at me. The walls were cracking. The Robot was failing.
"You are impossible," he whispered.
"I'm your anchor," I corrected. "When the water gets too deep... hold onto me."
He let out a shuddering breath. He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my hair.
"I can't lose this game tomorrow," he admitted, his voice muffled. "If I lose... I go home."
"You won't lose," I promised. "Because I'll be watching. Remember? You play better when I watch."
He squeezed me tighter.
"Stay with me," he begged. "Tonight. Just... sleep. No sex. No talking. Just... be here."
"I'm here," I said.
We stayed on the kitchen floor for a long time. Just holding each other. Two broken pieces trying to make a whole.
Eventually, he stood up and pulled me with him.
We walked to his bedroom.
We crawled into bed.
He held me like a lifeline.
And as I listened to his breathing even out, I realized something.
We weren't just fighting for a scholarship or a draft pick anymore.
We were fighting for us.
And I intended to win.