Chapter 19
Imogen
Fear is a heavy thing. It sits on your chest like a bag of wet sand. It makes your breath shallow and your heart stutter. I had lived with fear for twenty-one years—fear of my father’s disappointment, fear of being too much, fear of being not enough.
But as I woke up on Monday morning, tangled in grey sheets and the heavy limbs of the man I loved, I realized something miraculous.
The sand was gone.
I took a deep breath. My lungs expanded fully. The air in the apartment smelled of coffee and cedar, not panic.
I rolled over. Max was already awake, lying on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the sun. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The bruise on his ribs from the crossbar had faded to a sickly yellow, and the tension that usually lived in his jaw was gone.
He sensed me moving. He always did.
He moved his arm, turning his head to look at me. His slate eyes were clear. No shadows. No walls.
"Morning," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.
"Morning," I smiled. It felt easy. "You're still here. I was half-expecting to wake up and find a note saying you’d moved to a monastery."
"No more notes," he promised, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek. "And no monasteries. The robes chafe."
I laughed, propping my chin on his chest. "So, Mr. Canadiens Draft Pick. How does it feel to be a professional athlete?"
"It feels... complicated," he admitted. "I have to call my new agent in an hour. I have to talk to Coach about the rest of the season. And I have to figure out how to pay rent without a scholarship until the signing bonus hits."
"I have money," I offered.
"Imogen," he warned, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"It's a loan," I poked his nose. "With interest. Sharks charge less than I will. I want sexual favors as collateral."
He smirked, grabbing my hand and kissing the palm. "That can be arranged."
The playful mood settled around us, warm and golden. But beneath it, the reality of the day was waiting.
We had survived the breakup. We had survived the train station. Max had his contract.
But we still had to face the world.
"We have to go out there today," I said softly. "The campus knows. The Dean knows. YikYak probably has a countdown clock to our public execution."
Max sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. He looked like a statue carved from marble—broad shoulders, defined muscles, ink dark against his skin.
"Let them talk," he said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm done hiding, Imogen. I spent my whole life hiding my mother's house, hiding my feelings, hiding us. I'm exhausted."
He stood up and walked to the closet. He pulled out a fresh pair of jeans and a black turtleneck.
"Today," he said, pulling the shirt over his head, "we walk through the front door. Together."
"And my father?" I asked, sitting up and pulling the duvet around me. "He threatened to make your life difficult."
Max turned to me. He walked back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed me hard.
"He can try," Max said. "But he doesn't hold the leash anymore. We do."
I looked at him—so strong, so sure—and I felt a shift inside myself. The Brat, the girl who acted out for attention, quietly packed her bags and left. In her place was someone new. Someone who didn't need to scream to be heard.
"Okay," I said, throwing off the covers. "Let's go to war."
Walking across the Blackwood campus holding Maxwell Vane’s hand was an exercise in sensory overload.
It was noon. The paths were crowded.
As we walked from the parking lot toward the Student Union, the reaction was immediate. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat.
Is that them?
I thought they broke up.
Look at his hand.
Did you hear about the train station?
I didn't look down. I didn't put on my sunglasses. I wore my favorite red coat, my head held high, my hand firmly clasped in Max’s.
Max was the Warden. He walked with a predator's grace, his face impassive, daring anyone to say a word. His grip on my hand was iron-tight, a constant stream of reassurance.
"Vane! Sterling!"
We stopped.
It was Jinx. He was jogging toward us, flanked by Miller and two other guys from the team.
My stomach tightened. The last time I saw the team, they were looking at Max with pity and me with suspicion.
Jinx stopped in front of us. He looked at our joined hands. He looked at Max’s face.
Then, a slow, wide grin spread across his face.
"So the rumors are true," Jinx said. "You actually chased the train? Like a bad 90s rom-com?"
"It was a very dramatic train," Max deadpanned.
"And the contract?" Miller asked, his eyes wide. "Is it real? Third round?"
"It's real," Max said.
Jinx let out a whoop and punched Max in the shoulder. "That's what I'm talking about! The Warden goes pro! And he gets the girl! It’s a miracle! It’s a Hallmark movie!"
He turned to me, his expression sobering slightly.
"Sorry, Immy," Jinx said. "For... you know. The laundry room. The gossip. We were idiots."
"You were," I agreed pleasantly. "But I forgive you. Mostly because you look ridiculous in that beanie."
Jinx laughed. The tension broke. The team surrounded us, high-fiving Max, asking about the GM.
For the first time, I wasn't the "Dean's Daughter" or the "Distraction." I was just... with Max. I was part of the unit.
We extricated ourselves from the team and continued toward the Administration Building.
The mood shifted as the gothic spire of the Dean’s office loomed over us.
"Ready?" Max asked, squeezing my hand.
"No," I admitted. "But let's do it anyway."
We walked into the building. We bypassed the secretary, Mrs. Higgins, whose jaw dropped so low it nearly hit her typewriter.
"He's in a meeting!" she squawked.
"He's always in a meeting," I said, pushing open the heavy oak doors.
We walked in.
My father was sitting at his massive desk. He was on the phone. He looked up, annoyed, then froze when he saw us.
He hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
"Imogen," he said, his voice cold. "Mr. Vane. To what do I owe the pleasure of this intrusion? I assumed you were packing for Boston."
"Change of plans," I said.
Max let go of my hand, but he didn't step back. He stood beside me, a silent, looming presence. He wasn't there to fight my battle; he was there to ensure it was a fair fight.
I walked up to the desk. I placed my hands on the mahogany surface—the same surface where he had tried to buy my obedience and Max’s future.
"I'm withdrawing from the Pre-Law program," I said.
My father blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm switching my major to Fine Arts," I continued, my voice steady. "I have enough credits to graduate on time if I overload next semester. Professor Halloway has already agreed to sponsor my capstone."
"Art?" My father sneered. "Imogen, be serious. You are a Sterling. We do not fingerpaint. We lead."
"You lead," I corrected. "I create. And I'm good at it, Dad. I got an A on my portfolio. Real galleries are interested. Not because of your name, but because of my work."
"And how do you plan to pay for this... hobby?" he asked, leaning back. "Because if you think I’m going to finance a degree in drawing cartoons..."
"I don't need you to finance it," I said. "I have my trust fund. The one Mom set up before she died. The one I get access to when I turn twenty-one."
My father’s eyes narrowed. "That money is for emergencies. Or a down payment on a respectable house. Not for tuition."
"It's my money," I said. "And I'm using it. I'm moving out of the dorms permanently. I'm moving in with Max."
"With him?" My father gestured to Max with disdain. "The charity case?"
"The professional athlete," Max corrected calmly. "My signing bonus hit this morning, Dean Sterling. I can pay my own rent. And hers, if she’d let me."
My father looked between us. He saw the united front. He saw that his threats—money, status, future—had no teeth anymore.
He stood up. He walked to the window, looking out at his kingdom.
"You are making a mistake," he said, his back to us. "He will leave you, Imogen. He will go to Montreal, and he will get famous, and he will trade you in for a model. And you will be left with a useless degree and a broken heart."
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe he will break my heart. But it will be my choice. I'd rather risk everything with him than be safe and miserable with you."
I waited for him to yell. To scream. To forbid it.
But he didn't. He just stood there, looking smaller than I had ever seen him.
"You're just like your mother," he muttered. "Reckless. Romantic. Foolish."
"Thank you," I said.
I turned to Max. "Let's go."
We walked out of the office.
We walked past the secretary.
We walked out into the sunlight.
I felt lighter. I felt like I was floating.
"You okay?" Max asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
"Yeah," I breathed. "I really am."
"He's wrong, you know," Max said quietly. "About the model."
"I know."
"I already have a model," he grinned, kissing my temple. "And she draws really good hands."
Max
The victory lap didn't happen at a bar. It didn't happen at a party.
It happened in the apartment.
We got back around 3:00 PM. We locked the door. We turned off our phones.
The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the grey concrete in warm, golden light.
I watched Imogen walk around the space. She was touching things—the back of the sofa, the island, the window frame. Reclaiming them.
"So," she said, turning to me with a wicked glint in her eye. "We beat the boss level."
"We did," I said, leaning against the doorframe, crossing my arms.
"And we have the rest of the day."
"We do."
"And we have a new rule," she said, walking toward me. "No secrets."
"No secrets," I agreed.
"Good," she stopped in front of me. She reached out and placed her hands flat on my chest. "Because I have a secret I want to tell you."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Is it that you actually hate my carbonara?"
"No," she laughed. "It's that I don't want to talk anymore. I want you to take me to the bedroom, and I want you to celebrate me."
My breath hitched.
"Celebrate you?"
"Mmhmm," she nodded, her hands sliding down to my belt buckle. "I want you to make me feel like I'm the only thing that matters. I want you to erase the last three weeks of sleeping alone."
I caught her hands. I kissed her knuckles.
"Done," I growled.
I swept her up into my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist, burying her face in my neck.
"I love you," she whispered against my skin.
"I love you too."
I carried her to the bedroom.
The sun was bright in here, too. I didn't close the blinds. We didn't need the dark anymore.
I laid her down on the bed—my bed, our bed.
I undressed her slowly. There was no rush. No fear of getting caught. No clock ticking down to a breakup.
I took off her red coat. Her sweater. Her jeans.
When she was naked, lying in the pool of sunlight, she looked like a masterpiece.
"You're stunning," I said, my voice rough with emotion. "Imogen. My Imogen."
"Yours," she agreed. "Come here."
I stripped quickly, tossing my clothes onto the floor.
I climbed over her. I braced my weight on my hands, looking down at her.
"No more Warden?" she teased, reaching up to trace my lip.
"Oh, the Warden is still here," I said, catching her finger in my mouth and sucking lightly. "But he's under new management."
She shivered. "Show me."
I kissed her. It was a slow, deep, languid kiss. It tasted of coffee and triumph.
I moved down her body. I kissed her throat, her collarbone, her breasts. I took my time. I listened to the sounds she made—the soft sighs, the hitches in her breath.
"Max," she moaned when I moved lower. "Please."
"Patience," I murmured against her stomach. "We have all the time in the world."
I settled between her legs.
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
"Open your eyes," I commanded softly.
She did. They were bright, clear, and full of love.
"I'm going to be inside you," I said. "And I'm never leaving. You understand? This isn't just for now. This is for keeps."
"Promise?" she whispered.
"Promise."
I entered her.
It wasn't painful. It wasn't tight with fear. It was smooth. Welcoming. Like coming home.
She gasped, arching into me, wrapping her legs around my back.
"Oh god," she breathed. "Max."
We moved together. It was a slow, steady rhythm. A celebration of connection.
There was no desperation today. Just joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.
I watched her face as I thrust into her. I watched the pleasure wash over her features. I watched her bite her lip, then smile, then throw her head back.
"You feel so good," I groaned, interlacing our fingers and pinning her hands to the mattress. "So right."
"I love you," she chanted, matching my pace. "I love you, I love you."
"Say my name," I ordered, picking up the speed.
"Max," she cried. "Maxwell. My Warden."
The pleasure built, a golden wave rising higher and higher.
"Together," I gritted out. "Come with me, Imogen."
"I am," she sobbed. "I'm right there."
And we were.
We broke together. A shattering, blinding release that left us clinging to each other, breathless and laughing and crying all at once.
I collapsed next to her, pulling her into my side. She rested her head on my shoulder, her hand flat on my chest over my racing heart.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the room in hues of orange and pink.
"Wow," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed, kissing her hair. "Wow."
We lay there in the quiet, watching the dust motes dance in the light.
"Max?"
"Yeah?"
"We really did it, didn't we? We beat the game."
I smiled, tightening my arm around her.
"Yeah, Princess," I said. "We won."
I looked at the ceiling. No cracks. Just potential.
I thought about the contract. I thought about the house we were going to build. I thought about the messy, chaotic, beautiful life waiting for us.
And for the first time, I didn't want to control any of it.
I just wanted to live it.
With her.