Chapter 16
Jess
I had been sitting here for twelve hours.
I had seventy dollars in my bank account. A one-way ticket bought with emergency cash I’d kept hidden in a sock drawer for three years. And a backpack that contained two sweaters, a pair of worn-out jazz shoes, and a toothbrush.
That was the sum total of my life.
My phone was off. It had been off since I left the Meridian yesterday. I was terrified to turn it on. I was terrified that if I saw a text from Nick—even an angry one—I would break. I would run back to the penthouse, throw myself at his feet, and ruin everything.
It was fun.
The words of the note I left echoed in my head like a curse. Cruel. Dismissive. The kind of words that leave scars that never fade.
I felt like I was bleeding internally. A slow, cold hemorrhage in the center of my chest.
"Miss?" A gate agent tapped my shoulder. "Are you alright? You look... pale."
I looked up. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"We're boarding Group C."
"Okay."
I stood up. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through wet concrete. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulder.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I froze. It was off. It shouldn't be buzzing.
Then I remembered. The burner phone. The cheap, prepaid flip phone Nick's father’s lawyer, Mr. Sterling, had handed me when he met me in the lobby of the Meridian yesterday.
Take this. For coordination of the severance package.
I hadn't taken the severance package. I had ripped up the check. But I had kept the phone, just in case.
I pulled it out.
Unknown Number: Check the news, Miss Monroe. You did the right thing. He is safe.
I stared at the screen. My hands started to shake.
I walked over to a bank of TVs near the gate. CNN Sports was playing.
The headline scrolled across the bottom: Vance Scandal Update: PR Team Denies Relationship. Photos Called "Misunderstanding." Vance Confirmed for Combine Interviews Today.
Then, the footage changed.
It was live. Chicago. A press conference podium.
Nick walked out.
He looked... terrifying.
He was wearing a suit that fit him like armor. His hair was perfectly styled. His face was a mask of absolute, chilling indifference. There was no trace of the boy who had held me on the cliff. No trace of the man who had laughed about getting a dog.
He stood at the podium. Camera flashes exploded like gunfire.
"Mr. Vance!" A reporter shouted. "Are the rumors true? Is your focus compromised?"
Nick looked directly into the camera. His eyes were dead grey stones.
"My focus is singular," he said. His voice was steady, monotone. "Hockey is my priority. The rumors regarding a relationship are unfounded. I am here to work. I am here to win."
"And the girl in the photos?" another reporter pressed. "Jessica Monroe?"
Nick didn't flinch. He didn't blink.
"A former employee," he said coldly. "The arrangement has been terminated. She is no longer relevant."
She is no longer relevant.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stumbled back, grabbing the back of a chair for support.
It was what I wanted. It was the plan. I had set him free so he could be this machine.
But hearing him say it—hearing him erase me so completely, with such surgical precision—shattered whatever was left of my heart.
He hated me. It worked.
I turned away from the screen, tears blurring my vision.
"Group C, final call," the agent announced.
I walked toward the gate. I handed her my ticket.
I walked down the jet bridge. It felt like walking into a tomb.
I was leaving Maine. I was leaving the scholarship. I was leaving the only home I had known for three years.
But mostly, I was leaving him.
And as I stepped onto the plane, I realized the cruelest truth of all:
I had saved him from his father. But in doing so, I had turned him into his father.
Two Weeks Later
New York City is loud. It is a city that screams. Sirens, traffic, construction, millions of people shouting to be heard.
It was the perfect place to disappear.
I was staying on a futon in a studio apartment in Queens, sharing the space with three other dancers. It smelled like ramen noodles and Tiger Balm.
I had a job. Two jobs, actually. I worked the morning shift at a coffee shop in Brooklyn, and the night shift cleaning floors at a dance studio in exchange for studio time.
I was surviving. But I wasn't living.
I was a ghost. I moved through the days on autopilot. Pour coffee. Mop floor. Stretch. Sleep. Repeat.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the ocean. I saw the grey sky. I felt the warmth of his hand on mine.
We get the dog.
I would wake up gasping, my chest aching with a phantom pain that refused to heal.
I didn't check the news. I didn't look at sports websites. I had blocked every keyword related to "Vance" or "Draft" on my phone browser.
But you can't block the world.
It was a Tuesday. I was wiping down the counter at the coffee shop. The TV in the corner was usually on the Food Network. Today, someone had changed it to ESPN.
"And now, live coverage of the NHL Draft from Nashville."
My hand froze on the counter. The rag dripped soapy water onto the floor.
I looked up slowly.
The screen was filled with bright lights, cheering crowds, and young men in suits hugging their families.
"With the first overall pick," the Commissioner announced, walking to the podium, "the Chicago Blackhawks select..."
The camera cut to a table near the front.
Nick was there.
He was sitting next to his father. They weren't talking. They weren't looking at each other. They looked like two statues carved from the same block of ice.
Nick looked... thinner. His cheekbones were sharper. His eyes were shadowed. He looked exhausted, even through the TV makeup.
"...from Blackwood University, Nicklas Vance!"
The crowd roared.
Nick stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He shook his father's hand—a brief, formal grip. He didn't smile.
He walked to the stage. He put on the jersey. He posed for the photos.
He had done it. He had won. He was the Number One pick. The legacy was secure.
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I wiped it away angrily.
"He won," I whispered. "It was worth it."
"Hey, Jess!" My manager, Dave, shouted from the back. "Stop daydreaming! Table 4 needs lattes!"
"Coming," I called back.
I turned away from the screen. I turned away from Nick Vance.
He belonged to the world now.
Three Months Later
September in New York was sweltering. The humidity clung to your skin like a second layer of clothing.
I was in the studio late at night. It was 11:00 PM. The other dancers had gone home. It was just me and the mirror.
I was working on a new piece. It was angry. Sharp, staccato movements. Violent turns. It was ugly, but it felt real.
The door to the studio opened.
I stopped mid-pirouette, dropping my heel.
"We're closed," I panted, not looking at the door. "Janitor comes in ten minutes."
"I'm not looking for a class."
The voice.
It was low. gravelly. Familiar in a way that made my blood stop moving in my veins.
I spun around.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the streetlights filtering in from outside, was a man.
He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a hoodie. He looked like he was trying to hide. But you couldn't hide shoulders that broad. You couldn't hide that stance—feet shoulder-width apart, balanced, ready to move.
"Nick?" I whispered. It came out as a squeak.
He stepped into the room. He took off the cap.
It was him.
But it wasn't the Nick I remembered.
His hair was longer, shaggier. He had a beard—dark, thick scruff that covered his jawline. He looked tired. Bone-deep tired.
But his eyes... his eyes were burning.
He walked toward me. Slowly. Like he was approaching a wild animal.
"I found you," he said. His voice was rough.
"How?" I took a step back. "How did you find me?"
"Jax," he said. "Jax tracked your burner phone signal before you ditched it. It took three months. But he found the coffee shop."
He stopped ten feet away. He looked at me—really looked at me. He took in the worn leggings, the messy hair, the shadows under my eyes.
"You look terrible," he said softly.
A laugh bubbled up in my throat, hysterical and sharp. "Thanks. You look like a yeti."
"I haven't been sleeping well."
"Neither have I."
The silence stretched between us. Heavy with three months of unsaid words.
"Why are you here, Nick?" I asked, crossing my arms to protect my chest. "You're supposed to be in Chicago. Training camp starts next week."
"I know."
"You're the number one pick. You have everything you wanted."
"Do I?"
He took another step.
"I read the note," he said.
I flinched. "It was fun. Yeah. I remember."
"Not that note," he said. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie.
He pulled out a piece of paper. It was worn, soft from being folded and unfolded a thousand times.
You are my empire.
My breath hitched.
"I read this on the plane," he said. "Before I landed. Before I saw the photos. Before my father told me you took a payoff."
"I didn't take the payoff," I said fiercely. "I tore up the check."
"I know," he said. "I found the pieces in the trash can at the Meridian."
He took another step. Five feet away.
"I know why you did it, Jess. I know my father threatened you. I know you left to save me."
"It worked," I whispered. "You got drafted. You're safe."
"I'm not safe," he said. "I'm empty. I played the part. I smiled for the cameras. I signed the contract. I got the money. Five million dollars."
He dropped the paper. It fluttered to the floor.
"And every morning I wake up in a penthouse in Chicago that is cold and quiet and perfect. And I hate it. I hate every second of it."
He was standing right in front of me now. I could smell him. Sandalwood and rain.
"You told me to come back to you," he whispered. "So I'm back."
"Nick, you can't be here. If your dad finds out... if the team finds out..."
"I don't care."
"You should care! You worked your whole life for this!"
"I worked my whole life to be free!" he shouted, his composure finally cracking. "And I'm not free without you! You are the freedom, Jess! Don't you get it?"
He grabbed my shoulders. His grip was hard, desperate.
"I bought the house," he said, his eyes wild. "The brownstone. It has a dance studio. It has a yard."
"Nick..."
"And I got the dog."
I froze. "What?"
"I got the dog," he repeated, his voice cracking. "A Golden Retriever. His name is Puck. He's an idiot. He chews everything. And I look at him and I hate him because he's not you."
Tears started to stream down my face.
"You got a dog?"
"Yes. And now I need the girl. Because I can't do this alone. I can't be the machine anymore. I'm breaking down, Jess. My hip hurts. My heart hurts. I need my ally."
He dropped to his knees.
Right there on the dirty studio floor. The Million Dollar Man kneeling in front of the janitor.
He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.
"Please," he sobbed. "Please come home. I don't care about the scandal. I don't care about my father. I'll quit. I'll retire. I'll burn it all down. Just... don't make me live without you."
I looked down at him. I put my hands in his messy hair.
I realized then that the plan had failed. We hadn't saved each other by being apart. We had only survived.
And survival wasn't enough.
"You idiot," I whispered, tears dripping onto his hoodie. "You don't have to quit."
He looked up. His face was wet.
"Then what?"
"We fight," I said. "We go back. We face your dad. We face the press. We tell them the truth."
"The truth?"
"That you're human," I said. "And that you love me."
He stood up. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me.
It wasn't a desperate kiss. It wasn't a goodbye. It was a collision of two stars that had been orbiting each other in the dark.
"I love you," he murmured against my mouth. "I love you more than hockey. More than the legacy. More than breathing."
"I love you too," I promised. "Now... tell me about this dog."
He laughed. A wet, broken sound of pure relief.
"He's terrible," he said, holding me tight. "You're going to love him."