Chapter 12
Graham
Fear is a chemical reaction. Adrenaline. Cortisol. A physiological response designed to make you run from a predator or fight for your life.
But dread? Dread is different.
Dread is cold. It’s heavy. It sits in your stomach like a stone, weighing you down, making every breath a conscious effort.
I sat in the Rovers, parked three streets away from the Allister Estate, staring at the text message on my phone.
Silas wants a meeting. Tonight. 8 PM. Come alone.
The video file was still there, a digital Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. Me and Faye in the elevator. The kiss. The dress. The indisputable proof that I had lied to my coach, my team, and the entire world.
If this got out, I was done.
Scholarship revoked. Morality clause triggered. Draft stock plummeted. I’d be lucky to play in Europe, let alone the NHL. And Faye… she would be homeless again, humiliated publicly, her father vindicated in his belief that she was nothing but a mess who dragged people down with her.
I gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned.
I had to fix this. I was the Governor. I fixed things. I managed chaos.
But how do you manage a man who owns the game?
I checked the time. 7:55 PM.
I started the car.
I drove up the winding, heated driveway to the Allister mansion. It was a fortress of stone and timber, illuminated by tasteful landscape lighting that probably cost more than my parents’ mortgage.
I parked. I took a deep breath. I put the mask on.
Cold. Detached. Professional.
I walked to the massive front door and rang the bell.
A housekeeper answered. She didn't smile. "He’s in the study, Mr. Vane."
I walked through the house. It was silent, oppressive. The art on the walls was expensive and soulless. It felt like a museum, not a home. No wonder Faye hated it. No wonder she sought color and mess. This place drained the life out of you.
I entered the study.
Silas Allister was sitting behind a desk the size of a small car. He was reading a file. He didn't look up when I entered.
"Sit," he said.
I sat in the leather chair opposite him. I kept my posture rigid. I didn't speak.
Silas turned a page. Then another. He let the silence stretch for two minutes. It was a power play. He wanted me to squirm. I refused. I stared at a point on the wall behind his head and counted the books on the shelf.
Finally, he closed the file and looked at me.
"You're a disappointment, Vane."
"I’m the leading scorer in the conference, sir."
"You're a liability," he corrected. He picked up a remote and clicked it.
A large screen on the wall flickered to life.
The elevator footage.
It played on a loop. Me lifting her. Her legs wrapping around me. The desperation in the kiss.
Silas watched it with a look of distaste, as if he were watching a dog relieve itself on his rug.
"Disgusting," he muttered. "She has no dignity. And you… you have no discipline."
"We are consenting adults," I said, my voice tight.
"You are an investment!" Silas slammed his hand on the desk. "You are a product! I pour millions into that team. I pour thousands into your scholarship. And this is how you repay me? By defiling my daughter in a service elevator?"
"I care about her," I said. It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it as soon as the words left my mouth.
Silas laughed. It was a cold, dry sound.
"Care? You think I care about your feelings? This isn't a romance novel, boy. This is business."
He clicked the remote again. The screen went black.
"Here are the terms," Silas said, leaning back. "You break it off. Immediately. You tell her it was a mistake. You tell her she was a distraction. You kick her out of your apartment."
"I can't do that. She has nowhere to go."
"She can come home," Silas said. "Once she’s learned her lesson. Once she realizes she can't survive without me."
"You want to break her," I realized, feeling a sick churning in my gut. "You want to strip her of her confidence so she comes crawling back."
"I want to protect her from herself! She’s an artist, for Christ’s sake. She lives in a fantasy world. She needs structure. She needs control."
"She needs support," I argued. "She’s talented, Silas. If you just looked at her work—"
"I don't pay you for art criticism," he snapped. "I pay you to win games. And right now, you are distracted."
He pulled a piece of paper from a drawer and slid it across the desk.
"This is a transfer order," he said. "To the University of North Dakota.
Their coach owes me a favor. If you don't end this with Faye—tonight—I will release that video.
You will be expelled from Sterling Vale for violating the morality clause.
Your reputation will be ruined. No NHL team will touch a captain who lies to his coach and sleeps with the owner's daughter. "
He paused, letting the threat sink in.
"But," he continued, "if you transfer… you start fresh. No scandal. You play your final year. You get drafted. You have a career."
"You want me to leave?"
"I want you gone. You’re a bad influence. You give her hope. Hope makes her defiant."
I stared at the paper.
North Dakota. A thousand miles away. A new team. A new life. A guaranteed shot at the NHL.
And the cost?
Breaking Faye’s heart. Telling her she was a mistake. Leaving her here, alone, with this monster.
"And if I refuse?" I asked quietly.
"Then I release the video tomorrow morning. You lose your scholarship. You lose your captaincy. You lose everything. And Faye… well, she’ll be humiliated globally. The 'slut' label sticks, Vane. You know how the internet works."
He smiled. A shark smelling blood.
"You care about her? Then save her. Leave her. Let her come home where she belongs."
I stood up. My legs felt like lead.
"I need time," I said.
"You have twenty-four hours," Silas said, turning back to his file. "Get out of my house."
I drove back to the penthouse in a daze.
The city lights blurred past. The mountains loomed in the dark, silent witnesses to my destruction.
Leave her to save her.
It was the oldest lie in the book. The tragic hero sacrifice.
But Silas was right about one thing: If that video came out, Faye would be destroyed. The internet would tear her apart. Her reputation would be shredded. And I would have nothing—no career, no money, no way to help her.
If I stayed, we both burned.
If I left… I burned alone, but she might survive. She might hate me, but she would be safe from the scandal.
I pulled into the garage. I sat there for twenty minutes, staring at the concrete wall.
I couldn't do it. I couldn't just walk away.
But I couldn't let him ruin her either.
I went up to the penthouse.
Faye was in the living room. She had set up her easel by the window. She was painting.
She was wearing my shirt. She had paint smudged on her cheek. She was humming along to the radio.
She looked happy.
She looked up when I entered. Her face lit up.
"Hey! You're back. How was the meeting?"
She didn't know who the meeting was with. I had told her it was with a scout.
"Fine," I said, my voice hollow. "Just… talk."
"Look." She pointed to the canvas with her brush. "I finished the background. It’s the storm. See the grey?"
I walked over. It was beautiful. Chaotic, dark, violent, but beautiful.
"It’s amazing, Faye."
"It needs more contrast," she mused. "But I think I’m getting there."
She turned to me, her eyes shining.
"I submitted my portfolio today," she whispered. "To the Paris program. I included the sketches of you."
My heart stopped.
"You did?"
"Yeah. I figured… if they want emotion, I’ll give them emotion." She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around my waist. "Graham?"
"Yeah?"
"You're shaking."
I was. I was vibrating with the force of the secret I was keeping.
"I’m tired," I lied. "Long day."
"Come to bed," she soothed. "I’ll massage your shoulder. We can just sleep. No sex. Just… recharging."
She kissed my chin.
"I love you," she whispered.
The words hung in the air.
She froze. I froze.
She hadn't meant to say it. It slipped out.
She pulled back, her eyes wide with panic. "I… I mean, I love the shirt. I love the painting. I love—"
"Faye," I choked out.
"Forget I said it. Please. It’s too soon. I know it’s too soon. I’m just… emotional. And hormonal. And—"
I kissed her.
I kissed her to shut her up. I kissed her because if she kept talking, I was going to break down and tell her everything. I was going to tell her that her father was blackmailing me. I was going to tell her that I had twenty-four hours to destroy us.
I kissed her with desperation. With grief.
And in my head, the clock was ticking.
The Next Morning
I woke up before dawn.
Faye was asleep on my chest, her breathing even and deep.
I carefully extricated myself. I showered. I dressed in my suit.
I had a plan.
It was a terrible plan. A risky plan. A Hail Mary pass with no receiver downfield.
But it was the only play I had.
I walked into the kitchen. I made coffee.
Faye shuffled in ten minutes later, rubbing her eyes.
"You're up early," she yawned. "Another meeting?"
"Yes."
"With who?"
"My father."
She paused, the coffee mug halfway to her mouth. "The Senator?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because," I said, adjusting my tie in the reflection of the oven. "I need help. And he’s the only person Silas Allister might be afraid of."
"Graham," she said, putting the mug down. "Your father hates mess. This is a mess. If you tell him…"
"I have to try."
I walked over to her. I kissed her forehead.
"Whatever happens today," I said, looking into her eyes, "know that I am doing it for us. Okay?"
"You're scaring me."
"Don't be scared. Just… paint. Focus on the art. Leave the war to me."
I walked out the door.
I drove to the private airfield where my father’s jet had landed an hour ago. I had called him last night, after Faye fell asleep. I had begged him for a meeting.
He was waiting in the lounge of the FBO. Senator William Vane. He looked like an older, colder version of me.
"Graham," he said, not standing up. "This better be important. I’m missing a vote."
"It is."
I sat down. I didn't waste time.
"I’m being blackmailed."
My father’s expression didn't change. "By whom?"
"Silas Allister."
"Over what?"
"A girl."
My father sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Of course. It’s always a girl. Is she pregnant?"
"No. She’s his daughter."
My father stopped rubbing his nose. He looked up. His eyes narrowed.
"Faye Allister?"
"Yes."
"The one who was cut off?"
"Yes."
"And you are… involved?"
"I love her."
My father stared at me. For a long time.
Then, he laughed.
"Love," he scoffed. "You sound like your mother."
"Don't," I warned.
"Silas has leverage?"
"A video. Me and her. Compromising. He threatened to release it and get me expelled unless I transfer to North Dakota and break up with her."
My father tapped his fingers on the armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"North Dakota is a good program," he mused.
"I’m not transferring."
"It solves the problem. You leave. The girl goes back to Daddy. The scandal dies."
"I’m not leaving her."
"Then you are a fool."
"I’m your son," I said sharply. "And I’m a Vane. You told me Vanes don't lose. If I run, I lose. Silas wins. He controls me."
I leaned forward.
"Do you want Silas Allister controlling your son, Dad? Do you want him holding leverage over a Senate family?"
That got his attention.
My father’s ego was his Achilles heel. He hated Silas. They were rivals in business, in politics, in everything.
"What do you want?" my father asked.
"I want you to kill the leverage."
"How?"
"You have files on Silas. Everyone knows you do. The land deals in '08. The zoning permits for the stadium."
My father smiled. It was thin and cruel.
"You want me to start a war with the richest man in Colorado over a college romance?"
"I want you to protect your investment," I corrected. "I’m the investment. If I go down in a sex scandal, the Vane name takes a hit. If I stand up to him and win… I look like a leader."
My father studied me. He saw the desperation. But he also saw the strategy.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Graham."
"I learned from the best."
He pulled out his phone.
"I’ll make a call," he said. "But this costs you."
"Name the price."
"After the draft… you sign with the team I choose. Not the one offering the most money. The one that benefits the family trust."
It was a deal with the devil. He would own my career. He would own my future.
But Faye would be safe. We could stay together.
"Deal," I said without hesitation.
My father dialed a number.
"Silas," he said into the phone, his voice dripping with false warmth. "It’s Bill Vane. We need to talk about my son. And your daughter. And those permits for the South Side expansion… yes, I thought that might interest you."
I sat back in the chair, exhaling a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for twenty-four hours.
I had sold my soul.
But I had kept my heart.
That Night
I came home to the penthouse.
Faye was waiting. She was pacing the living room.
"Well?" she asked as soon as I walked in. "What happened?"
"It’s handled," I said.
"What does that mean? What did you tell him?"
"I told him the truth. That I wasn't going to let Silas bully us."
"And?"
"And he made a call. Silas backed down. The video is gone."
Faye stared at me. "Just like that?"
"It wasn't just like that. There was… negotiation."
"What did you have to give up?" she asked, stepping closer. She knew me too well.
"Nothing that matters," I lied. "Just some political capital."
"Graham."
"We're safe, Faye. He won't release the video. You don't have to go back to him. I don't have to transfer."
Relief crashed over her. She crumpled.
I caught her. I pulled her into my arms, burying my face in her hair.
"Thank you," she sobbed. "Thank you for fighting for me."
"Always," I whispered.
I held her tight.
I didn't tell her the cost. I didn't tell her that my father now owned my future. I didn't tell her that Silas had warned me that even if the video was gone, he would find another way to hurt us.
I just held her.
Because for now, we had won.
But I knew the war wasn't over. Silas Allister didn't lose gracefully. And now, I had two powerful men pulling my strings.
I looked out the window at the dark mountains.
The storm was coming. And I had just tied myself to the mast.