Chapter 66: Isolation

Anna's POV

The next week of school passed like a badly edited montage—faces blurred, voices muffled, days folding into each other without meaning. Everywhere I turned, the McKay name followed me.

On the news playing softly in the cafeteria.

On phones buzzing in hallways.

On whispered conversations that stopped the moment I walked past.

McKay Enterprises under investigation.

Faulty equipment.

Athlete still comatose.

Corporate negligence?

I kept my head down, my books hugged to my chest like armor. Teachers tried to pretend everything was normal, but you could hear the tension in their voices when someone mentioned the championship game—now just two weeks away. The irony was brutal. The biggest game of the season looming, and the McKay brothers are completely absent from the ice.

They couldn’t risk it.

Every practice session was a potential ambush. Reporters had already been spotted near the rink, lingering like vultures. Marcus, Damian, and Peter were effectively invisible—pulled out of public view by a father who suddenly cared very much about control again.

And Marcus…

Marcus felt farther away than he ever had.

We barely spoke.

At first, I told myself it was just chaos. That once things settled, we’d find our rhythm again. But days passed, and silence grew heavier.

His last message came late one night, the screen lighting up my dark bedroom.

Dad’s secretary is screening calls and texts. I’m okay. I miss you.

That was it.

No heart emoji.

No follow-up.

No call.

I stared at the message long after the screen dimmed, my chest tight with something between worry and anger. I knew he was hurting—physically, emotionally, in ways he didn’t yet have language for—but being shut out like this felt wrong.

This wasn’t how we handled things.

By Friday afternoon, my nerves were shot.

I’d just dropped my bag by the door when the doorbell rang.

Courtney stood on the porch, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes rimmed with concern.

“Tell me you’re worried too,” she said without preamble.

I pulled her into a hug. “Come in.”

She barely took off her shoes before pacing my living room. “I haven’t heard from Damian in two days. Two. He sent one text yesterday that just said, busy. That’s not him.”

I nodded. “Marcus has been radio silent too. His dad's secretary is basically running interference.”

Courtney stopped pacing. “That’s not suspicious at all,” she muttered.

We sat on the couch, knees tucked under us, the weight of everything pressing in.

“They’re isolated,” Courtney said finally. “That’s exactly how Richard wants it.”

The way she said his name—flat, sharp—made my jaw clench.

“He’s controlling the narrative,” I said. “The press. The house. Them.”

“And fear,” she added quietly.

Something firm settled in my chest.

“We can’t just sit here,” I said. “They need to know they’re not alone.”

Courtney’s eyes lifted to mine. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

We didn’t overthink it. Overthinking had already stolen too much from us this week.

We grabbed our coats, texted my mom a quick update, and headed out just as the sky began to darken.

The McKay house loomed larger than I remembered—too quiet, too pristine. No cars lining the street. No reporters in sight. Either Richard had done a remarkable job clearing them out, or this was the eye of the storm.

Courtney squeezed my hand before we rang the bell.

The door opened to Damian.

He looked exhausted.

Not physically—though there were shadows under his eyes—but emotionally, like someone who’d been holding the roof up for too long.

Courtney didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms around him, and for a split second, his composure cracked. His hand came up to her back, gripping tightly like she was the only solid thing left.

“You came,” he said softly.

“Of course we did,” she replied. “Did you really think we wouldn’t?”

Damian stepped aside. “Come in. Before Dad notices.”

The house felt different.

Still immaculate. Still expensive. But colder. The kind of quiet that rang in your ears.

Peter was sprawled on the stairs, phone in hand, eyes lighting up when he saw us. “Finally. Sanity has arrived.”

He bounded down the steps and hugged me briefly. “Marcus is upstairs.”

My heart jumped. “Is he okay?”

Peter shrugged. “Depends on the definition.”

We didn’t need to say more.

Marcus’s bedroom door was cracked open. I knocked once before pushing it gently wider.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, crutches leaned carefully against the wall, ice pack resting on his knee. He looked up—and everything inside me tightened.

Not because he looked weak.

But because he looked tired in a way that scared me.

“Anna,” he breathed.

I crossed the room in three steps, dropping to my knees in front of him, my hands finding his without thinking.

“Hey,” I said softly. “I’m here.”

His fingers curled around mine, like he’d been holding on by memory alone. “I didn’t know if you’d be able to come.”

“I would always come,” I said. “You know that.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the doorway, where Damian and Courtney stood quietly, Peter leaning against the frame. “Things have been… locked down.”

“I gathered,” I said gently.

“I hate it,” he admitted. “Not being able to talk to you. Not knowing what’s happening out there. Dad thinks silence equals control.”

“And you?” I asked.

He let out a shaky breath. “I think silence is suffocating.”

I squeezed his hands. “Then let’s break it.”

Downstairs, we gathered in the kitchen like a war council—low voices, tense expressions, but together.

“They’re keeping you hidden,” Courtney said bluntly. “That’s not protection. That’s isolation.”

Richard McKay’s presence loomed even when he wasn’t in the room.

Marcus leaned back in his chair. “He thinks if we’re not seen, we can’t be dragged into it.”

Damian scoffed. “We’re already in it. Whether he likes it or not.”

“And the championship?” I asked quietly.

Marcus’s gaze dropped. “Two weeks. And Peter and Damian can’t even step on the ice.”

“That’s killing us,” Peter added. “The team’s spiraling.”

I looked at Marcus, really looked at him. At the boy who loved hockey, yes—but who was also more than his father’s expectations, more than a last name under scrutiny.

“This isn’t just about the game,” I said. “It’s about you being allowed to exist outside his narrative.”

Marcus met my eyes. Something shifted there.

“You’re right,” he said. “And I’m done being hidden.”

Damian straightened. “Then we plan.”

Courtney smiled, sharp and determined. “Good. Because Anna and I already started.”

Marcus blinked. “You did?”

I squeezed his hand again. “You didn’t think we’d sit still, did you?”

For the first time all week, a real smile broke across his face.

And in that moment—surrounded by the people who chose each other, not because of obligation or legacy, but love—I knew this was the beginning of something different.

Richard McKay might control the house.

But he didn’t control us.