“So?”
The woman’s jaw drops. “What do you mean 'so'? She’s at the peak of her career. We signed this contract over a year ago and?—”
“Her friend died,” I say point-blank. “She’s doing her best, and if she can’t manage it, then it means she’s only human. I doubt she’s thinking about money right now, but I’m sure it’s your job to think about that on her behalf.”
The woman looks flabbergasted. “It’s her reputation as well.”
“I doubt Romi has ever given a fuck what anyone thinks. If she wants to reach you, she’ll call you. Until then, let her process it in her own time.”
“I’m just doing my job,” the woman says, quieter now.
“And I only care about her well-being,” I say matter-of-factly, finding irony in the way I first came in here, wanting to break her. But that’s for me to do, no one else. Especially under the pretense of "work." No one gets to put my woman under that kind of pressure unless she applies it to herself.
I understand there are other things at play here. The comments on her social media implying Romi had something to do with a friend's death because her deceased roommate'smother was barking madness at the funeral and accusing her of being the reason her daughter is dead.
I’m sure all of these things impact her agent's job in preserving Romi’s reputation, but I won’t let it be used as another weight or catalyst to push her if she’s not yet ready to produce art. Or maybe I’m a selfish bastard because I don’t want to share her time.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, unless you have any other matters to address, I have some laundry to do.” I get busy making this apartment livable again. Okay, maybe it’s not that dirty, but it’s certainly not to my standard, and I won't let her live in a dumpster like this either.
Her agent doesn’t seem to know what to do, but finally says, “I do care about her, which is why I came to check up on her. Can you please tell her I dropped by?”
“Sure,” I reply, not looking her way as I pat Borris, who’s happily chewing away on a bone and freezes the moment he thinks I might steal it away from him. Little shit.
She lets herself out, and that’s when I notice the door to the upstairs is open. Curiosity, as it always does, gets the better of me, and I walk up to her studio. I lean against the doorframe, impressed by the chaotic mess of the room, caused by what I assume was most certainly someone having a breakdown. And I’d bet my last dollar it was Romi.
This space feels like a part of Romi I haven’t touched yet.
There are so many layers to this woman, each unwrapping like a gift.
“The door shouldn’t be unlocked, but whatever,” I hear Romi say as she enters the apartment. And then I hear the muffled tone of a man's voice. My blood turns ice cold as Borris barks, and Romi shushes him.
“Ahh, nice roses?” the guy says.
Romi hiccups, and I know without a doubt she’s drunk. I consider making my presence known, but instead kick back, curious as to what little game she’s up to.
If anything, it looks like she’s up to the same game she’s always been playing. Running away from her demons by using someone to fill the void. Except now, she’s not entitled to other players on the board—only me.
Her silence would ordinarily bring a smirk to my face, knowing most likely she’s realized I’ve been in our apartment for the personal delivery of the roses. I doubt, however, she thinks I’m still here.
I love disrupting her, especially in a situation like right now.
“I just need to go to the bathroom, really quickly,” Romi says, excusing herself.
“This looks like a cozy bed,” the man calls out, evidently entering her room. And it's that that has me descending the stairs, because I’ve heard enough. My blood boils at even the thought of another man touching her, and perhaps I hadn’t made my intentions clear with her, so I’ll only say it once.
When I round the corner, Borris is growling at the strange man from his spot on the sofa, and I make a mental note to buy him all the fucking treats. The man's back is to me, and I quietly wrap my fingers around the glass vase I’d pulled out only minutes ago for the roses, except now it has a much better purpose.
“Your dog doesn’t seem too friendly, though,” he says.
“That’s because he doesn’t like you, dipshit,” I growl from behind him. Before he has the chance to turn around, I break the vase over the back of his head. The glass shatters, and he falls forward.
Borris jumps back and continues barking at the man, who tries to stand unsteadily.
The bathroom door swings open, and Romi’s face is an angry shade of red. “What the actual fuck, Dante! What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”
“Ourapartment,” I correct her. “And I’m not a fan of sleepovers.”
I turn the man to face me so I can get a good look at him, then shove him back down to the floor into the glass. “This guy? Really?” I point at him accusingly. What a fucking downgrade.
