"Did you find what you were looking for?"
I freeze, the folder still open in my hands. Roman stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable. I didn't hear him approach—too absorbed in the horror of discovering just how thoroughly I've been studied.
"What is this?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Roman enters the office with unhurried confidence, closing the door behind him. "Research," he says simply. "I told you I'm thorough."
"Thorough?" I repeat, a hysterical edge to my laughter. "This is—this is stalking, Roman. You've been watching me for months."
He takes the folder from my unresisting hands, glancing at the contents before closing it with deliberate care. "I prefer to think of it as due diligence. I don't enter into any arrangement without complete information."
"Complete information," I echo. "You have my medical records. Photos of me when I had no idea I was being watched. Notes about—" I swallow hard, remembering some of the more intimate observations. "This goes far beyond 'due diligence.'"
Roman places the folder back in the drawer, his movements precise and controlled. "When I want something, Delilah, I learn everything about it. Every strength, every weakness, every potential point of resistance or surrender." His eyes meet mine, cold and unapologetic. "I wanted you."
A chill runs through me. "You make me sound like a corporate acquisition."
"In some ways, the process is similar," he acknowledges without a hint of shame. "Identification of the target. Information gathering. Strategic approach. Negotiation. Completion." His lips curve in a slight smile. "Though I assure you, my interest in you is far more personal than any business deal."
I back away, needing distance from him. "This isn't normal, Roman. You understand that, right? Normal people don't compile dossiers on people they're interested in."
"I have never aspired to normalcy," he says, following my retreat with measured steps. "Normal is average. Mediocre. Ineffective." His voice drops lower. "I am none of those things."
"You've been watching me for weeks," I say again, trying to wrap my mind around the implications. "Before the club. Before any of this."
"Yes." No denial, no justification.
"Why? How did you even know who I was?"
Something flickers in his eyes—a hesitation so brief I might have imagined it. "I saw you at the university library. You were researching Victorian literature, completely absorbed in a world long dead. I was there for a board meeting—I fund the rare book collection." He takes another step toward me. "You didn't notice me, but I noticed you. Your focus. Your passion. The way you bit your lip when you were concentrating."
I remember that day—or at least, I think I do. Six months ago, researching for my dissertation proposal. I have no memory of seeing Roman.
"So you just... what? Decided to stalk me based on seeing me once in a library?"
"I decided to learn more about you," he corrects. "Which led to learning more, which led to..." He gestures between us. "This inevitability."
"There was nothing inevitable about this," I protest. "You engineered it. You researched me, tracked my finances, waited until I was at my most desperate, and then arranged to be at that club the exact night Jessie brought me there." A horrible thought occurs to me. "Did you pay Jessie to bring me there?"
Roman's expression hardens. "I don't need to pay people to manipulate circumstances, Delilah. I simply observe and anticipate. Your friend's suggestion was her own, though certainly convenient for my purposes."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the perfectly regulated temperature of the penthouse. "This is too much, Roman. It's not just controlling, it's... obsessive."
"Yes," he agrees without hesitation. "I am obsessive about what matters to me. About what belongs to me."
"I don't belong to you," I say automatically. "Not beyond the terms of our contract."
His eyes darken. "Don't you?" In two swift steps, he closes the distance between us, his hand cupping my face with a gentleness that contrasts with the intensity of his gaze. "Your body responds to my touch like it was made for me. Your mind engages with mine in ways you've never experienced with anyone else. You're sleeping better, eating better, thinking more clearly than you have in years." His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "Tell me you don't feel the connection between us, Delilah. Tell me you don't belong with me."
I want to deny it. I should deny it. But there's a terrible truth in his words that I can't seem to reject. My body does respond to him in ways I've never experienced. My mind does find a strange compatibility with his, despite our different backgrounds and values. And yes, I am healthier, more rested, more focused than I've been since my parents died.
But at what cost?
"I need some space," I say, pulling away from his touch. "This is... a lot to process."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Space," he repeats, the word sounding like a foreign concept in his mouth. "No."
"No?" I blink at him. "Roman, I'm not asking to leave. I just need a few hours to think about what I've discovered."
