Roman is different tonight.Something has shifted in his demeanor—the rigid control loosened just enough to reveal unfamiliar vulnerability beneath. It started with dinner, which he cooked himself instead of having his chef prepare. Nothing elaborate—just pasta with a simple sauce, a green salad, good bread. But the sight of Roman Wolfe in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, concentration furrowing his brow as he stirred the sauce, struck me as more intimate than any of our physical encounters.
"I didn't know you could cook," I say, leaning against the counter to watch him.
His smile is softer than usual, lacking its customary edge. "There are many things you don't know about me yet, Delilah."
Yet. The word hangs between us, laden with implication. As if we have all the time in the world, as if our arrangement extends beyond the remaining two weeks of our contract.
"My mother taught me," he continues, surprising me with this voluntary personal disclosure. Roman rarely speaks of his past. "Before she died. She believed every man should know how to feed himself properly."
"She sounds wise," I say carefully, not wanting to press too hard and break this fragile moment of openness.
"She was." His expression turns distant. "She worked three jobs to keep us afloat after my father left. Still found time to teach me life skills." He tastes the sauce, adds a pinch of something. "She died when I was seventeen. Cancer."
The parallel to my own loss leaves me momentarily speechless. "My mother too," I finally say. "Cancer. When I was nineteen."
Our eyes meet across the kitchen island, a current of shared understanding passing between us. It's strange to think of Roman as someone shaped by loss, someone who's known the same hollow grief I have. It humanizes him in a way that makes it harder to maintain emotional distance.
"To absent mothers," he says, raising his wine glass in a toast.
I touch my glass to his. "To absent mothers."
Dinner is unusually relaxed—Roman asking about my dissertation progress, actually listening to my excited rambling about the rare book he gave me. He seems genuinely interested, not just indulging me. When he speaks of his own work, he explains complex business concepts without condescension, treating me as an intellectual equal.
This Roman—thoughtful, attentive without being possessive, sharing parts of himself I haven't seen before—is more dangerous to my emotional defenses than the domineering billionaire who bought a month of my life.
After dinner, he surprises me again by suggesting we sit on the balcony with our wine. The night is cool but not cold, the city lights spreading beneath us like fallen stars. Roman wraps a soft blanket around my shoulders, his touch lingering in a way that feels more tender than proprietary.
"Three days ago was the anniversary of her death," he says abruptly, staring out at the city rather than at me. "My mother's."
I turn to study his profile, sharp and perfect in the dim lighting. "Is that why you cooked tonight? To remember her?"
He nods, taking a slow sip of his wine. "I do something every year. Usually alone."
The implication—that he's sharing this private ritual with me—sends an unexpected warmth through my chest. "Thank you," I say softly. "For including me."
Roman turns to face me, his expression more open than I've ever seen it. "I want to include you in everything, Delilah." His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing with deliberate care. "These past weeks... they've changed things for me."
Something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. We're venturing into territory we've carefully avoided despite the physical and emotional intimacy we've shared. "Changed how?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I thought I knew what I wanted when I arranged our meeting at the club," he says, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in an absent caress. "I wanted possession. Control. To own the woman who had caught my attention so completely." His eyes hold mine, storm-gray and startlingly vulnerable. "I didn't expect to find myself equally possessed."
My breath catches. "Roman?—"
"Let me finish," he interrupts gently. "This is... difficult for me."
I fall silent, watching emotions play across his face that I've never seen before—uncertainty, vulnerability, something that looks almost like fear.
"I've never allowed anyone close enough to truly know me," he continues after a moment. "The real me, not the public persona or the business mask. But you..." His grip on my handtightens slightly. "You've seen parts of me no one else has. And instead of running, you've drawn closer."
"I'm still here because of our contract," I remind him gently, needing to establish that boundary even as my heart races at his words.
A shadow of his usual coldness flashes across his face. "Are you? Is that really why you respond to my touch the way you do? Why you share your thoughts, your passions, your fears with me? Why you looked at me tonight across the dinner table like I was someone worthy of your attention rather than your jailer?"
I have no answer that isn't a lie, so I remain silent. Roman sets down his wine glass and takes both my hands in his, his expression so serious it makes my stomach clench with anticipation.
"I planned everything about our arrangement, Delilah. Every detail, every contingency. Except this." He brings my hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with surprising gentleness. "I didn't plan to fall in love with you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Love. Not possession, not obsession, not desire. Love. The one thing our arrangement specifically excluded.
