The distinction sends a shiver down my spine. "I'll be back," I promise, though I'm not entirely sure it's true. "I just need time to process... everything."
Roman's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Time. Space. Whatever you need." He turns away, moving to the balcony railing with deliberate casualness. "The driver will be waiting."
I hesitate, feeling like I should say something more but having no idea what. The man before me is simultaneously the controlling billionaire who bought a month of my life and the vulnerable human who just offered me his heart. I don't know how to reconcile these versions, don't know what to do with the feelings tangling inside my own chest.
So I do the only thing that makes sense in the moment—I run.
As the elevator doors close, separating me from Roman's penthouse and Roman himself, I exhale a shaky breath. Love. He loves me. Or at least, he believes he does. And the most terrifying part isn't his declaration—it's the answering echo in my own heart that I'm desperately trying to silence.
Because falling in love with Roman Wolfe wouldn't just be complicated or ill-advised. It would be complete surrender to a man who accepts nothing less than absolute possession.
fifteen
. . .
The hotel roomis anonymous and forgettable—beige walls, generic art, a bed with too many pillows and not enough character. I paid cash, used a fake name, and chose a mid-range place Roman would never think to look for me. Not the kind of desperate fleabag that screams "hiding," but not the luxury accommodations he might expect me to choose with the credit card he gave me. I've been careful, calculating. For three hours, I've sat cross-legged on this unremarkable bed, trying to untangle my feelings about a man who stalked me, bought me, and then had the audacity to love me.
I should be repulsed by his declaration. I should see it for what it is—another form of control, possession disguised as affection. But the memory of his face when he said those words—the vulnerability, the uncertainty so unlike his usual confident demeanor—keeps playing in my mind like a scene from a movie I can't stop watching.
Does Roman Wolfe even know what love is? Can a man who tracks a woman for months, who manipulates her circumstances, who buys her time and body and compliance—can such a man truly love? Or is it just another word for his obsession, a prettier label for his need to possess?
And what about me? What do I feel for this complicated, dangerous, brilliant man who's turned my life upside down? Attraction, certainly. Fascination, undeniably. But love? The possibility terrifies me more than anything else about our arrangement.
I check my phone for the twentieth time. No messages, which isn't surprising since I turned it off the moment I left Roman's penthouse. His driver had been waiting as promised, but instead of taking his car, I'd slipped past and caught a taxi. Another precaution in my escape plan.
Not that I'm really escaping. I'll go back tomorrow, once I've had time to think. I just needed space to sort through my feelings without Roman's overwhelming presence influencing every thought.
I should feel safe here. Anonymous. Hidden. The relief of that anonymity should be helping me think more clearly.
Instead, I feel strangely exposed. Vulnerable. As if I've stepped out from under an umbrella during a storm rather than sheltering from one.
A knock at the door makes me jump. Probably housekeeping, though I'd hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign. I ignore it, returning to my circular thoughts about Roman and his declaration and my own complicated response.
The knock comes again, more insistent. "Housekeeping," calls a female voice.
"No thank you," I call back. "Please come back tomorrow."
Silence follows, and I relax slightly. Then the electronic lock on the door beeps, the green light flashing as it disengages.
My heart stops. I didn't order room service. I didn't call for maintenance. There's no reason anyone should have access to this room.
The door swings open, and Roman stands in the threshold, his expression a study in controlled fury. He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier—dark slacks and a gray button-down, now slightly rumpled. His hair is uncharacteristically disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it in agitation.
"Roman," I breathe, shock rooting me to the spot. "How did you?—"
"Fifty-seven minutes," he cuts me off, stepping into the room and letting the door close behind him with an ominous click. "That's how long it took me to find you after I realized you weren't coming back tonight."
The cold precision in his voice sends a chill down my spine. "I needed space," I say, hating how defensive I sound. "I told you that."
"Space," he repeats, advancing further into the room with predatory grace. "Not disappearance. Not running like a thief in the night."
"I wasn't stealing anything," I protest.
His laugh is without humor. "Weren't you?" He stops a few feet from the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. "You were taking yourself from me, Delilah. The one thing I value above all else."
The possessive statement should anger me. Instead, it sends a treacherous warmth through my veins. "I'm not yours to take or keep, Roman."
"Aren't you?" He moves closer, and I scramble back until I hit the headboard. "Haven't you been mine since the moment we met? Haven't you felt it—this connection between us that defies conventional labels?"
