Even from this distance, I can see the cold, assessing quality of his gaze. His eyes are the color of storm clouds—not quite blue, not quite gray, but something dangerously in between. His face is all sharp angles and hard planes, a sculpture carved from granite. There's no smile, no indication of warmth. Just that unwavering focus that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Oh my god," Jessie hisses, digging her fingers into my arm. "He's looking at you."
I manage to break the connection long enough to glance at her. "Maybe he's looking at you," I say, though I know it's a lie. I felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch.
"No," she says, a note of concern in her voice. "It's definitely you. This is... unusual."
"Unusual how?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know.
Jessie leans closer, her perfume enveloping me in a cloud of expensive florals. "Roman Wolfe doesn't come to places like this. He doesn't need to. And he certainly doesn't... pursue women in the conventional sense."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper, "that he takes what he wants. And what he wants, he keeps. The women in his life disappear into his world and emerge months later with vacant smiles and Swiss bank accounts." She gives me a significant look. "They say he's insatiable. And not exactly gentle."
A shiver runs down my spine—fear or something else, I'm not sure. When I look back across the room, Roman Wolfe is still watching me, and now he's moving. The crowd parts for him without him having to say a word. Men who probably run Fortune 500 companies step aside with deferential nods. Women follow him with hungry eyes, but he doesn't spare them a glance.
His trajectory is unmistakable. He's coming directly toward me.
"What do I do?" I whisper frantically to Jessie.
She looks torn between excitement and concern. "If you're smart? Run. If you're desperate? Stay right where you are."
I am desperate. But something tells me running from Roman Wolfe would be like trying to outpace a thunderstorm. Futile and potentially dangerous.
So I stay, straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin in a show of confidence I don't feel. Around us, conversations have hushed. I feel the weight of curious stares, the electric anticipation in the air. This is apparently an event—Roman Wolfe selecting someone.
He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something subtle and expensive that reminds me of cedar forests and winter nights. He's tall, at least a foot taller than my five-foot-five, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. Up close, I can see the perfect tailoring of his suit, the gleam of his platinum watch, the controlled power in his stance.
"You don't belong here," he says, his voice low and surprisingly soft, but with an edge that cuts through the ambient noise of the club.
Not what I expected. I blink, unsure how to respond to such a direct assessment.
"I was just thinking the same thing," I finally reply, honesty slipping out before I can stop it.
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or amusement. It's gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"What's your name?" The question is a command, not a request.
I hesitate, suddenly aware that giving this man my name feels significant, like crossing a threshold I can't return from. "Delilah," I say finally. "Delilah Monroe."
"Delilah," he repeats, and the way my name sounds in his mouth makes my stomach clench. He says it like he's tasting it, like he's claiming it for himself. "I'm Roman Wolfe."
"I know," I say, because pretending otherwise would be pointless.
A small, cold smile curves his lips. "Of course you do." His gaze leaves mine for the first time, traveling slowly down mybody and back up again. It's not a leer—it's too controlled, too calculating for that—but I feel stripped bare nonetheless. "That dress doesn't suit you."
The criticism stings more than it should. "I didn't dress to impress you, Mr. Wolfe."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "No? Then why are you here, Delilah Monroe, if not to attract a benefactor?"
The blunt question leaves me speechless. Jessie was right—there's no pretense with him, no social niceties. Just raw, uncomfortable truth.
"I'm with my friend," I say, gesturing to Jessie, who has never looked so eager to disappear.
Roman doesn't even glance in her direction. "Your friend brought you here to find a wealthy patron. That's the only reason anyone comes to The Obsidian." His eyes narrow slightly. "What I'm curious about is why a woman like you would resort to such measures."
A woman like me. There's something in the way he says it that suggests he sees more than I want him to. "That's a rather personal question from a stranger," I manage.
