We stop in front of a heavy door. Luka pushes it open and gently ushers me inside.
It’s an office—Roman’s office.
He’s at the head of a long oak table, the glow from a massive screen painting his face in blue light. His attention is fixed on whatever’s on the screen, fingers tapping absently against the desk in a rhythm that somehow still feels commanding.
The room itself feels like him—dark and efficient. Black walls, steel accents, glass shelves lined with neatly arranged weapons instead of art. Everything has purpose; nothing has warmth.
The kind of space that doesn’t invite conversation—only control.
Luka presses me down into the chair, the edge biting into the back of my thighs. I hiss out a curse under my breath.
“Can someone please take off these zip ties?” I snap, jerking my bound wrists toward them. “It’s not like I can run.”
Neither of them looks at me.
Roman doesn’t even flinch, just keeps his eyes on the screen, scrolling through data like I’m background noise. Luka stands beside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
The silence stretches, thick and humiliating. My pulse thrums in my wrists where the plastic digs into skin, and every second of being ignored makes me want to scream.
I take a slow, shaky breath and force myself to calm down. Losing it won’t help me, not with men like this. If they want to stay silent, fine. I can play that game too.
So I sit back in the chair, spine straight, chin up, and match their silence with my own. My wrists burn against the zip ties, but I don’t flinch. I just watch Roman from across the desk, the glow of the screen painting his face in cold light.
If he wants a reaction, he’s not going to get one.
Chapter 4 – Roman
I should’ve handed her over the moment we got here. That would’ve been the smart move—bring her to Adrian, to Lukin, let them do the questioning, decide if she’s a pawn or an enemy.
But I’ve never survived this long by ignoring my instincts.
And every single one of them is screaming that Elara Chang is important.
Not to the mission. To me. To my vendetta against David Chang.
The thought unsettles me. I’ve seen women like her before—spoiled, sharp-tongued, used to getting their way. But there’s something different about her. Something that hums under her composure. Defiance. Fear. Fire. Maybe all three.
It intrigues me in ways I’ve never let myself feel in a long time.
I’m in my office, the low hum of the computer filling the silence. Numbers and intercepted messages blink across the screen, but none of it holds my attention anymore. She does.
I finally turn from the monitor, resting back in my chair as I study her. Elara Chang. The daughter of David Chang. My ticket—or my curse. I haven’t decided which yet.
She’s across the table, spine straight despite the exhaustion written in the curve of her shoulders. Her wrists are still bound, skin marked faintly where the zip ties have bitten into her. But her chin is high, proud, like a soldier waiting for an execution and daring the firing squad to flinch first.
Her hair has come loose, dark strands framing her face, half-shadowed under the dim light. She doesn’t shake them away. She doesn’t move at all, just watches me with those sharp,defiant eyes that hold too much intelligence for someone who should be terrified.
She looks almost regal. A queen stripped of her throne but not of her pride.
And when her gaze meets mine, it’s steady, unflinching, burning with something between challenge and hatred. I almost smile.
Almost.
Because that fire in her eyes? It tells me one thing.
Breaking her won’t be easy.
And that’s exactly why I want to try.
