There’s that tone again, steady, commanding, threaded with quiet danger. It makes me furious…and something else. Something I can’t dwell on and don’t want to. My pulse trips, betraying me. Why do I hate and love that voice at the same time? It does strange, unwelcome things to my body.
I stab at a piece of egg and chew like I’m biting into him. The silence between us hums, thick and alive.
After a few forced bites, I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “I plan to see Sasha and Vivian soon,” I say, daring him. “You’re not going to stop me.”
Roman doesn’t even blink at my words. He leans back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable calm that makes me want to throw something.
“You can see them,” he says finally. “But you’re never walking alone again. Four security men will be with you at all times.”
My fork clatters against the plate. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Roman, I don’t need your protection! I never took my father’s, and I won’t start now.”
That gets a reaction. His mouth curves into something sharp, almost amused. A low, dark laugh rolls out of him, and it makes my pulse kick up again.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. “Then you’re lucky I’m not your father.”
The way he says it—calm, deliberate, almost dangerous—sends a shiver down my spine.
I poke him again. “You can never be him.”
Something flashes in Roman’s eyes, sharp and dangerous. He rises to his feet, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He walks toward me, slowly, and his voice drops, low and edged with steel.
“How would you feel,” he asks, stepping closer, “if one of those foreign buyers your father brought forward caught you?”
My blood runs cold. I remember them all too well—the way they looked at me during that dinner, their greedy eyes, their lewd smiles. My stomach twists, and I shiver involuntarily.
“Why would you even say that?” I manage, my voice trembling. “Why would you bring that up?”
Something in him snaps. Roman’s jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is low and sharp, every word like a blade.
“Because those men feel cheated, Elara. Those buyers your father entertained, they think you’re part of the scam. They’ve been searching for you.” He leans closer, his tone darkening. “So has your father. He wants to repay his debts, and you are the easiest way to do it.”
My heart stutters. “What—what—what are you saying?”
He exhales harshly, frustration bleeding into his voice. “If they catch you, they won’t be as gentle as I am. They’ll torture you. They’ll touch you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead. They’ll hit you. They’ll make you suffer.”
“Stop,” I gasp, voice breaking. “Please stop.”
Roman straightens, chest rising and falling as he reins himself in. Then, quieter but no less dangerous, he says, “If that’s the kind of web you want to walk into, then by all means, go ahead. Walk out alone. Refuse my guards. But if you don’t….” His eyes narrow, locking on mine. “Then you’ll take my protection, whether you like it or not.”
The air between us feels thick, suffocating. He’s right—I know he’s right—but admitting it would mean surrendering to his control, and I can’t do that. Not to him.
So I push back my chair and stand, ignoring the tremor in my hands.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” I whisper, then turn and walk away before he can see the fear in my eyes, or the anger burning just beneath it. Not at him, but at my father.
I lock myself in my room all day. Roman sends the cook to bring up my breakfast, which I’m secretly grateful for because I’m starving. I eat every bite, and somehow, that gives me just enough fuel to keep being angry, to keep feeding the storm inside me.
I’m furious with my father. A fury that burns from the inside out. But since he isn’t here, Roman becomes the easiest target. He’s here. He’s present. He’s always watching.
By evening, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve spent hours pacing, stewing, and replaying every word he said at breakfast until the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.
So I storm out of my room, my pulse hammering with determination and rage, and head straight for his office.
I push his door open without knocking and storm inside. He’s at his desk, sleeves rolled up, head bent over some papers. Luka’s standing beside him, mid-sentence, but they both look up when I barge in.
