My eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting,” he says, voice low, almost bored—but I can tell it’s deliberate. He’s shutting me out.
The city slides by in streaks of gold and shadow, the noise outside fading into a soft hum. I watch him instead—the faint pulse in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against his thigh as if holding back the urge to act.
“Why do you always have to keep secrets?” I ask quietly.
“Because,” he finally turns to me, eyes glinting under the dim light, “you wouldn’t sleep very well if I told you everything I know.”
A chill races through me. He says it so casually, like he’s talking about the weather. But I see it, the warning underneath. The reminder that the world he lives in is sharp and merciless, and that I’m now part of it, whether I like it or not.
I turn back to the window, watching the blur of the city rush by. My reflection looks like someone else’s, someone who doesn’t know if she’s walking beside a savior or a monster.
Roman leans back, eyes still on me. “You look beautiful,” he says after a long moment.
I don’t reply. Because somehow, that sounds more like a threat than a compliment.
The car stops in front of a glass tower that pierces the evening sky. Roman steps out first, straightening his jacket, then turns to me, his hand extended like a command more than an offer. I take it, my pulse thudding as his fingers close around mine—firm, possessive, grounding and suffocating all at once.
Inside, the building hums with quiet authority, polished marble, mirrored walls, men in suits who glance up just long enough to recognize him. I feel like an accessory, the weapon he wears on his arm tonight.
“Keep your mouth shut and your chin high,” he murmurs as the elevator doors slide closed. His breath brushes my ear. “You’re not here to speak. You’re here to look pretty on my arm.”
“I’m not your prop, Roman,” I whisper back, my voice tight.
He turns to me then, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, Elara. You’re my wife. That’s louder than any threat I could make.”
The elevator dings, and we step into a suite drenched in gold and glass. Men are already seated around a long table, their accents thick, their gazes sharp and assessing. The scent of cigars and whiskey hangs in the air, heavy as tension.
Roman’s grip on my waist tightens just enough to hurt as he leads me forward. Every head turns. I feel the weight of their stares—some curious, some appraising, some just waiting to see what he’ll do next.
He pulls out a chair for me beside him. “Gentlemen,” he says smoothly, “this is my wife.”
The words land like a thunderclap. My wife. I can almost hear the calculations shifting in the room—their power equations rewriting themselves in real time. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
I smile, because that’s what’s expected. A controlled, elegant smile that hides the storm inside.
As the meeting begins, Roman speaks the language of power. Money, weapons, trade routes, alliances. Every word is sharp, deliberate. I sit perfectly still beside him, my posture immaculate, my eyes soft and unreadable.
When one of the men—tall, silver-haired, too bold for his own good—lets his gaze linger on me for a second too long, Roman stops mid-sentence. His brows dip, while his arm curls around my shoulder in silent warning.
The room goes still.
He smiles slow and lethal. “You were saying?”
The man clears his throat and looks away. The tension breaks, the conversation resumes, but Roman doesn’t move his hand. He keeps it there, heavy, claiming.
By the time the meeting ends, my body is a wire of restrained fury. He stands, shakes hands, exchanges final words. I follow, smiling like the perfect ornament, like I didn’t just watch him turn me into a declaration of dominance.
Throughout the ride home, I don’t speak to him. The silence in the car is heavy, suffocating, stretched tight between us like glass that could shatter at the smallest sound. Roman stares out the window, unreadable, one hand resting lazily on his knee. The city lights slide across his face, carving shadows into the sharp lines of his jaw.
When we arrive at the manor, I don’t wait for him. I push the door open and step out, my heels clicking furiously against the pavement. The chill in the air doesn’t touch me; I’m burning inside. I hurry up the marble steps, my pulse hammering in my ears, fury clawing its way up my throat.
I don’t go to the suite we share. I march past it, up the next flight of stairs, straight to the room I’d claimed as my private space. I just need the door closed. Need distance. Need to breathe.
I’m about to slam the door shut when a strong hand catches it, and a foot wedges the gap before it closes.
Roman steps in without waiting for permission. His presence fills the room instantly, tall, broad, commanding, as if the air itself shifts to make space for him.
