From the corner of the car window, I see him standing there, his posture rigid, every sense alert. He’s letting me go, letting me step into the day, but even in his absence from the car, his presence hangs over me like a tether I cannot cut.
“This is going to be a wonderful day,” Sasha says. “Where do we go first?”
I drag my attention away from the fading image of Roman in the mirror and turn to my girls.
“Where do you all want to go?” I ask, trying to focus on the excitement instead of the lingering tension in my chest.
“I haven’t really been around New York,” Vivian says, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “But this is about you. Roman made it clear that you’re to have fun.”
“He said that?” I raise an eyebrow, surprised.
“Yup,” Sasha nods, grinning. “He was very clear.”
Vivian teases softly, nudging me. “See? Your husband is very possessive. Possessive, but protective.”
I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. “Too much,” I mutter, though a small smile threatens to break through.
Sasha leans closer, her voice gentle but teasing. “Elara, he really does care. That’s not just possessiveness—it’s protection. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. He won’t let anything happen to you.”
I bite my lip, feeling warmth creep into my chest despite myself. “I know,” I admit quietly. “I just…I don’t like feeling trapped, even if it’s by him.”
Vivian smirks knowingly. “You’re like a moth to a flame, Elara. Admit it—you love it as much as you hate it.”
I roll my eyes again, but can’t hide the slight blush that creeps up my neck. “Maybe. Just don’t tell Roman I said that.”
Sasha laughs softly. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.”
“I think your relationship with Roman is fate, if you ask me,” Vivian says, her tone teasing but strangely earnest.
“How so?” Sasha asks, leaning in as I roll my eyes and groan.
“Vivia! This isn’t a romcom,” I mutter, trying to hide the twitch of curiosity that her words ignite.
Vivian laughs, undeterred. “I didn’t like Roman at first, but Sasha is right. He does care about you. And you care about him too.”
“What?” I sputter, nearly dropping my phone.
“Don’t lie to me!” Vivian scolds, pointing a finger at me. “You’ve never let a man come even close to you, Elara. But him? It’s like…it was always meant to be you and Roman. No one else fits.”
I open my mouth to respond, but close it again, my mind twisting with the truth I’ve been avoiding. I wonder the samething myself—that maybe, somehow, I was always meant for him—but I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I stare out the window of the car, letting the city blur past as the thought lodges itself deep in my chest.
We have the best time.
First, we stop for breakfast at this cozy little café tucked between two tall buildings, sunlight pouring through the glass and bouncing off our laughter. The coffee is strong, the pastries flake perfectly, and for a while, it feels like I’m just another woman out with her friends—not Roman Rusnak’s guarded wife.
After breakfast, we wander through the city. The guards trail behind us, dressed casually enough to blend in, though I can still feel their eyes on me. Sasha keeps taking pictures of everything—storefronts, pigeons, random street art—while Vivian buys souvenirs she doesn’t need. I just let myself breathe for once.
We move from one shop to another, arms full of shopping bags, laughter spilling into the streets. For the first time in weeks, I feel weightless. The city hums around me, vibrant and alive, and I let it sweep me up.
Eventually, we end up in a boutique—sleek, quiet, the air rich with perfume and soft music. Vivian gasps at a rack of dresses near the entrance, her eyes going wide at the shimmer of sequins. “Oh my God, look at this one!” she says, already holding a gown against her body in front of the mirror.
Sasha laughs. “Viv, where are you planning to wear that? A royal ball?”
“Maybe I’ll get invited to one,” Vivian shoots back, grinning.
Sasha drifts toward the jewelry stand, her fingers grazing over gold bracelets and diamond-studded chokers. “Now this—this I could get used to,” she says, sliding a necklace around her throat and admiring herself in the mirror.
I smile, wandering deeper into the store. Everything feels impossibly luxurious—the soft rustle of fabric, the low hum of jazz, the faint scent of expensive perfume clinging to the air. My fingers trail over silk and satin, beads and lace, until I find a deep emerald dress tucked away at the back. It’s simple but breathtaking, with a neckline that dips low and a slit that promises trouble.
