Or at least — it had bent.
I wove through the thinning crowd, maintaining composure despite the adrenaline still circulating through my bloodstream.
My eyes scanned automatically.
And then I spotted Roman.
He was positioned on the northern balcony overlooking the dance floor.
Elbows braced casually on the metal railing.
Posture relaxed — but his eyes constantly sweeping.
He looked like a civilian enjoying the view.
But his awareness gave him away.
I raised two fingers and tilted them slightly toward myself.
I’m coming up.
He noticed immediately.
Gave one short nod. Acknowledged.
I slipped toward the back corridor.
The noise from the main floor faded behind thick walls as I passed glowing red emergency exit signs and doors marked STAFF ONLY.
The bass still vibrated through the structure — a deep pulse that rattled the metal framework.
I took the service stairs. Two at a time. Boots clanging against steel.
The sound echoed in the enclosed shaft.
At the top landing, Roman was already waiting.
He pushed off the wall when he saw me.
“Did Ruslan punch that old man for you?”
His tone was casual — almost joking.
He still didn’t know.
Didn’t know the “old man” was my biological father.
And he certainly didn’t know that the violent enforcer he just referenced was also my legal husband.
The secrecy pressed against my ribs.
“Yeah,” I replied dryly.
“Trying to play the gentleman. He came looking for easy prey—and instead, he found a predator.”
I let a faint snicker escape.
It made the story sound trivial.
