Chapter 3

The genuine smile that crossed Roman's face when I accepted his handshake was like watching a mask slip, revealing something far more dangerous underneath. For just a moment, his eyes sharpened with what looked almost like... interest. Not the calculating assessment of a business partner, but something more personal. More intrigued.

"You know," he said, still holding my hand a beat longer than necessary, "most people who walk into arranged marriages spend the first hour crying or making demands. You're the first to propose an alliance."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agreed, finally releasing my hand. "I'm beginning to see that."

The playboy smirk returned, but it felt different now—less automatic, more deliberate. Like he was choosing which version of himself to show me rather than defaulting to it.

"Well then, partner," he said, gesturing toward the dining area with theatrical grandeur, "shall we seal our unholy union with dinner? I had my chef prepare something special for your arrival."

The dining room was as impressive as the rest of the apartment—a glass table that seemed to float in mid-air, surrounded by chairs that probably cost more than most cars. But what caught my attention wasn't the luxury. It was the way Roman moved around the kitchen afterward, dismissing the hovering staff with a casual wave.

"I prefer to handle the final preparations myself," he explained, rolling up his sleeves. "Call it a quirk."

I watched him work, expecting the clumsy fumbling of someone perpetually half-drunk. Instead, his hands moved with surgical precision as he plated our meal. The knife in his grip became an extension of his arm, slicing through vegetables with cuts so clean they could have been measured with a ruler. When he filleted the fish, each motion was economical, purposeful—the kind of technique that took years to master.

"You cook often?" I asked, settling into my chair.

"Occasionally." He set a plate before me with the flourish of a five-star restaurant. "I find it... meditative."

The meal was exquisite—perfectly seasoned, each flavor balanced against the next. But I found myself studying Roman more than the food. The way he held his wine glass, fingers positioned exactly where they should be for optimal balance. How his eyes constantly tracked the apartment's entrances even as he maintained casual conversation. The subtle way he angled his body to keep his back to the wall.

These weren't the habits of a careless drunk. They were the reflexes of someone who'd been trained to survive.

"Tell me about your family," I said, testing the waters.

"Boring old money, declining influence, the usual tragic tale." His response came too quickly, too rehearsed. "We used to matter. Now we mostly just... exist. What about yours?"

"You know about mine. The disappointing daughter, the stolen inheritance, the father who'd rather have a stranger as his heir."

Roman's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "That must have been... difficult."

There was something in his tone—a note of genuine sympathy that caught me off guard. For just a moment, the mask slipped again, revealing someone who understood what it felt like to be discarded by the people who should have loved you most.

"It was educational," I said finally. "I learned not to trust pretty words or false promises."

"Wise lesson." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "To useful disappointments, then."

We finished dinner as the sun set completely, Seattle's lights twinkling to life beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Roman showed me to what would be my room—a space larger than the entire basement I'd called home, complete with its own bathroom and a walk-in closet that echoed when I stepped inside.

"Sleep well," he said from the doorway. "Tomorrow we'll need to start planning our public debut. The Winter Solstice Ball is only three weeks away."

After he left, I explored my new prison—because that's what it was, really, just a more luxurious version of the basement. But as I unpacked my meager belongings into drawers that could have held ten times as much, I found myself thinking about Roman's hands on that knife, the way his eyes had tracked every movement in the apartment.

I was tired, but years of sleeping in a basement had made me a light sleeper. So when I heard the soft mechanical hum of the elevator at two in the morning, I was instantly alert.

Slipping out of bed, I crept to my door and eased it open just enough to peer into the main living area. The apartment was dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows, but I could make out shapes moving in the shadows.

Three figures emerged from the elevator—all dressed in black tactical gear that seemed to absorb what little light there was. They moved with the fluid precision of trained operatives, their footsteps silent on the polished floors.

And Roman was there to meet them.

Gone was every trace of the lazy playboy from dinner. The man who stood in the center of the living room radiated authority, his posture straight and commanding. When he spoke, his voice carried a crisp authority that made my skin prickle.

"Report," he said simply.

The lead operative stepped forward, pulling off his tactical mask to reveal a scarred face and steel-gray eyes. "The Seattle operation is contained, sir. No witnesses, no loose ends. The shipment has been redirected as ordered."

"And the informant?"

"Eliminated. His information was accurate, but his usefulness had expired."

Roman nodded, his expression cold as winter steel. "Good. What about the Portland connection?"

"Still investigating. We've identified three potential assets, but verification will take another week."

"Make it five days." Roman's tone brooked no argument. "I want this network mapped before the Solstice Ball. If there are more players in this game, I need to know about them."

The operatives nodded in unison, their deference absolute. These weren't employees—they were soldiers. And Roman wasn't their boss. He was their commander.

As quickly as they'd appeared, the three figures melted back into the shadows, disappearing through what looked like a solid wall but must have been another hidden entrance. Roman stood alone in the darkness for a long moment, his shoulders carrying a weight that had nothing to do with alcohol or gambling debts.

Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, his posture relaxed. The commanding officer vanished, replaced once again by the dissolute heir. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it deliberately, and stumbled slightly as he made his way toward what I assumed was his bedroom.

I eased my door shut and pressed my back against it, my heart hammering in my chest.

Roman Blackwood wasn't a failure or a drunk or a disappointment to his family.

He was something far more dangerous.

And I was now living in his web.