Chapter 2 - THE WEIGHT OF A GHOST
The voice was low.
It did not boom.
It did not echo.
It barely rose above a whisper.
Yet, the absolute, chilling authority in those five words seemed to suck the oxygen straight out of the high-end boutique.
Sadi looked up from her position against the glass counter.
Roman stood there.
He had not run. He had not shouted. He had simply materialized from the ether, a phantom in a bespoke charcoal suit that fell perfectly over his broad, predatory frame. His dark hair was meticulously styled, his jawset like carved granite, and his eyes—cold, obsidian, and utterly devoid of mercy—were locked onto Trevor.
Trevor’s face drained of color.
He tried to yank his wrist back, a knee-jerk reaction of a man who was used to intimidating people with subpoenas and loud threats.
He did not budge an inch.
Roman’s hand remained clamped around Trevor’s forearm, the long, elegant fingers pressing into the pressure points with the precise, practiced calculation of a man who knew exactly how much force was required to shatter bone.
“Let go of me,” Trevor snapped, though his voice hitched, betraying the sudden spike of genuine terror clawing at his throat. “I said, let go of me! Do you know who I am? I am a partner at—”
“You are nothing,” Roman interrupted.
The words were soft, almost conversational, yet they hit with the devastating force of a sledgehammer.
Roman did not look at Trevor’s expensive watch. He did not look at the blonde woman trembling a few feet away. He looked entirely through Trevor, reducing the arrogant lawyer to a speck of dust on the polished marble floor.
With a terrifyingly casual flick of his wrist, Roman twisted.
Trevor let out a high-pitched, guttural scream as his knees buckled. He crashed onto the floor, his designer suit pooling around him in a pathetic heap.
Chloe, the blonde fiancée, shrieked, pressing her hands over her mouth, her shopping bags dropping to the floor with a heavy thud.
Roman released Trevor’s wrist, stepping over him as if he were a puddle of dirty water, and moved to Sadi.
The dangerous, icy aura radiating from Roman vanished the second his eyes met hers.
He reached out, his large, warm hand gently cupping Sadi’s elbow, helping her stand straight. His thumb brushed over the sleeve of her cashmere sweater, a silent, intimate check for injuries.
“Are you hurt?” Roman asked, his voice entirely different now—thick with a fierce, protective warmth that belonged only to her.
“No,” Sadi murmured, smoothing her jeans. She glanced down at Trevor, who was cradling his wrist against his chest, tears of pain welling in his eyes. “Just surprised.”
“Security!” Trevor gasped from the floor, his face red with humiliation and rage. “Call security! This maniac just assaulted me! I’ll sue you! I’ll own everything you have!”
Roman slowly turned his head.
He looked down at Trevor.
He did not smile, but a shadow of something infinitely darker passed over his features.
“You are welcome to try,” Roman said smoothly. “But before you dial the authorities, I suggest you pick up what you dropped.”
Sadi frowned, following Roman’s gaze to the floor.
When Trevor had fallen, his jacket had swung open, and a sleek leather wallet had slipped from the inner pocket, spilling its contents onto the marble. Credit cards, a gym membership, and a handful of crisp hundred-dollar bills lay scattered.
But that was not what Roman was looking at.
Resting near the toe of Roman’s polished oxford was a small, heavy object.
A silver pocket watch.
The breath caught in Sadi’s throat, a jagged, painful gasp that felt like swallowing glass.
She stepped forward, her knees suddenly weak.
It was tarnished, the silver worn thin around the edges, and the glass face was cracked in a familiar, jagged web across the number four.
Sadi’s father’s watch.
The watch her father had held on his deathbed. The watch she had kept on her nightstand every single day since she was sixteen years old, right up until the morning Trevor had packed his bags and vanished from her life.
“You took it,” Sadi whispered, the realization hitting her with the force of a physical blow.
Trevor scrambled backward, his eyes darting from the watch to Sadi, then to the terrifying man standing beside her. “Sadi, I—I can explain. I meant to give it back. I just needed collateral back then, I was—”
“You took the only thing I had left of him,” she said, her voice shaking, not with tears, but with a sudden, profound rage.
“Answer me this, Trevor,” Roman said, his voice cutting through the panic in the air like a razor blade. “When you sold it to the broker on 5th Avenue to pay off your gambling markers, did you tell them who it belonged to?”
Trevor froze, all the air leaving his lungs.
Sadi turned to Roman, her mind spinning.
Answer one: Trevor hadn’t just left to find himself. He had fled because of gambling debts.
But as she looked at Roman’s impossibly calm face, a new, much more terrifying question opened up.
How did Roman know about the broker on 5th Avenue? She had never told him the watch was missing. She had been too ashamed.
Before she could speak, Roman reached down and picked up the watch. He didn’t hand it to Sadi. He held it in his palm, his thumb tracing the cracked glass.
“You’ve spent three years building a castle out of stolen bricks,” Roman said softly to Trevor. “Did you really think the owner of those bricks wouldn’t eventually come to collect?”
Trevor stared at Roman, his eyes widening as a horrifying recognition finally seemed to pierce his arrogance. He looked at the two large men in charcoal suits standing perfectly still thirty feet away. He looked at the manager of the boutique, who was standing frozen behind the counter, making absolutely no move to call the police.
“Who are you?” Trevor breathed, his voice trembling.
May you like
Roman slipped the watch into his pocket.
“I am the man who bought your debt yesterday morning,” Roman replied, his voice a lethal, quiet promise. “You don’t belong to your law firm anymore, Trevor. You belong to me.”
