Chapter 4
Emery's POV
The name dropped heavy between us.
"He vanished ten years ago. Disappeared. No signs. No ransom. No goodbyes. Just. gone."
I waited, sensing this was the most anyone had ever gotten from him.
"I was supposed to be watching him. I wasn't."
There it was. Not merely grief guilt.
I relented, just a little. "That's not something you get over."
He glanced at me, something raw flashing on his usually impassive face. "No. But it's something you learn to live with. Or pretend to."
We didn't talk much after that, but something had shifted. Not trust. Not yet. But a loosening, like a window finally cracked open.
The next week, we were working later each night. Roman stayed longer. Not in a pesky kind of way, but as though he was trying to be there, as though he was trying to view the space as I viewed it and maybe, as I viewed him.
One evening, I caught him staring at a piece of artwork I'd chosen a soft abstract of gold veins and knotted branches. He didn't say a word, but I noticed how his jaw unclenched, how his fingers brushed the frame.
"You like it," I said.
"It's. disturbing."
"That's why it works."
He turned to me. "You always try to find what's beneath the surface?"
"I try. People lie. Walls don't."
He said nothing. But he didn't disagree.
It was nearly ten by the time I finished packing up. Nathan had long since departed, and the penthouse was silent.
I was stepping into the elevator when my phone buzzed.
Talia.
TALIA: You should watch your back.
EMERY: What?
TALIA: Vivienne's been asking questions about you. Serious ones.
TALIA: She knows you're working for Roman. She's upset.
My stomach dropped.
EMERY: Why would she care? They broke up. Didn't they?
TALIA: Vivienne doesn't let go of anything she thinks she owns.
I looked up, the elevator walls suddenly too close, the ceiling pressing down.
Vivienne. I'd heard the name before. The elegant ex who moved through elite circles like a queen in exile. The woman who'd once called Roman "hers."
And now, she was looking into my past.
The question was: why?
And what was she planning to do with what she found?
The letter came in a plain cream-colored envelope with no return address. I thought it might be a vendor invoice or maybe another catalog full of overpriced light fixtures. But the moment I opened it and read the one sentence printed in blocky black letters, the wind went out of me.
You're not the first woman he's used.
No signature. No explanation. Just that.
I scowled at the paper, trying to ignore the knot churning in my stomach. My fingers clenched the edge until the paper creased. I looked around the room the penthouse was quiet, Roman had stepped out to answer a call, and Nathan was downstairs in the garage resolving a delivery dispute.
For a moment, I considered tossing it out. Pretending I didn't see it. But the words clung to me like static. Who would send it? A threat? A warning? Something more personal?
I tucked the letter into my sketchpad and returned to work. Or pretended to. My hand hovered over the layout sketches, but my mind was nowhere close to fabrics and fixtures. It churned instead with questions.
Roman was an enigma. Cold one minute, unexpectedly kind the next. He'd started to soften, to let me in just a little but maybe that was the trap. Maybe he was good at this. At making women feel special just long enough to destroy them.
I pushed the thought away. I wasn't going to obsess over one obscure message. I had boundaries, I had rules. And I'd stuck to them.
Mostly.
Roman returned a little while later, phone tucked away, expression unreadable. But when he spotted me, his eyebrows furrowed.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied too quickly, not looking at him.
He stepped nearer. "You're pale. And your hands are shaking."
Damn. I hadn't even noticed.
"I just had too much coffee," I said to him, trying a smile that didn't quite happen. "Over-caffeinated designer syndrome."
He wasn't having it. "Take a break. You don't have to tough out whatever this is."
"I'm fine." I stood up straight. "We have work to do."
Roman looked at me like he wished to push, then did something surprising he backed down. "Okay," he said. "Let's get down to it."
The rest of the night went by in a blur. We spent hours adjusting mood boards, pushing furniture around, debating the merits of exposed beams over coffered ceilings. Roman was more engaged than normal, opinionated even. And despite everything, I adored how our ideas began to coalesce. We bickered. Teased. Collaborated.
At one point, I caught him smiling at something I'd said, a genuine curve of his mouth that softened his entire face.
"I like working with you too," he said quietly, as if the concession surprised him.
I blinked. "I thought you thought I was annoying."
He laughed. "You are. But you're also. sharp. Honest. Rare."
I felt the blush heat my cheeks and turned away, pretending to straighten a throw pillow that didn't need it.
It was almost midnight when I started to collect my sketches. Roman was still standing by the fireplace, sipping on something dark in a crystal glass. I had just shut my portfolio when he spoke again.
"I have a proposition," he said.
My heart skipped a beat. "What sort of proposition?"
He set his glass down. "A business one. Kind of."
"Okay..." I stammered. "Shoot."
He stepped closer, arms crossed, voice low. "I want you to pretend to be my fiancée. For a month."
I gaped. "What?"
There's a charity gala circuit coming up. A board meeting or two. Some investors. Having a steady, respectable relationship would make things. smoother."
I gaped. "You want me to lie to the entirety of New York high society just to make yourself look more. what, emotionally stable?"
"I'll pay you, of course. Triple what you're getting paid now. I'll hire more security. Pay for all of it."
"Roman." I took a step back. "This is insane."
He shrugged. "Maybe. But it's strategic. And you've already shown you can handle pressure."
I opened my mouth to decline, but the words caught in my throat. Behind his carefully constructed mask, I saw something else a flash of desperation. Of vulnerability. He needed this, though I couldn't yet understand why.
I considered the letter, the anonymous threat.
Maybe this was the beginning of that trap.
Or maybe it was the opening to uncover what Roman Hart was really hiding.
"I'll think about it," I said, voice steady.
Roman nodded, like he expected that. "Take your time."
But we both knew this was a time bomb ticking in the background.
And I had no idea what would explode when time ran out.