Roman's POV.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and butter.
Ariana had been hovering beside me, passing me plates and making soft jokes that curled the corners of my mouth without me realizing.
For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about the mess outside these walls.
Then—three knocks.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Measured. Exact.
I froze.
Ariana looked at me. “Want me to—?”
“No.” My voice was sharper than I meant it to be. “I’ll get it.”
She stayed put while I wiped my hands and walked to the door. My steps felt heavier with each one. I already knew.
When I opened it, there he was.
Mark.
Perfect suit, perfect tie, perfect mask of composure. His cologne—expensive, suffocating—hit first. His eyes, however, were the same as they’d always been: calculating, predatory, the kind
