Chapter 4 - The Return of the King
At 2:15 PM on Sunday afternoon, Roman’s sleek black Range Rover pulled into the circular driveway.
I was sitting on the front porch in a cream linen suit, sipping iced tea, watching the trees sway in the autumn wind.
Roman stepped out of the vehicle. He looked polished, refreshed, and entirely pleased with himself. He reached into the backseat to grab his leather garment bag, turned toward the porch, and stopped dead in his tracks.
On the manicured front lawn sat three massive wood-grained storage crates containing his bespoke suits, designer shoes, and Italian silk ties, all neatly packed and sealed against the rain by the movers.
"Eleanor?" Roman asked, his brows furrowing as he walked up the stone steps. "What the hell is all this on the lawn?"
"Your clothes," I said calmly, taking a sip of tea.
"My clothes? What are you talking about? Did the closet have a leak?" He pushed past me into the foyer. "Why does it smell like sawdust in here?"
I didn't follow him. I just listened.
I heard his heavy footsteps echo up the hardwood staircase. I heard him walk down the hallway toward the master suite. And then, I heard the absolute, suffocating silence as he opened the door and saw what $68,200 of emergency demolition looks like.
No carpet. No cedar shelves. No custom shoe racks. Just raw studs, exposed piping, piles of drywall dust, and his ring sitting on the subfloor in a single beam of afternoon sunlight.
Thirty seconds later, Roman came sprinting down the stairs, his face flushed red, his composure completely shattered.
"Are you out of your mind?!" he roared, holding up the sticky note and the ring. "You destroyed the master suite! You spent sixty-eight thousand dollars on my credit line in one morning! What is wrong with you?!"
I looked at him, admiring how quickly the charming CEO vanished when his comfort was threatened.
"It wasn't your credit line, Roman. It was my trust account," I said softly. "And I didn't destroy it. I'm renovating. Just like you're renovating your life."
Roman froze. His jaw tightened. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Green Hills Mall," I said. "Thursday. 11:30 AM. The pear-shaped diamond looks lovely on Aurora, by the way. Though I think slate gray suits look a bit clunky on a man buying bridal jewelry for his employee."
Roman’s breath caught in his throat. For the first time in the seven years I had known him, his mouth opened and no smooth lie came out.
"Eleanor... wait," he stammered, taking a step toward me. "It's not what you think. Aurora and I... the ring was a corporate gift. A performance incentive for the Charleston deal—"
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"A pear-shaped diamond ring from an artisan jeweler is not a corporate performance incentive, Roman," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a icy whisper. "And using our family trust to guarantee the mortgage on your Savannah love nest isn't corporate strategy either. It's fraud."
Roman stopped instantly. The color drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the drywall dust on his shoes.
