Chapter 2 - The Sound of Bespoke Steps
Trevor turned around, clearly expecting a mall security guard or perhaps a disgruntled shop manager. The sneer was already plastered across his face, ready to exercise whatever imaginary authority he thought his junior associate status afforded him.
The words died in his throat.
Standing three paces away was a man who seemed to swallow all the light in the hallway. He was tall—broad across the chest and shoulders, with dark hair cut neat and close. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit cut from wool so fine it draped without a single crease. A white crisp shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone to reveal the strong line of his throat. But it wasn’t the clothes that made Trevor take an instinctive half-step back.
It was the eyes.
Cold, obsidian, and completely devoid of human hesitation. On his right hand, a simple platinum band caught the sharp glare of the chandelier overhead.
Behind this man stood two others. Built like brick outhouses, dressed in identical black suits, their hands resting loosely at their sides, their gazes sweeping the perimeter with predatory efficiency.
"I asked," the dark-haired man repeated, his tone conversational yet laced with an undercurrent that made the air feel freezing cold, "if there was an issue."
The boutique manager, who had been hiding behind the cash register, suddenly scurried out like a mouse caught in daylight. He bowed his head so low he was practically staring at his own shoes. "M-Mr. Moretti! Sir. We didn’t know you were arriving personally. Everything is fine, sir. We were just—"
"I wasn't speaking to you, Marcus," Roman Moretti said quietly. He didn't even look at the manager. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on Trevor.
Trevor tried to swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. He didn't know who Roman was, but he recognized power when he saw it. Still, Trevor’s fatal flaw had always been his boundless, reckless pride.
"Look, sir," Trevor said, putting on his best boardroom smile, though his voice cracked slightly. "It’s nothing. Just an unfortunate misunderstanding. This woman here was loitering, blocking the pathway. I was just advising her to move along. She has a habit of showing up where she isn't wanted."
Roman didn't reply to Trevor. He didn't even acknowledge that Trevor had spoken.
Instead, Roman stepped right past him. He didn’t bump into Trevor; Trevor simply scrambled backward like a dog dodging traffic to avoid being touched. Roman walked directly up to Sadi.
The terrifying coldness in the man's eyes fractured, softening into something tender, possessive, and infinitely careful. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently cupping the side of Sadi’s jaw.
"You’re pale, sweetheart," Roman murmurs, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. "What happened?"
Sadi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She leaned slightly into his touch, the familiar warmth anchoring her spinning mind. "I tripped."
"You tripped," Roman repeated. It wasn't a question. He knew her. Sadi was many things, but clumsy was not one of them.
His gaze dropped downward. He saw the slight tremble in her right leg. Without a word of warning, Roman crouched down on one knee right there on the pristine boutique floor—a billionaire king kneeling on commercial stone. He gently pulled up the hem of her loose denim jeans.
Right above her ankle, across the pale skin of her calf, was a dark red, swelling contusion. In the center of the bruise was the distinct, sharp imprint of a leather dress shoe's pointed toe.
The air in the store vanished.
Roman stared at the bruise for three seconds. He didn't blink. Then, his thumb grazed the swelling so gently it barely tickled. Sadi winced involuntarily.
Roman stood up.
When he turned back around, he was no longer just an intimidating businessman. He was a monster who had put on a suit. The two bodyguards behind him shifted their stance, subtly angling their bodies to block both exits of the shop.
"Marcus," Roman said. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Y-yes, Mr. Moretti?" the manager whimpered, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Pull the high-definition security footage from thirty seconds ago. Display it on the main register monitor."
"Right away, sir! Right away!"
Trevor’s heart did an unnatural leap into his throat. He looked at Sadi, who was standing beside this terrifying behemoth of a man. He looked at Roman’s hand, which had naturally settled onto the small of Sadi’s back, fingers splayed protectively. And then, his eyes caught the light reflecting off Roman's left ring finger.
A platinum band. Identical to the thin, delicate platinum band resting on Sadi’s left ring finger.
Trevor’s stomach dropped through the floorboards. *No. No way. That's impossible. She’s poor. She works at a diner. She has nobody.*
"Wait," Trevor blurted out, a panicked sweat breaking across his brow. "Who are you? What is she to you?"
Roman turned his head slowly, regarding Trevor the way a scientist might look at a particularly uninteresting insect under a glass slide.
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"She," Roman said evenly, "is my wife. And you have five seconds to explain why your shoe mark is on her leg."
***
