Roman’s body goes rigid beside me. His arm tightens around my waist in an automatic, defensive move and I shiver at the intensity of it. He pulls his eyes from his dad and looks down atme, his cold, calculating gaze softening into something he keeps only for me.
“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, not taking his eyes off me.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fiona huffs softly, “don’t start. I will look after her.”
He flicks his gaze to his mum. It’s not aggressive or cold, but calculating. Fiona holds it, lifting her chin with a stubbornness he clearly inherited, before rolling her eyes.
“Fine,” he relents, “she’s not to leave your sight.”
Fiona frowns at that, checking me over. For what, I’m not sure. Does she think I’m abused? That Roman is controlling me and fears I’ll run? Of course she wouldn’t know the truth. The Company’s women never do. Just stand still and look pretty, that’s what most founders want from their wives.
What she doesn’t realise is that Roman’s control is what makes me feel safe, what makes me feel loved, what gives me hope for the first time in my life.
“I’ll be back,” he says, bending down to press an indecent kiss to my lips.
That’s the problem with Roman and me. We don’t flare; we detonate. No matter how much a kiss starts as a peck, it quickly devolves into fire and fuel. If I had my wits about me, I’d pull back, but the flutter in my stomach ignites and I fall into the softness of his lips and the harshness of his tongue as it seeks entrance.
I nearly lose myself completely before a low cough pulls me back. We break apart with a jolt, but Roman just smirks, knowing exactly what he does to me, before squeezing my arse and stepping away.
Fiona loops her arm through mine before I can second-guess it and gently steers me to the opposite side of the room. Each step feels heavier as my eyes flick instinctively to Roman, nowacross the room. He’s already deep in conversation with his dad and his jaw is as tight as his posture is rigid.
I hate it.
I hate how easily I can see it.
Whatever this conversation is, it sucks away the carefree feeling we had a moment ago and puts me on edge.
Focusing on the room again, I take stock of my surroundings. I don’t trust rooms like this. I don’t trust powerful men in tuxedos. I don’t trust kindness without a cost, especially not from people who belong in this world.
Fiona seems to sense my hesitation, casting furtive glances as she continues to guide me where she wants me.
“I promise,” she says softly as we stop near a quieter alcove by the balcony doors, “this isn’t an interrogation.”
I offer a polite smile, whilst inside I’m coiled tight. We take the stairs as I try to control my breathing. Half of me wants to believe this is innocent and that Fiona wouldn’t do anything against her son’s wishes; the other half knows I should never walk off with a stranger in this house.
We come to a stop at one of the balconies overlooking the dance floor. Up here, I can see Felix, Victor, and Atlas with their dates. Riggs has disappeared somewhere and Father is still holding court at the champagne tower. Fiona turns to face me fully, her expression losing some of its earlier brightness, which does nothing to calm my racing heart. I worry it’s beating so loudly she can hear it.
“I owe you an apology,” she says, now it’s my turn to open and close my mouth like a fish.
She waits me out, letting me gain my footing as I mumble back, “For…?”
“For coming on too strong,” she sighs. “I got excited. Roman doesn’t bring people into his life lightly. I knew he would have his other promised, but I also knew he saw that as dutyand nothing more. The difference is, he has spoken about you for so long that when I saw you together, I just became overenthusiastic, I suppose,” she shrugs before she continues,
“It’s hope I thought had died. It’s one of a mother’s hardest things to overcome, you know? The idea that when I die, my baby will be all alone because he never found a family for himself. It has eaten at me since I found out about his diagnosis.
“Parents of neurotypical children never have to question these things. It’s a given. Especially in this world. We live, we die, we marry, we procreate. But Roman…” she gestures lightly, a sad smile playing across her face, “at some stage I stopped hoping and started preparing, but then you came along.”
My heart beats slow and painful in my chest. I picture her younger and softer around the edges, holding a small Roman against her hip. His dark curls are wild, his tiny fingers fisted into her dress, with eyes already too observant for his age.
I imagine doctors’ offices. Whispered words. A diagnosis delivered like a life sentence instead of a difference.
I imagine her driving home in silence, gripping the steering wheel too tightly while the world quietly rearranges itself around her child.
It makes my eyes burn.
How do you grieve a future that is still breathing in your arms? How do you mourn a life you were promised without ever letting your child feel the loss? I cannot begin to understand that kind of love. The kind that fears dying not for yourself, but for who will hold your son when you are gone.
Then there is the stigma, the assumptions. The way this world chews through anyone who doesn’t fit its mould. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the cruelty of a system that makes a mother feel like she has to bury hope just to survive it.