Chapter 7 - The Confrontation in the Dark
Derek stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the two of them standing close together against the stone balustrade. The dim amber lighting of the terrace cast long, dramatic shadows across Roman’s broad shoulders and Sadi’s flushed face.
Derek’s eyes darted between them, a pathetic mixture of alcohol-fueled bravado and wounded male pride twisting his features.
"Right," Derek scoffed, taking a sloppy step forward, waving his scotch glass in the air. "I knew it. I saw you two out here. Sadi, what is going on? Who is this guy? You bring some thug from the city to my rehearsal dinner to play big shot?"
Roman didn't move. He didn't step away from Sadi. He simply lowered his hand from her face and turned slowly to face Derek, his expression hardening into absolute, arctic ice.
"Keep your voice down, Derek," Roman warned, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. "You’re making a fool of yourself in front of your new fiancée."
"My fiancée is inside talking to her mother about flower arrangements!" Derek snapped, puffing out his chest as he lurched another step forward. He pointed a shaking finger at Roman’s chest. "I don't know what kind of cheap intimidation tactics you’re running in downtown Chicago, pal, but this is Naperville! You don't walk into a respectable country club and talk to me like—"
In a movement so fast it defied human reaction, Roman closed the distance between them.
He didn't punch Derek. He didn't draw a weapon.
Instead, Roman grabbed Derek by the lapels of his expensive charcoal suit, lifted him effortlessly off the terrace floor, and slammed him back against the solid stone wall of the clubhouse with a deafening thud.
Derek’s scotch glass slipped from his fingers, shattering into a thousand sparkling amber shards across the flagstone.
"You arrogant little worm," Roman hissed, his face inches from Derek’s, his voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal whisper that vibrated through the night air. "You spent four years making Sadi feel small. You traded her in for a plastic doll because you didn't have the stomach for a real woman. And if I ever hear you speak her name with even a fraction of that condescending tone again, I won't just throw you against a wall. I will dismantle everything you own down to the last penny and make sure you spend the rest of your life explaining bankruptcy to your country club friends."
Derek’s face turned the color of curdled milk. His eyes were wide with primal, unadulterated terror, his hands clawing weakly at Roman’s iron grip on his lapels.
"I—I’m sorry," Derek choked out, spittle flying from his lips. "I swear to God, I didn't mean—please—"
Roman held him suspended for three agonizing seconds, letting the cold, heavy reality of fear sink deep into Derek’s soul. Then, with a disgusted flick of his wrists, Roman dropped him.
Derek stumbled backward, tripping over his own shiny leather shoes, and hit the stone floor hard on his hands and knees.
May you like
Roman calmly smoothed down the front of his own shirt, adjusting his cuffs as if he had just brushed off a speck of dust. He didn't look down at Derek whimpering on the ground. He turned his attention entirely back to Sadi, who stood frozen with her hand pressed over her mouth.
"Let’s go, Sadi," Roman said softly, his voice returning to its normal, steady baritone. "This party is over."
