Chapter 3 - The King’s Eyes
Every step Roman took echoed in Emma’s chest like a drumbeat.
She wanted to run, but her feet felt glued to the crimson carpet. She was a librarian from New Haven who spent her weekends cataloging rare manuscripts and reading Victorian poetry. She did not belong in dark corridors with men who made CEOs weep.
Roman stopped three feet away from her.
Up close, the power he radiated was suffocating. He smelled of rain, expensive cedarwood cologne, and the faint, bitter scent of tobacco.
His gaze dropped slowly from her dark hair, down to the high neck of her navy clearance dress, down to her simple shoes, before rising back up to settle on her wide, dark hazel eyes.
"You're lost," Roman said.
His voice was a deep baritone, smooth and dangerous, like velvet stretched over iron.
"I... I was looking for the restroom," Emma managed to say. Her voice trembled, but she forced her chin up, refusing to shrink back.
A faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of Roman’s mouth. "The guest restrooms are in the east wing. This is the private quarters."
"I took a wrong turn."
"Clearly." Roman stepped half an inch closer. He towered over her, his shadowy figure blocking out the dim light from the corridor sconces. "And what did you see down this hall, little cousin?"
The word cousin hung in the air, heavy with unspoken weight.
"I saw a conversation," Emma replied steadily, clutching her small clutch purse against her ribs like a shield. "And a man who looked like he was about to have a heart attack."
Roman’s dark eyes flashed with something unexpected—interest. Most people stumbled over their words or looked at the floor when he looked at them.
"You aren't afraid of me," he noted softly.
"I'm terrified of you," Emma corrected immediately. "I'm just trying very hard not to show it."
A quiet, genuine murmur of laughter escaped Roman's lips. It was a low, dark sound that vibrated right through Emma’s spine.
"Honesty," Roman murmured. "That’s rare in this house. What's your name?"
"Emma. Emma Brooks."
"Paige’s cousin."
"Yes."
Roman nodded slowly, as if adding her name to a private mental file. "The cousin who reads books, lives alone in an apartment near Yale, and refused to let Luca pay for her train ticket tonight."
Emma’s breath hitched. "How do you know that?"
"I know everyone who enters my house, Emma," Roman said, his tone casual, though the intensity in his eyes proved otherwise. "Especially the ones who look like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world."
Before Emma could respond, heavy footsteps approached from the ballroom hallway.
Luca appeared around the corner, his face pale and strained. "Roman! There you are, I’ve been looking—"
Luca stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Emma standing beside his cousin. His eyes widened in shock, glancing between Roman’s imposing posture and Emma’s defensive stance.
"Emma?" Luca stammered. "What... what are you doing back here?"
"She was lost," Roman answered smoothly, never taking his eyes off Emma. "I was just escorting her back to the party."
Luca swallowed hard, his posture visibly stiffening in Roman’s presence. "Right. Thanks, Roman. Paige was asking for her."
Roman offered his arm to Emma. It was a formal gesture, but it felt more like an order than an invitation.
Emma hesitated for a beat. She looked at his crisp black sleeve, then up at his dark, unreadable face. Slowly, carefully, she placed her hand on his forearm.
His muscle felt like solid steel beneath the fine wool.
"Shall we, Emma?" Roman whispered, his breath warm against her temple.
As they walked back toward the golden light and roaring noise of the ballroom, every eye in the crowd shifted toward them. The murmurs died down. The Varelli relatives who had spent the last hour ignoring or pitying the girl in the eighty-nine-dollar dress now stared with open, stunned disbelief.
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Because Roman Varelli didn't walk with guests. He didn't escort strangers.
And he had never looked at any woman the way he was looking at Emma Brooks tonight.
