Chapter 3 - Blood Money, Broken Pride, and a Stolen Dance
The silence that blanketed the ballroom was so dense that the squeak of a catering cart in the far corner sounded like a gunshot.
Sadi felt dozens of eyes tracking her every movement—aunts who had spent years gifting her diet books for Christmas, cousins who had smirked when Derek left her, and family friends who treated her presence like an awkward obligation. But for the first time in her life, the staring wasn't accompanied by pity. It was fueled by sheer, unadulterated shock.
Roman walked with measured, deliberate strides, guiding Sadi straight toward Table Four, ignoring Table Twelve by the swinging kitchen doors entirely.
Brenda Miller recovered just enough of her faculties to step forward, her manicured hands smoothing over her floral mother-of-the-bride gown. Her eyes flicked from Sadi's emerald dress to the sheer mountain of a man beside her, her social facade cracking at the seams.
"Sadi, darling," Brenda began, her voice tight, vibrating an entire octave higher than usual. "You... you made it. And you brought a... friend."
"Mother, this is Roman," Sadi said, marveling at how steady her voice sounded despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Roman, this is my mother, Brenda, and my sister, Chloe."
Chloe, looking pale beneath her heavy bridal makeup, offered a weak, confused nod.
Roman extended a single hand toward Brenda, his expression cool and regal. "Mrs. Miller. An honor. Sadi has spoken extensively about her family." He didn't wait for her to respond before turning his dark, piercing gaze directly onto the man standing two feet away. "And you must be Derek."
Derek swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He shifted his weight nervously, attempting to summon his usual polished, country-club swagger, but against Roman’s sheer physical mass and aura of lethal authority, he looked like a schoolboy caught skipping class.
"Derek Vance," he said, offering a sweaty palm. "I’m an old... friend of Sadi's. Associate Vice President at Marcus & Millichap."
Roman looked at Derek’s extended hand for a long, agonizing beat before taking it with a grip that caused Derek’s shoulders to stiffen in immediate discomfort.
"Roman Rossi," Roman said smoothly, not increasing his pressure, but holding the handshake just long enough to establish total dominance. "Rossi Enterprises. I oversee private logistics and municipal development. Sadi mentioned you worked in commercial leasing." Roman’s lips curved into a razor-thin smile. "A very stable, low-risk sector. Commendable."
The casual condescension in Roman’s voice cut Derek to the bone. Derek’s fiancée, a woman named Tiffany who was currently staring at Roman’s Patek Philippe with wide, calculating eyes, nudged Derek with her elbow, clearly waiting for an introduction.
"Right, uh, this is Tiffany," Derek stammered, pulling his hand back and subtly rubbing his crushed knuckles against his trouser leg.
Roman merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgment, barely sparing Tiffany a glance, before shifting his attention entirely back to Sadi. He reached up, his fingers lightly brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. The touch was so intimate, so intensely focused, that a collective hush fell over the surrounding tables.
"Darling," Roman said softly, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the silent room, "your mother mentioned something about seating arrangements earlier. I took the liberty of having my office contact the country club management this afternoon. They’ve added two additional place settings to Table Four. I trust that won't be an issue, Brenda?"
Brenda’s eyes darted frantically around the table. "Oh! No, of course not, Mr. Rossi! Not at all! The country club manager actually came out personally an hour ago to check the silver settings. We were wondering why..."
"Good," Roman interrupted smoothly, pulling out a chair for Sadi with effortless chivalry. "Sit, my love."
As Sadi sat down, the massive diamond on her left hand caught the overhead chandelier light, fracturing it into brilliant, blinding beams across the table.
Tiffany let out an audible, involuntary gasp. "My god... is that an emerald cut?"
Brenda’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "Sadi... what is that on your finger?"
Sadi looked down at the ring, her heart racing, but before she could speak, Roman placed a heavy, protective hand on her bare shoulder. His fingers were warm against her skin, sending a current of heat straight down her spine.
"We were hoping to keep the announcement understated until after Chloe’s special weekend," Roman said, his tone perfectly balancing polite deference with absolute authority. "I asked Sadi to marry me last Saturday. Fortunately for me, she said yes."
The table erupted into a chaotic flurry of gasps, forced congratulations, and frantic murmurs. Derek looked as though he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. His eyes remained glued to the ring, then drifted to Sadi’s glowing face, the realization of what he had thrown away crashing down upon him in real-time.
"You're... getting married?" Derek choked out, his voice laced with bitter disbelief. "Sadi, you didn't mention you were even dating anyone. It’s only been... I mean, we were together for four years."
Roman leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his demeanor shifting from charming guest to dangerous apex predator in a fraction of a second.
"A woman like Sadi does not remain unclaimed for long, Vance," Roman said, the steel beneath his velvet tone silencing the entire table instantly. "Some men lack the vision to appreciate rare art. Others recognize value immediately and secure it permanently."
Derek looked down at his plate, thoroughly humiliated, unable to meet Roman’s icy gaze.
Throughout the dinner, Roman played his role with terrifying perfection. He fed Sadi small bites of dessert, held her hand over the tablecloth, and engaged Brenda in polite conversation about real estate developments that left her mother flushed and starry-eyed. Every time Sadi felt a wave of old insecurity threaten to surface, Roman’s thumb would trace small, steady circles over the back of her hand, grounding her.
When the string quartet transitioned into a slow, melancholic jazz standard, Roman stood up and extended his hand to Sadi.
"Dance with me," he said.
"Roman, I don't really dance," she whispered, panic flaring anew.
"You don't have to," he replied, pulling her effortlessly to her feet. "Just follow my lead."
He led her to the center of the polished dance floor, right under the grand crystal chandelier. As his right hand settled firmly against the small of her back, pulling her plush, curved body flush against his solid chest, Sadi felt the breath leave her body. Her hands rested against the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the lethal power held in check beneath the tailored suit.
They swayed together in slow, hypnotic rhythm.
"You're doing exceptionally well, Sadi," Roman murmured, his lips brushing near her temple.
"You're terrifying my ex-boyfriend," she whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. "I think he’s going to cry in the bathroom."
"He should cry," Roman said coldly. "He is an insignificant insect who made you feel small. No one makes what belongs to me feel small."
The words what belongs to me hung heavily in the air between them, thick with a possessive heat that was no longer entirely part of the script.
Suddenly, the discreet earpiece in Roman’s left ear gave a sharp beep.
Roman didn't break his stride, but his jaw clenched slightly. He listened for three seconds, his dark eyes darkening further into something cold, clinical, and deadly.
"Understood," Roman said quietly into the hidden microphone beneath his collar. "Secure the perimeter. I’ll be there in thirty minutes."
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He looked down at Sadi, the mask of the charming fiancé settling back into place, though his eyes burned with a dangerous urgency.
"The Moretti business has been concluded," Roman said in a low murmur, his hand tightening subtly against her waist. "Our alibi is established. It is time to leave."
