Chapter 7 - Behind Locked Oak Doors
By midnight, the estate was under complete lockdown.
A private cleanup crew had sanitized the master suite, replacing the shattered oak doors with reinforced titanium-core panels and burning the ruined Persian rugs in the courtyard incinerators. Forty additional heavily armed guards, flown in from Roman’s private security firm in Detroit, now patrolled every inch of the perimeter with thermal scopes and armored vehicles.
Despite the calm that settled over the compound, Sadi could not close her eyes.
She sat curled up on the massive silk sofa in the master sitting room, wearing an oversized black cashmere sweater that belonged to Roman. It swallowed her figure, smelling richly of his cedarwood cologne, providing a small, strange sense of safety amidst the madness.
The heavy doors clicked open, and Roman stepped into the room.
He had showered. He wore simple black linen trousers and an open-collared dark shirt, his hair still damp. The dark ink of his tattoos crept up his forearms, stark and intimidating against his pale skin. He carried a silver tray with a pot of chamomile tea and a single porcelain cup.
He set the tray on the coffee table in front of her, pouring the tea with calm, steady hands.
"Drink," he said softly, handing her the cup. "It will calm your nervous system."
Sadi took the warm cup, letting the steam rise against her face. She looked up at him, her curiosity finally breaking through the lingering haze of fear.
"Why me, Roman?" she asked, her voice quiet in the vast room.
Roman paused, looking down at her. "I explained the alibi, Sadi. The country club provided—"
"No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't give me the tactical briefing. You could have hired an elite high-end escort. You could have paid a socialite five hundred thousand dollars to play the part of your fiancée for one night. You could have picked a woman who fits into the world of country clubs and high-society galas."
She looked down at her lap, her voice dropping into a painful, vulnerable whisper. "I’m a plus-size woman with an art degree who was scrubbing your kitchen floor at two in the morning. Why did you choose to bring me into this nightmare?"
Roman was silent for a long moment. The only sound in the room was the gentle crackle of the gas fireplace.
Then, he stood up and extended his hand. "Come with me."
Sadi hesitated, then set her teacup down and placed her hand in his. Roman led her out of the master suite, down the darkened hallway of the east wing, stopping before the heavy, double-locked oak doors she had been forbidden from ever touching during her year of employment.
Roman produced a heavy bronze key from his pocket, unlocked the top deadbolt, entered a six-digit code into a concealed keypad, and pushed the doors open.
He clicked a switch, and soft, museum-grade track lighting illuminated the vast room.
Sadi stepped inside—and froze in absolute astonishment.
The room was not an armory. It was not a torture chamber or a clandestine meeting room for mob lieutenants.
It was a private, temperature-controlled art gallery.
Hanging on the walls were dozens of magnificent oil paintings spanning three centuries—Baroque portraits, Renaissance landscapes, and modern impressionist masterpieces. But what took Sadi’s breath away was the central theme of the collection.
Every single portrait featured women of full, voluptuous proportions—reveling in their curves, painted with deep reverence, glowing with power, sensuality, and unashamed grace. Rubens-inspired masterworks, heavy classical figures, and vibrant modern canvases depicted beauty not through starvation and fragility, but through richness, abundance, and presence.
In the center of the gallery stood an unfinished canvas resting on a heavy wooden easel.
Sadi walked slowly toward it, her heart pounding in her chest.
It was an oil painting of a woman standing in a moonlit kitchen, scrubbing a cast-iron pan, her hair falling in wild, dark curls, her soft profile illuminated by the cold blue light of a sink. It was raw. It was vulnerable. And it was undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful.
"You painted this?" Sadi whispered, turning to Roman with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Roman stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the canvas with a raw vulnerability she had never seen in him before.
"My grandfather was an art restorer in Florence before the war dragged our family into the syndicates," Roman said quietly. "He taught me that the world spends all its time trying to convince women that they are only valuable if they are small, fragile, and easy to break."
He walked over to her, stopping so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
"For twelve months, I watched you walk through this house, Sadi," Roman murmured, his voice thick with unmasked emotion. "I watched you carry the weight of this entire estate on your shoulders without breaking. I watched you bring warmth and light into a house that was built on cold blood and concrete. You spent your life believing you take up too much space. But the truth is, this entire city isn't big enough to hold the beauty you carry."
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Tears pricked Sadi’s eyes, hot and overwhelming. "Roman..."
"I didn't pick you for an alibi, Sadi," Roman confessed, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a fierce, uncompromising honesty. "I used the alibi as an excuse to finally take what I’ve wanted for a year."
