The evening sun attempted to pierce the heavy shroud of the office, but the interior remained a sanctuary of shadows and expensive leather. Roman sat behind his mahogany desk, the light from his computer monitors casting a cold, blue glow across the sharp planes of his face. He looked every bit the sovereign in his high-backed chair, a man used to moving mountains with a single keystroke.
Then, the door opened.
Roman's breath hitched, caught in the back of his throat like a jagged stone. He had expected a security briefing or perhaps his housekeeper with a fresh carafe of coffee. He had not expected Violet.
She stood in the doorway, framed by the dark wood, looking like a bruise against the evening light. She was dressed for her set at The Gilded Lily hours early, draped in a floor-length gown of deep purple velvet. The fabric was heavy and rich, absorbing the light rather than reflecting it, clinging to her curves with a soft, tactile elegance. The plunging neckline and the slit that climbed her thigh made his pulse thrum a low, heavy rhythm against his eardrums.
He sat in absolute silence, his eyes roaming over her with a greedy, unchecked hunger. He didn't blink, afraid that if he did, the vision of the woman in royal purple would vanish, leaving him alone with his spreadsheets and his lawsuits.
Violet didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped further into the room, the soft shush of the velvet against the rug the only sound in the cavernous office. The clicking of her heels stopped as she reached the center of the room, her gaze meeting his with a newfound resolve.
"I wanted to talk to you," she started, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands.
"About what?" Roman asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum. He leaned back, his eyes still fixed on her, filled with a dark anticipation.
"About my past."
Roman didn't hesitate. He pushed his chair back from the desk, creating that magnetic space between them. "Come here."
Violet walked over, her hips swaying under the weight of the velvet. As she reached his side, his hand shot out, capturing her waist and pulling her down onto his lap in one fluid, authoritative motion. Violet let out a small gasp as she settled against him, the heat of his thighs radiating through the dress.
Roman's hand immediately found the fabric of her skirt, his fingers sinking into the plush velvet. It was addicting- the way the material felt beneath his skin, and the way she felt beneath the material. He wasn't sure where the dress ended and the woman began, and frankly, he didn't care.
Violet shifted, trying to find a sense of equilibrium while perched on a man who felt like a mountain of warm granite. She looked at the empty, plush leather chairs scattered around the room and then back at him, her lips curving into a defiant, sassy smirk.
"You know, for a man who prides himself on efficiency, you're very inefficient with your furniture," she remarked, her tone dripping with honeyed sarcasm. "Why do you insist on me being here? There are perfectly good chairs over there, Roman. Chairs that don't have hands that wander."
Roman's thumb traced a slow, rhythmic circle against her hip, his eyes darkening. "Hmm. Those chairs aren't here. They don't have your scent, and they don't have your weight. I like you on my lap, Violet. It keeps the world exactly where I want it. Now go on. Talk."
Violet's sass flickered and died, replaced by a somber gravity. She looked down at his bandaged hand, her fingers tracing the edges of the gauze.
"I figured since you're welcoming me into your home... and your life... and apparently your lap," she said, a small smile touching her lips, "that I should be a little more transparent with you. You're fighting a war for me, and you don't even know what the borders look like."
Roman remained silent, his hand going still on her waist, his entire being focused on her words.
"My parents... they weren't evil, I don't think," she whispered, her gaze distant. "They were just small. They were hard up on money, drowning in debts they couldn't name. And then they realized they had an asset. A daughter who was, in their words, 'distractinglybeautiful' and gifted with a voice that could make people forget their own names."
She let out a dry, bitter laugh. "They didn't see a child; they saw a winning lottery ticket. They sold me off to the highest bidder at a private auction in a room filled with men who smelled like old tobacco and stale power. There was a brief show of my talents- I sang a lullaby while they checked my teeth like I was a mare."
Roman's grip on her waist tightened, his knuckles turning white. A low, guttural growl started deep in his chest.
"After the auction," she continued, her voice trembling now, "I was forced to sign a marriage license right there on the auction block. I didn't even see his face clearly. I was escorted to a car, a prisoner in a white dress. But the universe has a sense of irony. The car got a flat tire on a deserted stretch of highway. The driver got out to fix it, and I... I just ran. I ran across the country, changing my name, changing my life, hiding in jazz clubs and coffee shops to get away from a contract marriage that felt like a death sentence."
She looked at him then, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm not a wife, Roman. I'm a piece of escaped property."
Roman's face was a mask of cold, lethal fury. The image of a young Violet, terrified and dressed in white, being sold in a room of monsters, ignited a fire in him that threatened to consume everything.
"You think if I offer him the money back, and then some, that he'll divorce you?" Roman asked, his voice dangerously calm. "Whatever the price was, I'll triple it. I'll buy the contract and burn it in front of you."
Violet shook her head slowly, reaching up to cup his face. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, a tender gesture amidst the dark revelations. "No, Roman. You don't understand. He doesn't want the money. He's like you."
Roman's eyes narrowed. "Like me?"
"Possessive," she whispered. "He doesn't care about the 'investment.' He cares about the fact that something he bought walked away. He views my life as his lost interest. He's like a dragon, Roman. He's possessive of his things, and he thinks I am his thing."
Roman leaned in, his forehead dropping against hers. The velvet of her dress was bunched between his fingers, a physical tether to the woman he was beginning to realize he would kill for.
"He's wrong," Roman hissed, his breath hot against her lips. "You aren't a 'thing,' and you aren't his. He might have a piece of paper, but I have the reality. He might be a dragon, but he's never met a titan."
He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her with a fierce, protective urgency that left no room for sass. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, the velvet of her dress soft against his skin.
"I'm glad you told me, Vi. But it doesn't change the ending. It only makes me more eager to find him."
Violet clung to him, her eyes closing. For the first time, the story of her past didn't feel like a weight she had to carry alone. She was in the lion's den, but the lion was purring, and for now, the velvet felt like armor.
"Just remember," she whispered into his hair. "He's been looking for me for a long time. He won't play by your rules."
"Good," Roman replied, his voice a dark, possessive vow. "I was getting bored of the rules anyway."