“I’m okay,” you repeated.
Then he saw Elena behind you, alive, shaken, clutching your hand.
His expression changed.
Not relief.
Terror.
Because Roman Cross finally understood what love could cost him.
He pulled you into his arms in front of everyone.
No restraint. No distance. No careful control.
Just his face buried in your hair, his arms locked around you, his breath uneven against your temple.
“You moved again,” he said, voice broken with fury. “You moved again.”
You held him back. “So did your men.”
“They are paid to.”
“I’m not.”
His grip tightened.
Elena, still sitting on the pavement with blood on her sleeve from a shallow cut, looked at her son and said softly, “Now you know.”
Roman closed his eyes.
By morning, the truth surfaced.
The attack had not come from a rival family.
It came from Preston Hartwell.
He had used old security contacts and desperate men to arrange what he thought would look like retaliation against Roman. But his real target had been Elena. Hurt Roman’s mother, start a war, bury the Sterling-Hartwell scandal beneath blood.
Vanessa had known.
