Roman’s eyes held yours.
“The truth. Choice. Protection when you want it, distance when you need it. My name when it helps you, my absence when it doesn’t.” His voice dropped. “And every part of me that still knows how to love without owning.”
Your eyes filled.
“That’s a dangerous proposal, Roman Cross.”
“It was not the proposal.”
Your breath caught.
He reached into his coat.
Not for a weapon.
For a small black velvet box.
Your heart stopped.
Roman lowered himself to one knee on the garden stones, the king of New York’s shadows kneeling beneath soft lights like a man asking for mercy.
Inside the box was a ring unlike Vanessa’s diamond weapon. This one was simple, old, and beautiful—a vintage oval diamond set between two tiny emeralds, delicate rather than loud.
“It was my grandmother’s,” he said. “My mother wanted you to have it even if you said no.”
You laughed through tears. “That sounds like Elena.”
“It does.”
He looked up at you, and all the darkness in him seemed to quiet.
