That was what Trent always told me.
Every problem started because I talked too much.
Every argument happened because I asked too many questions.
Every time I defended myself, he called it disrespect.
For a moment, I almost apologized.
The habit was so deeply trained into me that the words were already forming.
I’m sorry.
I almost said it.
But then I looked at Roman.
And I realized something.
He was not looking at me the way Trent did.
Trent looked at me like I was something he owned.
Roman looked at me like I was something he was trying to understand.
There was a difference.
A dangerous difference.
“What exactly did he do to you?”
Roman’s voice broke the silence.
I looked up.
“What?”
“The man chasing you.”
His eyes moved briefly toward my wrist.
The bruised skin visible beneath my torn sleeve.
“What exactly did he do?”
The question should have been simple.
But somehow, it was harder to answer than anything else.
Because once you admit the truth out loud, you cannot pretend anymore.
I looked away.
“He gets angry.”
Roman waited.
That was all.
He did not interrupt.
He did not tell me I was exaggerating.
He did not ask what I did to make him angry.
So I continued.
“He doesn’t like when things don’t go his way.”
The elevator lights reflected against the polished walls.
My own reflection looked unfamiliar.
A woman with tired eyes.
A woman who looked smaller than she remembered.
“He grabbed my arm tonight.”
Roman’s jaw tightened slightly.
Only slightly.
Most people would not have noticed.
But I did.
Because I had spent years studying people’s moods.
I had learned to recognize the smallest changes.
A clenched hand.
A different breathing pattern.
A silence that came before anger.
Roman was angry.
But not at me.
“At the gala?” he asked.
I nodded.
“He was smiling.”
The memory made my stomach twist.
“He was smiling while hurting me.”
Nobody spoke.
I looked down at the broken shoe still in my hand.
“I tried to leave before anyone noticed.”
“Why?”
The question surprised me.
I looked at him.
“Why did you try to leave instead of asking for help?”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the answer was obvious.
“Because nobody helps people like me.”
The words came out quietly.
Roman’s expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
Something behind his eyes.
Something I could not understand.
The elevator slowed.
A soft sound announced another floor.
But the doors did not open.
Private floors.
Restricted access.
I suddenly remembered where I was.
Who I was standing with.
Fear returned.
Not the same fear.
A different kind.
I was trapped in an elevator with Roman Coyle.
A man whose name appeared in newspapers next to words like influence, power, and controversy.
A man who could make people disappear from business meetings with one phone call.
A man who had just protected me from Trent without raising his voice.
That was almost more frightening.
People who shouted were predictable.
Quiet people were not.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Roman looked at the elevator display.
“Thirty-two.”
My heart stopped.
“The top floor?”
“Yes.”
I immediately pushed away from the wall.
“I need to get off.”
“You can’t.”
“I have to go back.”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Firm.
I stared at him.
“I need my things.”
“You need medical attention.”
“I need my job.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Roman looked at me.
“You are worried about your job?”
I felt embarrassed.
Because it sounded ridiculous.
But people like him did not understand.
Missing one shift could mean missing rent.
A bad report from a manager could mean losing hours.
A complaint from a wealthy guest could mean losing everything.
“I can’t afford to lose this.”
Something moved across his face.
Not pity.
I hated pity.
Something closer to understanding.
The elevator finally stopped.
The doors opened.
I expected another hallway.
Instead, I saw something completely different.
A private residence.
Not a hotel suite.
A home.
A massive space overlooking the city.
Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed thousands of lights below.
The room was elegant but strangely empty.
No unnecessary decorations.
No family photographs.
No signs that anyone actually lived there.
It looked like a place designed for someone who had everything…
Except peace.
Roman walked out.
The large man followed.
I stayed inside.
Roman turned back.
“You can come out.”
“I don’t think I should.”
For the first time, the bodyguard looked slightly amused.
Not enough to smile.
But enough that I noticed.
Roman studied me.
“You are afraid of me.”
It was not a question.
I looked away.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
A strange silence followed.
Then Roman nodded.
“Fair.”
That answer surprised me.
