Chapter 4 – Terms & Distance

Roman’s POV

Six months ago, I sat across from Valentina at a black marble table in my solicitor’s office. 

She had a cigarette between her fingers, her legs crossed in a practiced, predatory pose. 

​“This is not about love,” I said, my voice flat. “One year. A PR arrangement. That’s all it is.”

​I needed public image rehabilitation—a stable, traditional partner. She needed capital and status. It was simple, clean, and financially sound.

​She leaned in, smiling with her eyes. “Of course… there can be personal benefits, darling.”

​I looked her dead in the eye,“I’m not interested, Valentina. This isn’t that kind of contract.”

​She laughed, a bright, brittle sound, like she thought I was joking.

But I wasn't.

A few signatures. One notarized document. And just like that—Valentina Vale was legally mine.

In name only.

I kept my distance from day one. I scheduled her to the edges of my life. If she wanted intimacy? I sent her packages to the world’s most expensive spas and month-long 'charity ambassadorships.' Anything to keep her out of the house.

​I gave her black card and a driver. A wardrobe she didn't touch.

​Anything to keep her absence a constant, blessed relief.

I couldn’t stand her perfume. Her calculated laugh. The way she talked to the waitstaff like they were insects crawling on the floor.

We barely shared meals. I slept in my own wing, the door always locked. I didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her. Not even once.

I avoided my wife like a plague. It worked. I maintained control. Until Lana arrived two days ago.

Now the house isn’t quiet anymore. Her scent is on the couch I usually avoid—vanilla and something warm, something real.

Her hair is tangled in the drain of the guest bathroom.

She hums when she walks down the hallway. She moves barefoot, silently, like a predator who knows she’s in a dangerous space but doesn’t care.

There’s a small smudge of pink lipstick on my favorite coffee mug.

She doesn’t ask before she uses my things. She doesn’t tiptoe. She doesn’t shrink.

She just exists. Loudly. Softly. Completely.

And it’s driving my sterile, ordered existence insane.

The only thing that helps is the gym.

I hit the gym harder than usual. The anger is a physical, ugly thing I have to exhaust.

Weights. Ropes. Push-ups until my arms shake and sweat stings my eyes.

I try to sweat her out of my system.

It doesn’t work.

She’s still in my head, a constant, sharp intrusion.

I see the way she leaned across the table this morning, her tank top clinging to her chest, the fabric stretching. The way her tongue darted out to lick the juice off her lip.

I lift heavier. Harder. Longer.

But she lingers. In the air. In my sheets. In my bloodstream, a hot, unwanted toxin.

I hate this vulnerability. I hate the way she's tearing down the walls I spent decades building.

Evening. 

I step into the hallway, heading to my study, and there she is.

She’s in the kitchen. Again.

She has swapped out my white shirt for a new shirt—red this time. It's too big, long enough to tease, the color screaming danger. Bare legs. No bra.

Her dark hair is still damp from a shower, curls clinging to her neck.

She turns, sees me in the doorway.

A slow, deliberate smile stretches across her mouth. “Hungry?”

I don’t answer. I just stare, my jaw locking so tight I might shatter my teeth.

The red cotton is thin. I can see the outline of her nipples, peaked and demanding attention. The hem of the shirt ends exactly where it shouldn't.

She bites her lip, pretending not to notice my gaze drop—then snap back up. She knows exactly what she’s doing. “You should be afraid of me,” she said. And she was right.

I turn sharply, spinning on my heel, forcing myself to walk away.

Because if I don't, I will cross this room. I will pin her to the closest cold surface—the marble, the steel, I don't care—and I will fuck her until the control snaps completely and the whole damn house burns down around us.

I slam the door to my study shut. The sound doesn't calm me. It only confirms the violence of the desire.

It's midnight.

The house is dead. The staff are gone for the day. No lights. Just silence and shadows and the steady, uneven thump of my heart.

I haven’t slept. I can’t.

The sheets are too cold. My body too tight with thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking. With images of her—bare-legged, wet-haired, smiling like she knew I wanted to ruin her.

I get up. No destination. No reason.

Just a need.

I move through the hallway barefoot, then I slow when I reach the guest wing.

Her door is shut. Barely. And there's still light flickering from under the frame.

 I step closer. I don’t knock. I don’t speak. I just… listen.

And then I hear a faint sound. Barely a breath.

A moan.

“Roman…”

My name. My whole body locks. My hand curls into a fist at my side, nails digging into my palm.

She’s on the other side of that door—touching herself. Moaning for me.

No one else.

Me.

I lean in, jaw tight, breath shallow.

I could open the door.

I could walk in and end this game in seconds.

But I don’t. I stay frozen in place, every nerve on fire, every inch of me screaming to move. She moans again. Softer this time. Breathier.

My name, again.

I grip the doorknob. Just touch it. Then I turn and walk away.

Because if I go in there now—I won’t just fuck her.

I’ll destroy her.

To Be Continued…