Chapter 5

Roman hadn’t been blindsided in years.

Not in the boardroom.

Not in his empire.

Not in his life.

But sitting across the mahogany dining table, watching Elena Sinclair bow her head politely at her parents’ request, he felt the unfamiliar twist of humiliation crawl beneath his skin.

She knew.

She had known all along.

The way she met his gaze just then, unflinching, those dark eyes gleaming with a secret he hadn’t possessed, told him everything. Last night hadn’t been a chance encounter. It had been a performance. A test. A plot.

And Roman Thorne didn’t tolerate being played.

Their parents made small talk, sipping tea, exchanging pleasantries, pretending this was all civilized.

Roman’s jaw remained locked, every word from the elders barely penetrating through the weight of the silence between him and the girl who dared to dismiss him.

When Elena lifted her cup, her hand steady, her lips curving the faintest bit at the rim, Roman’s fingers curled into a fist beneath the tablecloth.

Did she enjoy this?

Did she savor the memory of brushing him off like a nobody?

Finally, Mr. Sinclair laughed warmly and said, “Well, I believe the children should get some time together. To… understand what they’re signing up for.”

“Of course,” Roman’s father agreed. “They should know what’s expected.”

Chairs scraped. The elders excused themselves with cordial smiles, their voices fading down the corridor until the heavy double doors closed and silence pressed in.

Roman didn’t wait a second.

He leaned back in his chair, cool and composed on the outside, though his pulse was molten beneath the surface.

His eyes locked on Elena, his voice low, measured, but sharp enough to slice through glass.

“If last night was your plot to get my attention,” he began, “congratulations. You succeeded.”

Elena tilted her head, lashes lowering in feigned innocence. “My plot?”

His jaw flexed. “Don’t play coy with me. You knew exactly who I was. And you thought humiliating me in public would… what? Make me obsessed with you? Make me want you more?”

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but something more dangerous. Something that said she was far less intimidated than he wanted her to be.

“Roman,” she said softly, almost sweetly, “if I wanted your attention, trust me, I’d have gotten it without lifting a finger.”

His chest tightened, fury and desire tangled so tightly it nearly suffocated him.

He leaned forward, voice like iron.

“Listen carefully. There will be rules between us. No love. No emotions. I will not touch you. I won’t even look at you outside of appearances. This marriage is business, and you will not mistake it for anything else.”

The words dropped like stone between them, his authority absolute.

He waited for her to break, waited for her to pale, to stammer, to nod like every other woman did when he drew a line.

But Elena only leaned back in her chair, her chin lifting with infuriating elegance.

“Good,” she said simply. “Because the thought of you touching me makes my skin crawl.”

The air cracked.

Roman’s control nearly snapped, the force of her words punching through him harder than any boardroom betrayal.

Her tone wasn’t desperate, wasn’t pleading, it was dismissive. Casual. As if he were nothing more than a man who existed on the periphery of her life.

And that, more than anything, made him burn.

He watched her sip her tea, calm and unbothered, while heat coiled in his veins.

The curves he had tried all morning not to think about taunted him now, hidden beneath her polite posture, her perfectly chosen dress.

He wanted to break her calm.

He wanted to shatter that smug detachment until she was gasping, writhing, begging.

But he couldn’t show it.

So Roman leaned back, masking the storm behind a veneer of indifference. “Then we understand each other,” he said coolly. “Perfect.”

Her lips curved again, this time into a smile that felt like a slap. “Perfect.”

Roman’s composure cracked.

The word had barely left her lips, “Perfect” ... when he pushed his chair back with a scrape that echoed through the empty dining hall.

His stride was silent but lethal as he closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away.

Elena’s breath should have hitched. Any other woman would have flushed, cowered, or leaned toward him in trembling anticipation. But not her.

She sat still, chin tipped up, her gaze steady as though daring him to prove he was more than words.

Roman’s shadow fell over her. His hand braced against the back of her chair, his body leaning just enough that his cologne wrapped around her like smoke.

Their faces hovered close, so close his lips almost brushed hers.

But instead of kissing her, his voice came, low, harsh, his restraint balanced on the edge of breaking.

“You’re not all that, Elena,” he said, each word ground out through clenched teeth. “So drop the act. Stop playing hard to get. If you want to survive this marriage, if you want me, you’ll learn to be submissive.”

The silence after was sharp, loaded, daring her to crumble. But Elena didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him an inch.

Her lips curved, not in fear, but in cold defiance. “You arrogant bastard,” she murmured, her tone dripping with venomous calm. “This is a wrong marriage, Roman. And it might not last. Because unlike your world of contracts and power plays, I don’t give two fucks about you.”