Chapter 3 - Shadows of Copley SquareThe cool night air hit Evelyn like a splash of cold water, instantly clearing the stifling heat of the ballroom. The rain had turned into a steady, gray drizzle, slicking the cobblestones of Copley Square and reflecting the neon signs of the city in shimmering pools of color.
Roman signaled a sleek, dark-tinted Mercedes idling by the curb. The rear door popped open instantly, and a driver in a sharp suit leaned out to secure an umbrella overhead.
"Where are we going?" Evelyn asked, pausing by the open door. Her dress was ruined at the hem, stained with cake frosting and wet pavement, but she felt lighter than she had in years.
"Somewhere safe," Roman said, holding out a hand to steady her as she climbed into the leather-lined interior. "My office in the North End. We have paperwork to untangle, and you need to secure your properties before Grant’s creditors realize the game is up."
Once inside, the car pulled away smoothly into the late-night traffic. The interior was quiet, isolated from the hum of the city by thick glass and heavy insulation. Roman sat across from her, resting his elbows on his knees, watching her with a curious, guarded expression.
"You handled that better than most seasoned prosecutors," Roman noted, his voice breaking the silence.
Evelyn let out a dry, humorless laugh, leaning her head back against the plush headrest. "For eight months, I practiced being quiet. I smiled when people insulted me. I swallowed my pride every time Grant made a passive-aggressive remark about my weight or my ambitions. Tonight, I realized that playing the polite, accommodating victim was just another way of handing them the knife."
Roman studied her profile for a long moment. "Most women in your position would be crying in the bathroom right now."
"I cried plenty of tears in private over the last two months wondering why he was pulling away," Evelyn said, turning her head to meet his dark gaze. "I'm all out of tears for a man who tried to put me in prison. Right now, I'm just angry."
"Anger is a useful tool," Roman replied softly. "Provided you know how to aim it."
"And you?" Evelyn asked, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Why are you helping me, Roman? Men like you don't crash high-society weddings out of the goodness of your heart. What does the great Roman DeLuca stand to gain by saving my brownstone?"
Roman didn't flinch away from the direct question. Instead, a slow, knowing smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Grant owes my syndicate four million dollars," Roman said. "He thought he could use your assets to settle his account. By exposing him tonight, I ensure he can't pass his debts onto an innocent party."
"That doesn't explain why you personally intervened," Evelyn pointed out. "You could have just sent me an anonymous tip."
Roman leaned forward, the dim dashboard lights catching the sharp angles of his face. "Six months ago, I saw you at an art gallery opening in the Seaport. Grant was standing right beside you, publicly humiliating you by telling a client that your design firm was just a 'cute little hobby' to keep you busy."
Evelyn blinked, surprised. "You remember that?"
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"I remember people who don't know their own worth," Roman said quietly. "And I remember men who think they can diminish women to build themselves up. I didn't like him then. I like him even less now."
Before Evelyn could process the weight of his words, the car glided to a stop in front of an imposing, nineteenth-century brick warehouse tucked away along the historic North End waterfront.
