Chapter 2 - The Armor of Mrs. ValeThe private styling suite on the top floor of the Vale Tower looked like a high-fashion war zone. Three terrified makeup artists from Fifth Avenue stood huddled near a rack of couture gowns, whispering frantically in French while Luca supervised like a drill sergeant inspecting raw recruits.
At the center of it all sat Clara Higgins.
She was no longer the frazzled theater costumer who had dripped rain onto Roman’s marble floor. Two hours of professional hair-styling had tamed her chaotic dark curls into an effortless, cascading wave that framed her high cheekbones. The emerald silk gown Roman had purchased hugged her body like liquid poison—daring, sophisticated, and impossibly elegant. Yet, true to form, Clara had insisted on pinning a tiny, inconspicuous sewing needle into the inner lining of the cuff.
“If a seam splits while I’m faking my undying love for a multi-billionaire sociopath, I’m going to need a backup plan,” she muttered to herself, adjusting the diamond tennis bracelet Luca had handed her with the casual indifference of someone strapping on a wristwatch.
The heavy double doors swung open, and Roman stepped into the room.
The air seemed to leave the space instantly. He wore a bespoke charcoal tuxedo that fit him with predatory precision, his white silk shirt unbuttoned at the top collar, exposing the strong line of his throat. When his gaze locked onto Clara, his breath hitched for a fraction of a second—a micro-expression that didn't go unnoticed by Luca.
“Well?” Clara asked, standing up and smoothing the emerald silk over her hips. She looked him dead in the eye, refusing to shrink under the crushing weight of his presence. “Do I look like the kind of woman who spends your fortune on charity galas and emotional neglect, or should I practice looking more miserable?”
Roman crossed the room in three long, silent strides. He stopped mere inches away from her, the clean, expensive scent of cedar and sandalwood washing over her senses. Up close, the sheer danger radiating off him was palpable—a dark, electric current that made every nerve ending in Clara’s body stand on end.
“You look,” Roman murmured, his voice dipping dangerously low as his fingers reached out, lightly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “like a catastrophic mistake I am entirely unwilling to undo.”
Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she forced her expression to remain icy. “Save the romantic monologues for Sokolov, Vale. We have a performance to nail.”
“It’s not a performance if you sell it,” Roman corrected softly, his thumb lingering for a second too long on her jawline before he stepped back. “Remember the rules, Clara. Sokolov doesn't care about your backstory. He cares about details. He knows every woman I’ve ever looked at, every club I’ve ever stepped foot in, and every scar on my hands. If he touches your face, you lean into it. If he asks how we met, you tell him the truth wrapped in a lie: that I was arrogant, you were unimpressed, and I refused to leave until you said yes.”
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“And if he figures out it’s an act?” Clara asked, her eyes narrowing.
Roman didn't smile. He turned toward the door, gesturing for Luca to follow. “Then we won't have to worry about finding your brother anymore, because we’ll both be feeding the fishes in the East River before midnight. Let’s go, Mrs. Vale.”
