Chapter One: The Past Never Stays Buried
The air smelled of victory.
Aged whiskey. Fine leather. The faintest trace of burnt tobacco. Roman Aldridge sat sprawled in his chair, a king surveying his empire, the city lights stretching endlessly below. The penthouse pulsed with power—business elites, foreign investors, and the type of men who could buy entire countries. They had gathered here to celebrate him.
Tonight, he won.
Three hundred million dollars. Another acquisition. Another empire.
The men in the room cheered and clinked their glasses, but Roman barely listened. Wealth no longer thrilled him. Power did. Control did.
A soft, manicured hand trailed up his sleeve.
"You look like a king surveying his kingdom," a sultry voice murmured.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was. Genevieve Laurent. Heiress. Model. A woman men sold their souls for. But Roman Aldridge wasn’t men.
She moved closer, pressing her champagne flute against the open collar of his shirt, letting the cool condensation tease his skin. "Shouldn’t a king have a queen?"
Roman finally turned his head, his gaze slow, deliberate. She was stunning—red lips, high cheekbones, the kind of beauty that could cripple nations. But he felt nothing.
She shifted onto his lap without hesitation, her fingers threading through his tie, tightening it just slightly. "I think you work too hard," she purred. "Let me take care of you tonight."
Roman let her touch him, but it meant nothing. Her scent? Too sweet. Her beauty? Fleeting. Her presence? Replaceable.
Genevieve had no idea she was losing.
She reached for his glass, bringing it to her lips. Roman watched, unimpressed, as she licked the lingering whiskey from her mouth. She thought she was seducing him.
She wasn’t.
Roman leaned in, his breath fanning against the shell of her ear. His fingers traced idly up her thigh, slow, deliberate—just enough to make her shiver. Then, with a voice like silk over steel, he whispered,
"You're boring me."
She froze.
Her pupils dilated, her confidence faltering for the first time. Before she could say anything, his phone vibrated against the table.
Roman didn’t need to look at the name. Darcy never called unless it was serious.
He exhaled, dismissing Genevieve with a lazy glance as he reached for the phone.
"What?" His voice was low, impatient.
For a moment, only silence. Then, a sharp inhale.
"Roman…" Darcy’s voice was tight.
Something in Roman’s stomach coiled. "Spit it out."
"It’s Luna. She collapsed."
The room tilted. The murmured conversations, the clinking of glasses, Genevieve’s perfume—it all blurred into nothing.
Roman’s fingers tightened around his glass. "How bad?"
"She’s critical."
A slow, measured exhale. Calculate. Don’t react. Roman had always been a man of control. But this? This was different.
"She needs a transfusion. O-negative."
The ice in Roman’s veins turned razor-sharp.
There was only one other person in their family with that blood type.
A woman he hadn’t spoken to in years.
A woman he had no intention of ever speaking to again.
Yet, here he was, being dragged back into the past by the one person he had tried to erase.
Livia.
And now, he had no choice but to bring her back.
