King of Thrones

Chapter Five: Funerals

The blood matching test results were in.

Livia was a perfect match.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with glasses that perched precariously on his nose, entered the room with a soft yet reassuring smile. "The transfusion will be possible. You’re the perfect match, Miss Sinclair. We can proceed immediately."

Relief flickered across the room. But for Roman, it didn’t come as easily.

Because this moment—Livia standing there, her spine impossibly straight, her expression unreadable—was proof of something that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. She had come for Luna. Not for him. Not for this family. Just Luna.

He had spent years pretending Livia Sinclair no longer existed. Telling himself that her absence had meant nothing. That he had never thought of her when he lay awake at night, with someone else’s body tangled in his sheets, their perfume never quite washing away the ghost of what he actually craved.

Now, she was back, and she wouldn’t even look at him.

Roman’s jaw clenched as he watched her sign the consent forms with an effortless flick of her wrist, like she wasn’t offering up her own blood to save the family she had been exiled from. Like this meant nothing.

But it was something.

She was something.

The doctor explained the procedure, but Roman barely heard a word. His pulse drummed in his ears as he took a step closer.

"Livia."

Her name left his lips before he could stop it. A quiet plea. A curse.

She didn’t turn immediately. Instead, she inhaled softly, controlled, before shifting just enough to glance at him over her shoulder.

"Roman," she said, her voice like ice cracking over deep water.

His gut twisted. No warmth. No softness. Not even anger. Just detachment.

The years had made her untouchable.

"I didn’t expect you to come," he admitted. The words felt ridiculous, but he couldn’t swallow them back.

Livia finally turned fully, her eyes meeting his. "Luna is my sister."

That was all. No extra words. No acknowledgment of him, of what had once been.

Roman’s throat went dry.

"Look," he started, something desperate slipping into his voice. "If you’re still holding a grudge against me—"

Livia laughed. Quiet. Sharp. Like a blade cutting through silk.

"A grudge?" she repeated, stepping toward him. Roman stood still, watching as she tilted her head, studying him like he was an unworthy relic of the past. "I don’t hold grudges, Roman. I bury the past and leave it to rot."

His chest tightened.

"Then why did you never come back?" The question was out before he could stop it.

Livia’s expression didn’t waver. But her eyes—oh, her eyes—burned like embers about to ignite.

"Come back?" she echoed, voice dangerously soft. "Your father called me a slut, Roman. And you—" She let out a breathy, humorless laugh. "You stood there. You let it happen. You didn’t fight for me. Didn’t defend me. Didn’t even hesitate when they sent me away."

Roman felt the words like a punch to the gut.

"I was seventeen." It was weak, but it was the truth.

"You were seventeen and already sleeping around," she shot back, her voice a velvet razor. "So you were old enough to tell your father to go to hell. But you didn’t. Because deep down, it was easier for you to let me go."

His breath hitched.

Livia stepped closer—close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume, something dark, decadent, laced with a poison he knew would be his undoing.

"I don’t care about anyone, Roman," she murmured, her voice like a slow-acting venom. "Not you. Not your father. Not this family. The only people who matter to me are Darcy and Luna. Darcy was my family when no one else was. And Luna? She’s my blood."

Her blood. Not theirs.

Roman swallowed hard as she leaned in, her breath brushing his cheek, intimate in a way that felt more like a threat than a touch.

"So how about you go back to your multi-million-dollar empire," she whispered, "and the women you f**k every night to fill the void I left?"

His fingers twitched at his sides.

She was ruthless. Beautifully, painfully ruthless.

And it made him want her in a way that bordered on insanity.

"You think I don’t regret it?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

"Regret doesn’t fix the past, Roman." She straightened, stepping back, severing the moment like it had never existed. "Neither do apologies. So keep away."

Then, without another glance, she turned.

Roman’s fists clenched as he watched her disappear down the hall.

Keep away.

The hell he would.

He had spent years pretending he didn’t need her. That he didn’t still crave her, even after all this time.

But Livia Sinclair had just waltzed back into his world—untouchable, unforgiving, unfazed.

And that?

That was something Roman Aldridge wasn't going to let slide.

Not this time.

Not when he still burned for the ghost of her.