HIS TO COMMAND

Chapter8

Chapter 8: Ghosts of the Living

Roman had always thought the night Ezra died would fade like every other painful memory—slowly, quietly, until it became just a dull ache in the background. But it wasn’t. That night was stitched into his bones, a silent echo that haunted him with every breath.

He remembered the smell of the bar—cheap whiskey, sweat, and regret. He remembered Ezra’s laugh, loud and carefree, ringing above the music. And he remembered how they stumbled out of the club, both drunk, Roman more so.

Ezra had taken the keys.

"You're a mess, Thorne," he’d joked, slinging an arm around Roman. “Let me drive before you turn us into street art.”

Roman laughed. Or maybe he hadn’t. The memory is blurred.

What he did remember clearly was waking up in a hospital bed with a needle in his arm and pain searing through his ribs. And then the nurse came in—young, kind-eyed, careful. She said five words that crushed him forever:

"Your friend didn’t make it."

Ezra died in the crash. But the police report said it wasn’t the impact that killed him—it was the fact that he'd leaned over just in time, shielding Roman with his own body.

Roman survived. Ezra didn’t.

And nothing had ever been the same.

Now, standing in front of the same liquor cabinet where Ezra once dared him to try a scotch older than they were, Roman stared at the bottle and saw more than just alcohol. He saw guilt. He saw failure. He saw a life Ezra should’ve lived.

A life Roman had stolen by existing.

He poured a drink and didn’t touch it. I just stared at it as if it held answers.

---

Down the hall, Emerald dusted the top shelves of the second library, her eyes burning from the swirling particles and exhaustion. Her hands were raw from cleaning, and her knees ached. But the physical pain was easier than the emotional one—the lingering weight of her sister’s rejection, Roman’s rage, and the humiliation her family had suffered.

She hadn't heard from her mother in days.

That terrified her more than anything.

The last time they spoke, her mother sounded weak, barely coherent, asking if she was still safe. Emerald had lied—she’d said everything was fine, that she was staying with a friend, that she’d call again soon.

She hadn’t called back.

What could she say?

"Hi, Mom. I’m scrubbing the floors of the man who hates us. The man who looks at me like I’m dirt but kisses me like I’m his last breath."

No. Her mother couldn’t handle the truth.

Emerald blinked hard, forcing the tears back. Not now.

She focused instead on the sound of footsteps approaching.

Roman.

She knew the sound of his gait now. Slow, purposeful, almost predatory.

She straightened, holding her rag like a shield, but didn’t turn.

“Why are you cleaning this room?” he asked. His tone wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. Just cold.

“I was told to,” she said, stiff.

He stepped inside, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read her mind. “You don’t belong in this house.”

She looked at him, eyes defiant. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered in his gaze—pain or anger, she couldn’t tell.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Ezra would’ve liked you.”

Emerald blinked. That name again. He’d mentioned it once before in a whisper. This time it came out louder, more fragile.

“Who was he?” she asked softly.

“My best friend,” Roman said. “He died because I was too drunk to drive. He saved me. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

Emerald’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected that answer. And she certainly hadn’t expected to see Roman Thorne’s eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice barely audible.

“I’m not looking for your pity,” he snapped, instantly retreating behind that familiar wall of ice.

She didn’t flinch this time. “Then why tell me?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like he didn’t know either.

For a moment, they stood in silence. Two people stuck in different kinds of pain, bleeding in the same room.

Emerald could tell that something was more about Roman being rude and bossy.

---

Later that night, Roman stood outside Damien’s door, hesitating.

He hadn’t spoken to his brother properly in days—not since their last argument about Emerald, not since he began pushing Damien into meetings he once shielded him from.

But things had changed.

Roman couldn’t afford softness anymore.

He knocked.

Damien opened the door halfway, eyes tired. “What?”

“I need you to take over the Donovan account,” Roman said.

Damien blinked. “That’s your project.”

“Not anymore. I’ve got... other priorities.”

Damien folded his arms. “You mean Emerald?”

Roman’s jaw tightened. “I need to know where your loyalties are, Damien. This isn’t a game.”

His brother looked at him for a long moment. “You don’t want me around her, do you?”

Roman didn’t reply.

“Because you’re afraid she sees something in me, you’re trying to bury yourself.”

Roman’s silence said everything.

Damien gave a humorless laugh. “Fine. "I’ll take the account. "But don’t expect her to stop noticing what you’re too much of a coward to say.”

He shut the door before Roman could respond.

---

Elsewhere, Emerald stood outside the study she wasn’t supposed to be near. The letter—that letter— is gone now. She had slipped it back without anyone seeing it.

Or so she thought.

But Roman had been watching.

Not the act, but the aftermath. Her tense sh

oulders. Her fake calm. The way she avoided looking at certain drawers.

He knew.

He just hadn’t decided how to make her pay.

Yet.