Sold To My Nemesis

5: The Silver Chamber

Sloane's POV.

Roman didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull his hand away from mine, and he didn’t glance at the desk. He just stared at me, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle over my knuckles. The silence in the room wasn't empty; it was heavy, like the air right before a lightning strike.

"Open it, Roman," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt. "The drawer. Open it now."

The lawyer stood by the door, his eyes darting between us. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but Roman’s presence kept him anchored in place.

Roman finally let go of my hand. He stood up slowly, his movements deliberate. He walked over to the sleek, black desk and placed his palm on the wood. He looked back at me, his expression unreadable.

"If I open this, Sloane, things change," he said. "The trust you’re looking for? It doesn't come in a drawer. It comes from the fact that I’m still standing here."

"Open it."

He pulled the drawer back.

It slid open with a soft hiss. I held my breath, my eyes searching the dark interior. There, resting on a velvet lining, was a handgun. It was black, cold, and fitted with a suppressor.

The exact same model as the one the waiter had used at the gala.

The world seemed to tilt. I felt the bile rise in my throat. The unknown number was right. The man who had been holding my hand, the man who had cleaned my blood off his cuffs, had paid for the bullet that was currently lodged in my shoulder.

"You monster," I choked out. I tried to pull the IV lead from my arm, my vision blurring with tears. "You staged the whole thing. You shot me just to play the hero."

Roman didn't move. He didn't reach for the gun. He just watched me struggle, his jaw tight.

"Look at the serial number, Sloane," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"Why? So I can see your name on the registration?"

"Look at it!"

He grabbed the gun...carefully, using a silk handkerchief...and brought it to the bedside. He held it close enough for me to see the small, engraved digits on the side of the barrel.

V-001-A.

"The 'V' stands for Vane," Roman said. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "This isn't my gun. This is part of a private collection registered to your father’s estate. I took it off the shooter before my men hauled him away. I put it in the drawer so the police wouldn't find it when they arrived."

I froze. "My father's gun?"

"He didn't just frame you for the money, Sloane. He tried to have you removed so the cartel would stop looking for the backup. He’s clearing his trail. And he’s using my hatred for your family as the perfect cover story."

He set the gun down on the nightstand and stepped back, his hands raised like he was surrendering.

"I have every reason to want you gone," he said. "I spent ten years dreaming about the day the Vanes lost everything. But I don't kill women, and I don't hide behind hitmen. If I wanted you dead, I’d look you in the eye while I did it."

The lawyer cleared his throat, his voice trembling. "He’s right, Sloane. I checked the ballistics before I came up. The shooter was a former security guard for your father. He was on the payroll until yesterday morning."

I sank back into the pillows, the strength leaving my body. The person who should have loved me most wanted me dead. And the man who was supposed to be my enemy was the only one keeping me breathing.

Roman sat back on the edge of the bed. He didn't touch me this time. He just watched me, the anger in his eyes fading into something softer, something that looked almost like pain.

"Why are you helping me?" I asked. "You got what you wanted. You have the company. You have the revenge. Why stay in this room?"

Roman reached out, his hand hovering over my cheek before he finally let his fingers brush against my skin. It was a light touch, but it felt like a brand.

"Because the boy from the gym isn't completely dead yet," he whispered. "And he remembers how you looked at him before everything went wrong."

He leaned in, his lips inches from mine. I could feel the heat of him, the raw, magnetic pull that had been there since the moment we met in that office. My heart wasn't racing from fear anymore. It was racing for him.

"I’m going to find him, Sloane," he murmured against my mouth. "I’m going to find your father, and I’m going to make him pay for every drop of blood you lost tonight."

"And then?"

"And then," he said, his hand moving to the back of my neck, pulling me just a fraction closer. "You’re going to help me run this empire. Not as my ward. Not as a hostage."

"Then as what?"

He didn't answer with words. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, desperate, and filled with a decade of resentment and longing. It tasted like coffee and salt and something that felt dangerously like a beginning. I groaned against his mouth, my good hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as my shoulder screamed in protest.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and blown out. He looked at the ring on my finger, then back at me.

"As my Queen," he said.

Suddenly, the monitors in the room began to beep. The lawyer gasped, pointing at the tablet.

"Roman! The tracker on the encrypted keys... it just moved. He’s not at the gym."

Roman stood up, the mask of the Liquidator snapping back into place.

"Where is he?"

"He’s at the Ritz," I whispered, my eyes widening as I remembered the message about the backup. "He’s not looking for the keys. He’s meeting the buyer. He’s selling the location of the backup right now."

"I'm going with you," I said, struggling to sit up. The room spun. A white-hot spike of pain shot from my shoulder down to my fingertips, making my vision go gray. I slumped back, gasping for air.

Roman was at my side in a heartbeat. His hands were firm on my shoulders, pinning me gently to the pillows.

"You can't even sit up without fainting, Sloane. Look at you. You're white as a sheet."

"He’s my father, Roman," I whispered, clutching his forearm. "If I don't see him... I’ll never know why. Please."

Roman cursed under his breath. He looked at the monitor, then at my pale face.

"Fine," he said. "But you don't take a single step. You stay in my arms, or we don't go. Understood?"

"Understood."

He didn't wait. He reached down and slid one arm under my knees and the other behind my back. He lifted me with a grunt of effort, his chest a solid wall against my uninjured side. He carried me toward the door, my head resting against his neck. I could feel the thrum of his pulse. It was fast. He was terrified for me.

"Roman," I murmured, my eyes drifting shut from the exhaustion.

"Stay with me, Sloane."

"Why did you keep my track jacket?"

He paused for a fraction of a second as the elevator doors opened.

"Because it still smelled like the only person who ever looked at me like I was a human being," he said.

As the doors closed, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

‘He’s taking you to a trap. The Ritz is a setup. If you go, neither of you comes back.’