Sloane’s POV
The lobby of the St. Regis didn't smell like the Ritz. It didn't have that metallic tang of my own blood or the desperate air of a failing deal. Tonight, the air was thick with the scent of five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce perfumes, expensive champagne, and the kind of high-society chatter that sounded like a thousand snakes hissing at once.
Roman’s hand was a warm, heavy weight on the small of my back. He didn't have to carry me tonight. My heels clicked against the polished marble with a steady, aggressive rhythm. Every step I took felt like I was shoving a knife into the memory of the girl who had collapsed in that glass room at the Ritz.
I wasn't a surety anymore. I wasn't a debt to be transferred.
"Easy," Roman whispered, his lips brushing my ear as we stepped into the ba
