Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 7

The lingering tension from the sofa hung in the air for hours, a physical weight that made every movement in the penthouse feel deliberate. Roman had returned from the foyer with a cool, detached composure, but I could still see the strain in his jaw and the way his gaze followed me, dark and proprietary, whenever he thought I wasn't looking.

"Get dressed," he said, breaking the silence just as the afternoon light began to mellow into a golden haze. "We’re going out."

"Out? I thought the whole point was to stay hidden," I replied, feeling a spike of anxiety.

He moved toward me, his presence filling the space. "Staying hidden doesn't mean living like a prisoner. You need clothes, and I’m tired of seeing you in that ruined dress."

I tried to argue, but there was no winning against the focused intensity in his eyes. Two hours later, we were standing in the heart of the city’s high-end retail district.

Roman didn't take me to the mall. He took me to a boutique that felt more like an art gallery, where the clothes cost more than my first car. The staff moved with hushed reverence, their eyes widening when they realized who had just walked through their doors.

"Everything she likes," Roman said to the sales associate, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "And spare no expense."

I felt like a mannequin as the staff swarmed me, draping me in silk, cashmere, and high-fashion pieces that I would never have dared to pick out for myself. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the store, I saw the world react to Roman. People stopped on the sidewalk, phones whipping out, heads turning. He was the league’s most eligible bachelor, the man every woman in the city wanted, and here he was, standing in a dressing room hallway, waiting for me like a king waiting for his queen.

I walked out in a deep emerald slip dress that hugged my body in ways I wasn't used to. Roman’s breath hitched. He didn't say a word, just stared, his eyes tracking the way the light hit the fabric.

"It’s too much," I whispered, feeling exposed.

"It’s not enough," he murmured, stepping into my space. He reached out, his hand hovering over the small of my back, his thumb tracing the line of my spine. "You have no idea what you look like."

As we walked out of the store, the reality of his world slammed into me. We were instantly surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers and paparazzi. Flashes went off, blinding and chaotic.

"Roman! Is she a new girl?" someone shouted.

"Who’s the mystery woman, Roman?"

I shrank back, the old "invisible sister" instincts kicking in. I felt small, insignificant, and suddenly very aware of the massive chasm between Roman’s life and my own.

Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even slow down. He simply pulled me flush against his side, his arm wrapping around my waist with a grip that was both protective and possessive. He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd—not with his usual practiced charm, but with a cold, lethal warning that silenced them instantly.

"Back off," he said, his voice quiet but carrying with the force of a command.

He ushered me to the car, and just before we climbed in, a socialite I recognized from the society pages—a woman who had been linked to Roman in every gossip column for the last six months—stepped into our path. She was stunning, polished to perfection, and she looked at me with open, stinging disdain.

"Roman, darling," she purred, her eyes sliding over me with a sneer. "You're slumming it tonight? I thought you had better taste."

She leaned in, her hand resting on Roman’s chest, her intent blatant.

The air in the street seemed to freeze. I looked up at Roman, expecting him to laugh it off, or maybe even flirt back. That was his job, wasn't it? That was the role he played.

Instead, Roman’s expression turned to stone. He didn't brush her off; he dismantled her. He grabbed her wrist, not with violence, but with a cold, absolute dismissal that made her stumble back a step.

"Don't ever talk about her," Roman said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "And don't ever think you have enough standing to occupy my time again. We’re done."

He didn't wait for her response. He pushed past her, shoved me gently into the car, and slammed the door. As we peeled away from the curb, leaving the crowd and the socialite in our wake, I couldn't stop staring at him.

His face was hard, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He wasn't playing a game anymore. He was making a declaration.

"You don't have to do that," I said, my voice shaky.

He turned the car onto a quiet side street, his movements precise and controlled. He didn't look at me, but his hand slid off the wheel to find mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his grip tight enough to hurt.

"You think I care what they think?" he asked, his voice raw. "You think I care about the headlines or the sponsorship deals or who they want me to be with?"

He finally looked at me, his eyes dark, drowning in an intensity that left me breathless.

"They see a star quarterback," he said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "But you're the only one who sees the man, Allie. And I'm done pretending that I’m anything else but yours."

The car was small, the space between us charged with the force of his admission. The world outside might have been waiting for the next headline, but inside the car, in the quiet shadows, it felt like there was only us. And for the first time, I realized that Roman wasn't just my protector. He was becoming my obsession, and I was terrified of how much I wanted to let him keep me.

**How is the pacing working for you?** We've established his public dominance and his private devotion. Ready for Chapter 8 and that high-stakes VIP lounge encounter?