Chapter 3
"That wrist," Roman whispered, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room, "is currently underwriting six thousand dollars of corporate debt owed to me. Which means breaking it damages my collateral." Donovan’s face paled. He loosened his grip instantly, dropping Paige’s arm as if it were burning hot. "Roman, I didn't mean—" Before Donovan could finish his sentence, Roman’s hand shot out. He gripped Donovan’s collar and hauled him straight up out of his chair with terrifying upper body strength. With a smooth, effortless motion, Roman shoved Donovan backward against the mahogany sideboard, scattering crystal decanters across the floor. They shattered in a chorus of expensive noise. "Leave," Roman said. Donovan didn't argue. He scrambled backward, tripping over his own feet, and fled the room with his bodyguards scrambling behind him. The heavy oak doors slammed shut.
Silence reclaimed the room. The remaining players cleared their throats nervously, gathered their coats, and muttered excuses about early flights before hurrying out behind Donovan. Within two minutes, the poker room was entirely empty except for Roman and Paige. Paige stood holding her silver tray, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her wrist throbbed with a white-hot intensity, and tears prickled behind her eyelids, though she refused to let them fall. She had spent her entire life surviving on her own, fighting for every inch, and she hated feeling helpless. "Are you alright?" Roman asked. His voice lacked its previous administrative coldness. There was a strange, raw texture to it now. Paige clutched her injured wrist against her chest, glaring at him through the dim light. "Do I look alright? Your little friend just nearly crushed my tendon."
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Roman walked over to the wet bar, bypassed the alcohol, and picked up a small leather medical kit hidden beneath the counter. He carried it over, motioning toward a leather armchair by the fireplace. "Sit down, Paige." "I need to clean up and go home." "Sit down," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. Reluctantly, Paige sank into the leather chair. Roman pulled up a stool, knelt before her, and gently reached for her right hand. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man who ruled the city's underworld. He unwrapped the dingy, sweat-stained compression bandage, tossing it into a wastebasket. He inspected the swollen, purple joint with an expert eye. "It’s sprained badly, and you've torn a ligament. You should have gone to an urgent care clinic days ago instead of working through it." "Urgent care costs money," Paige said bitterly, staring down at the crown of his silver-threaded hair. "Money I don’t have because my rent eats my entire paycheck."
Roman reached into the kit, retrieved a medical-grade brace and a cold pack, and began wrapping her wrist with practiced skill. "Why didn't you ask for an advance?" "From a restaurant manager who threatened to fire me over a dropped lemon?" "Not the restaurant." Roman tied off the velcro strap securely, stabilizing the joint so the pain instantly receded by half. "From me." Paige stared at him, stunned. "I spilled water on you. You barely know me." "I know everything about you, Paige," Roman said quietly, looking up into her eyes. "I know you're twenty-four. I know you work two jobs to support your younger brother through college while paying off your late mother's medical debts. I know Arthur has been docking your wages illegally for six months." Paige’s breath hitched. "How... how could you possibly know that?" Roman stood up, brushing his knees, and walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark ocean. "Because my family owns the hospital your mother was in, and the bank holding your student loans. When you dropped that pitcher on my suit, I didn't see a clumsy waitress. I saw a girl drowning under a mountain of rigged debt."
