Chapter 1 - Never Touch Me in Public
“Never touch me in public.”
Roman Duca said the words so quietly that the laughter drifting from the ballroom swallowed them almost immediately.
Almost.
Serena heard every syllable.
Her hand was still resting against his forearm, her fingertips barely touching the warm skin between the cuff of his white shirt and the sleeve of his midnight-blue jacket.
She withdrew it.
Not quickly.
She refused to give him that much.
Instead, she slowly lowered her hand to her side, straightened her shoulders, and looked over the balcony railing at the city glowing forty-two floors below them.
“All right.”
Six years of marriage, and somehow those three calm words hurt more than shouting would have.
Behind them, the Imperial Hotel ballroom glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. Nearly three hundred guests filled the room—judges, developers, senators, bankers, old-money families, women wearing jewels that could purchase houses, and men whose companies appeared in newspapers even when their own names did not.
Roman belonged among them without trying.
At forty-one, Roman Duca had built a business empire stretching from construction and shipping to luxury hotels and private security. Newspapers called him a businessman. City officials called him a philanthropist whenever cameras were nearby.
Other people used quieter words.
Roman never confirmed any of them.
He did not need to.
When Roman entered a restaurant, certain conversations stopped.
When his car arrived outside a courthouse, reporters suddenly found reasons to look in another direction.
When he wanted a meeting, powerful people discovered openings in schedules that had been full five minutes earlier.
Serena had spent six years learning how to exist beside that kind of man.
Never embarrass him.
Never ask sensitive questions in front of employees.
Never surprise him in crowded rooms.
Never walk behind him when he was entering an unfamiliar place.
Never question why his security men appeared before he asked for them.
And, apparently, never touch him in public.
She looked toward the ballroom.
Earlier that evening, the orchestra had begun playing an old love song. Couples had slowly moved onto the dance floor.
Serena had watched a gray-haired man pull his wife toward him.
The woman laughed.
He whispered something against her ear.
Then she rested her cheek against his shoulder.
It had been such a small thing.
A hand around a waist.
A smile exchanged between two people who had clearly shared decades together.
Serena had suddenly realized she could not remember the last time Roman had touched her in front of strangers.
Not formally.
Not strategically.
Not to guide her through a doorway or move her away from someone approaching too quickly.
Touched her because she was his wife.
Because he wanted to.
The realization had followed her onto the balcony.
Roman found her sixteen minutes later.
Of course he knew exactly how long she had been gone.
Roman noticed everything.
“You’re cold,” he had said.
“I’ll survive.”
He removed neither his jacket nor his guarded expression.
For several seconds, they simply stood beside each other.
Then Serena looked at him.
Under the warm balcony lights, he appeared less intimidating than he did inside the ballroom.
There was a faint line between his brows.
A tiredness around his eyes.
Concern, perhaps.
Maybe even affection.
Serena had wanted to believe it.
His phone vibrated.
Roman looked down.
One message.
Serena could not see the words.
But she saw her husband change.
His shoulders became rigid.
His gaze lifted toward the buildings across the street.
His jaw tightened.
Then, almost casually, Roman repositioned himself between Serena and the open city view.
She had not understood the movement.
She only knew he was finally standing close to her.
For one stupid, hopeful moment, she had wanted to feel married.
She touched his arm.
And Roman said, “Never touch me in public.”
Now Serena lifted her champagne flute from the balcony table.
Roman turned toward her.
“Serena.”
“No.”
He seemed almost surprised.
She smiled.
Not warmly.
Not angrily.
Just politely.
It was the smile she gave politicians she disliked.
“Enjoy the gala, Roman.”
She walked back inside.
The ballroom swallowed her immediately.
A councilman greeted her.
Serena smiled.
A developer’s wife complimented her burgundy gown.
Serena thanked her.
Someone asked whether Roman planned to attend the charity auction next month.
Serena said she would check his calendar.
Nobody noticed the moment something inside her stopped fighting.
Nobody except Roman.
He remained on the balcony.
The phone was still in his hand.
Its screen had gone dark, but the message seemed burned into his mind.
Possible visual confirmation. East Tower, level 38. Keep Mrs. Duca away from exterior glass. Do not alert her.
Roman looked through the ballroom doors.
Serena stood beneath a chandelier surrounded by smiling strangers.
She looked perfect.
That frightened him.
Because Roman knew the difference between Serena pretending to be happy and Serena becoming emotionally unreachable.
He had seen the second expression only once before.
The night her father died.
Roman started toward her.
His phone vibrated again.
Movement confirmed. We may have a shooter.
Roman stopped.
Across the ballroom, Serena laughed softly at something a guest said.
He watched her.
Every instinct inside him screamed to walk over, take her hand, and move her immediately into the secure elevator.
But if someone were watching—
If someone had been waiting to determine exactly which person Roman Duca could not bear to lose—
Public affection could answer the question for them.
Roman lowered his phone.
Six years ago, he had made a decision.
Nobody would ever use Serena against him.
Not his enemies.
Not his competitors.
Not the men who still carried grudges from a life Roman had spent years trying to bury beneath legitimate businesses.
To protect her, he had constructed distance.
Separate arrivals at certain events.
No photographs of intimacy.
No public arguments.
No visible displays of affection.
He thought Serena understood.
He had never actually told her.
That was the problem with Roman.
He believed danger explained everything.
Serena believed love should explain something too.
Twenty minutes later, she stood near the dance floor alone.
Roman was speaking with his security chief when another man approached her.
His name was Julian Cross.
Thirty-eight.
Attorney.
Recently returned to the city after nearly a decade in London.
Roman knew him by reputation.
Serena knew him from somewhere else.
“Serena?”
She turned.
Julian smiled.
For the first time that evening, Serena’s expression changed naturally.
“Julian?”
He laughed.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t remember me.”
“Of course I remember you.”
Roman’s attention sharpened instantly.
His security chief was still speaking.
Roman stopped listening.
Julian and Serena had known each other before Roman.
College, perhaps.
Roman vaguely remembered the name.
He saw Julian say something that made Serena smile.
A real smile.
Roman felt an emotion he had no right to feel after what he had said on the balcony.
Jealousy.
Then the orchestra changed songs.
Julian extended his hand.
Roman stared at it.
Serena hesitated.
For one moment, she glanced across the ballroom.
Their eyes met.
Roman could not read her expression.
Then Serena looked back at Julian.
And placed her hand in his.
Something inside Roman went dangerously still.
His security chief followed his gaze.
“Roman?”
Roman handed him the untouched glass of scotch he had been carrying.
“Handle the East Tower.”
“Where are you going?”
Roman watched another man close his fingers around his wife’s hand.
For six years, Roman had told himself that keeping Serena at a distance in public was how he protected her.
For the first time, he wondered whether all he had really done was teach her how to live without him.
He crossed the ballroom.
May you like
And every person who knew Roman Duca well enough to recognize that expression slowly stopped talking.
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