Chapter 3 - A Stranger Offers His Hand
Serena did not ride home with Roman.
That alone caused a problem.
The Imperial Hotel had two underground exits reserved for high-profile guests, and Roman’s security team had spent the evening controlling both.
Serena ignored them.
She walked through the main lobby.
“Mrs. Duca.”
One guard hurried after her.
She kept walking.
“Mrs. Duca, please.”
“I’m capable of finding a car.”
“We have your vehicle downstairs.”
“I don’t want my vehicle.”
The revolving doors opened.
Cold air swept across Serena’s face.
Outside, flashes exploded.
Reporters had already heard about the ballroom moment.
Of course they had.
Nothing remained private when three hundred wealthy people carried phones.
“Mrs. Duca!”
“Serena, is everything all right between you and Roman?”
“Was that Julian Cross?”
“Did Roman confront him?”
She stopped.
For six years, Roman’s people had taught her never to answer spontaneous questions.
Tonight she broke another rule.
“Mr. Cross is an old friend.”
Someone shouted, “And your husband?”
Serena looked directly toward the cameras.
“My husband can answer questions about himself.”
Then she entered the first taxi in line.
Her security detail looked horrified.
Serena gave the driver her address.
The taxi moved.
Thirty seconds later, two black SUVs followed.
She almost laughed.
Roman might reject her touch, but apparently even rebellion required protection.
Her phone rang.
Roman.
She declined it.
It rang again.
Declined.
A third time.
She turned the phone off.
Then she leaned against the window and finally allowed tears to come.
Not dramatic tears.
No sobbing.
Just six years of loneliness escaping in silence.
When Serena met Roman, she had mistaken restraint for depth.
Maybe it had been depth.
Roman could sit silently beside her for an hour and somehow make her feel seen.
During their first year together, he remembered things no one else noticed.
The tea she preferred.
The music she played while reading.
The way thunderstorms made her restless.
When Serena’s father became ill, Roman quietly canceled meetings for a week without telling her why.
He stayed at the hospital every night.
When her father died, Roman handled every detail Serena could not bear to touch.
That man had existed.
She knew he had.
But marriage had slowly transformed Roman’s tenderness into logistics.
Security.
Schedules.
Rules.
Protection without explanation.
He provided everything except access to himself.
The taxi turned onto Via Mercer.
The Duca residence occupied nearly an entire private block overlooking the river.
Calling it a house felt ridiculous.
Three stories of pale stone.
Private courtyard.
Underground garage.
Security cameras hidden among old oak trees.
When Serena arrived, the gates were already open.
Marta, the housekeeper who had worked for Roman since before their marriage, met her inside.
“Mrs. Duca?”
Serena removed her earrings.
“Please tell everyone I don’t need anything.”
Marta studied her face.
“Of course.”
Serena walked upstairs.
Their bedroom was enormous.
Too enormous, she suddenly thought.
Roman had purchased the house before they married.
She moved into his architecture, his routines, his world.
Maybe she had spent six years becoming furniture inside it.
She opened the wardrobe.
Pulled down a suitcase.
Then stopped.
Her wedding photograph sat on the dresser.
Roman hated photographs.
Yet on their wedding day, he had agreed to one private portrait.
Serena was laughing in it.
Roman was looking at her instead of the camera.
She touched the frame.
For a moment, doubt arrived.
Then she remembered the balcony.
Never touch me in public.
She opened the suitcase.
Across the city, Roman sat in the rear of an armored SUV listening to his security chief.
“We located the observation point.”
“Who?”
“Empty when the team entered.”
“Equipment?”
“Tripod marks. Coffee. Fiber traces. No weapon.”
Roman stared through the window.
“Then why send the warning?”
“Maybe they wanted us looking in the wrong direction.”
Roman’s eyes hardened.
“Or they wanted me to react.”
His security chief, Marcus Hale, nodded slowly.
Roman thought of Serena touching his arm.
The message arriving.
His instinctive response.
Never touch me in public.
He closed his eyes.
“Damn it.”
Marcus had worked for Roman for fourteen years.
He knew when silence was appropriate.
Tonight he ignored that instinct.
“You should tell her.”
Roman opened his eyes.
“No.”
“That answer is how you got here.”
Roman looked at him.
Marcus continued.
“With respect.”
“You generally say that immediately before being disrespectful.”
“Marriage isn’t a security operation.”
Roman said nothing.
Marcus leaned back.
“She thinks you’re embarrassed by her.”
Roman’s expression changed.
“You know that isn’t true.”
“I know.”
“She should.”
Roman looked away.
There it was.
The sentence he could not escape.
She should know.
But Serena did not.
Because Roman had spent years believing that speaking fear aloud gave it power.
His father had raised him that way.
Never reveal what matters.
Never reveal who matters.
Love privately.
Protect publicly.
Trust no one completely.
Roman had spent half his life becoming the opposite of his father.
Some lessons had survived.
His phone vibrated.
A photograph arrived from an unknown number.
Roman opened it.
His blood went cold.
The picture showed him in the ballroom.
Holding Serena’s hand.
Beneath the image was a message.
Beautiful wife.
Another message appeared.
Now we know.
Roman leaned forward.
“Turn around.”
Marcus immediately reached for his radio.
“What happened?”
Roman showed him the phone.
The SUV accelerated.
“Call the house.”
Marcus was already dialing.
“Lock everything down.”
Roman stared at Serena’s photograph on his screen.
All evening, he had been afraid Serena would leave him.
Now another fear replaced it.
Someone had finally identified the one person Roman Duca would burn his entire empire to protect.
May you like
And Serena was at home believing he did not love her enough to hold her hand.
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