Chapter 4 - A Very Uncomfortable Dinner
The restaurant Roman chose wasn’t Bellamy’s Grill. It was Le Miroir, an exclusive establishment tucked away in the Gold Coast where menus didn’t have prices and dinner reservations were traded like high-yield commodities.
Lena wore an emerald green dress she had purchased with her first actual paycheck—modest, elegant, and entirely out of place among the fur coats and diamond tennis bracelets surrounding them. Yet, as Roman escorted her to their private booth in the corner, he walked with a calm authority that made every eye in the dining room track their movement.
"You don't belong here, you know," Lena whispered as the sommelier poured two glasses of vintage Bordeaux.
Roman raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. "I own forty percent of the building, Lena. I belong wherever I choose to sit."
"That's not what I meant. You look like you're attending a funeral, even when you're celebrating."
Roman let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound so unexpected and rich that it made Lena’s breath hitch. "When you spend fifteen years defending an empire from people who want to tear it apart brick by brick, you forget how to lower your shield."
"Why did you start?" she asked softly, leaning across the white linen. "You didn't inherit all of this. I read the company history. You grew up on the South Side."
Roman’s expression hardened, the shadows returning to his eyes. "My father was a machinist. He worked thirty-two years for an industrial supplier. When he crushed his hand in a press, the company classified it as worker negligence so they wouldn't have to pay his disability pension. He died two years later, broken and bankrupt, while the CEO built a yacht in Monaco."
He swirled the wine in his glass, his knuckles whitening slightly. "I promised myself I would never be on the mercy side of a ledger. I learned the rules, I bought the boardrooms, and I bought the company that ruined him. I tore it down and sold the scrap metal to the highest bidder."
Lena looked at him, seeing beneath the bespoke suits and the billions of dollars for the very first time. He wasn't a monster; he was a scarred boy who had built a fortress so massive no one could ever hurt him again.
"So you became the monster to avoid being the victim," Lena murmured.
"It works," Roman said, his voice flat.
"Does it?" Lena countered gently. "You're thirty-four years old, Roman. You have private jets, penthouses, and half of Chicago on speed dial, but you eat dinner alone every night. You had to hire an unemployed waitress just to find one person who would tell you the truth."
Roman froze. No one in his entire adult life had ever dared speak to him with such raw, unfiltered honesty. A muscle ticked in his jaw. For a terrifying second, Lena thought she had pushed too far—that the billionaire would remember his station and put her back in her place.
Instead, Roman set down his glass and reached across the table, his fingers gently brushing against hers. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly tender.
"You have a terrible habit of seeing right through me, Lena Brooks."
"It’s a specialty of mine," she whispered, her heart racing as she felt the heat of his palm against her skin.
Before he could answer, a loud, obnoxious voice shattered the intimacy of the moment.
May you like
"Well, well. Look who managed to climb out of the grease trap."
Lena stiffened. Standing beside their table, dressed in a rented tuxedo with a woman half his age hanging off his arm, was Todd Reeves.
