Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Crystal Chandelier
The sound of shattering ice still rang in the hollow spaces of my ears as the heavy drops soaked through the fabric of Roman Gallow’s bespoke black suit. All around us, the low murmur of the dining room evaporated, replaced by the sharp, collective intake of breath from patrons seated beneath the glowing crystal chandeliers. My right wrist throbbed beneath the tight, nude-colored compression bandage, a dull ache that flared every time I tried to grip anything heavier than a silver fork. I stood frozen in my short black skirt and stiff black vest, the empty glass water pitcher trembling in my uninjured hand. The single yellow lemon half that had slid off the rim of his tumbler now rested absurdly on his lap, stark yellow against pitch wool.
Roman Gallow didn't flinch. His long dark wavy hair was slicked back with absolute precision, framing a face carved from hard lines and absolute composure. When he looked down at his wet trousers, his expression remained terrifyingly blank.
"My wrist, I'm so sorry," I managed, my voice tight and thin, a desperate plea for understanding that I knew wouldn't save my shift, let alone my rent.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted slowly from the citrus slice on his knee up to my face. His dark eyes cataloged every detail—the stray strand of brown hair escaping my bun, the trembling of my fingers, and the neutral-toned medical band binding my wrist.
"Get her a towel," Roman commanded, his voice deep, smooth, and utterly devoid of panic.
Before I could draw another ragged breath, the floor manager materialized at my elbow like a ghost smelling blood in the water. He held out a stack of crisp white cloth napkins, his face flushed with mortification.
"Mr. Gallow, I am so deeply sorry, she's going to be immediately—" The manager cut himself off, casting a venomous glare in my direction. "You're firing her?"
Roman stood up slowly, towering over both of us as he brushed a drop of water from his lap. The movement was entirely unhurried, radiating an effortless authority that silenced the entire waitstaff.
"Yes, absolutely," the manager stammered, bowing slightly as he thrust the napkins toward Roman's chest.
"Don't fire her," Roman said, his tone dropping an octave, turning the floor manager's eager obedience into stone.
The silence that followed was suffocating. Roman stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I could smell the faint, expensive scent of cedarwood and cigar smoke clinging to his black wool lapel. He tilted his head slightly, studying me with an unsettling intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.
"What's your name?" he asked, his eyes locked onto mine.
May you like
"Paige," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the faint hum of the restaurant's background music.
He didn't smile, but a strange, unreadable shadow crossed his features before he turned and walked toward the exit, his bodyguards falling into step behind him like twin monoliths.
