Chapter 8 - The Price of Protection
By noon, the stack of highlighted papers sat squarely in the center of the mahogany desk. My left hand ached from holding the pen at an awkward angle, trying to mark the fraudulent entries without straining my healing wrist.
The study door opened, and Roman stepped inside, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a neighboring chair. He rolled up his white shirtsleeves, revealing the silver watch on his left wrist and the faint, pale scar running along his inner forearm—a silent reminder that his world wasn't built on boardrooms and polite negotiations alone.
"Finished?" Roman asked, walking over to the desk and looking down at the paperwork.
"Every fraudulent deduction from the past six months," I said, leaning back in the leather chair and keeping my braced arm carefully elevated. "The former manager stole nearly forty thousand dollars from the staff payroll before he left."
Roman picked up the summary sheet, his dark eyes scanning the figures with practiced ease. A small, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Amateur work. He thought he could hide it in the operating costs because the restaurant was high-volume."
"What happens to the money?" I asked, watching him closely. "Do the workers get it back?"
"They get every cent," Roman said without hesitation, laying the paper back down. "And the former manager is currently finding out that running to another state doesn't erase a debt owed to me."
I shivered slightly at the casual finality in his voice. "You didn't have to keep me there that night, you know. You could have let the floor manager fire me. It would have saved you a lot of paperwork."
Roman looked up, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe. He leaned his hands against the edge of the desk, bringing his face closer to mine. "I don't make mistakes in who I keep around, Paige. You dropped a pitcher of ice water on me, apologized while clearly in physical agony, and didn't beg for your job. Most people fold the moment pressure is applied. You just got heavier."
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"I was desperate," I whispered, holding my ground despite the sudden proximity. "Desperation isn't strength."
"It's the only foundation worth building on," Roman replied softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against the plastic edge of my wrist brace, checking its position with a strange, unexpected gentleness. "Your swelling is down. Dr. Vance will be pleased."
