The obsidian-and-chrome sanctuary of Roman's office was silent, save for the rhythmic, aggressive tapping of his fingers against a leather-bound folder. The morning sun was trying to force its way through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the tint on the glass was thick enough to keep the room in a state of perpetual, moody twilight- exactly how Roman preferred it.
The intercom on his desk buzzed, a sharp intrusion into his thoughts.
"Sir," Tyson's voice crackled through. "Investigator Miller is on line two. He says he has the preliminary report on the... subject."
Roman didn't hesitate. He stabbed the button with more force than necessary. "Miller. Give me something I can use."
"It's not as much as you'd like, Mr. Thorne," the PI's voice was dry, seasoned by years of digging through the city's filth. "The woman is a ghost in a silk dress. I've run her prints through every database- nothing. I've checked the facial recognition against DMV records in forty-eight states- nothing. It's like she dropped from the sky five years ago."
Roman's jaw tightened. "I didn't hire you to tell me she's a miracle, Miller. I hired you to find a name."
"I can't give you what doesn't exist. At least, not yet. But I did track her movements," Miller continued, the sound of paper rustling over the line. "She's a creature of habit. Every morning at 6:00 AM, she's at 'TheIronVault.' It's a gym six miles away from the nightclub. It's a gritty place- mostly amateur boxers and powerlifters. Not the kind of place you'd expect a lounge singer to frequent."
Roman's mind immediately went to the curves he'd seen under that silver dress. Powerlifting. It made sense. She wasn't just soft; she was strong. He liked that. He liked it far too much.
"And her daytime?" Roman prompted, his voice a low growl.
"That's the strange part. She works four days a week at 'The Grime.' It's a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on the South Side. It's a rough neighborhood, Mr. Thorne. Harder side of town, lots of shadows. She's a clerk there. Goes by 'Violet' on her name tag. No surname on the schedule, no tax forms in the system- the owner is a guy named Sal who pays her under the table. He treats her like a daughter. I tried to push him for a name, and he nearly took my head off with a tire iron."
"So, she's a singer for the elite by night and a coffee girl for the forgotten by day," Roman mused, his eyes narrowing.
"Pretty much. Everyone there knows her, loves her, and would probably die for her. But nobody knows where she came from. It's like she's curated a life that leaves no paper trail. I'll keep digging, but she's smart. Smarter than most of the professionals I track."
"Keep on it. Triple the budget. I want her history," Roman commanded before hanging up.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty air. VioletNoir. She was a humble coffee clerk in the slums and a sassy goddess in the spotlight. The contrast was maddening. He wanted to know why she lived in the shadows. Was she hiding from someone? Or was she just protecting that angelic heart of hers from a world that didn't deserve it?
A light knock on the door broke his reverie. His secondary assistant, Sarah, stepped in. She looked nervous, clutching a stack of manila folders to her chest. Through the open door, Roman could see Adam in the outer office, sitting on a leather sofa with a tablet. The boy looked lonely, his small shoulders hunched.
"Mr. Thorne? I have the new batch of applications for the nanny position. I know you wanted them vetted immediately."
"Bring them," Roman said, his voice flat.
Sarah walked over and laid four folders on the desk. "We've done deep background checks on all of them. They all have over a decade of experience with high-profile families."
Roman opened the first folder. Margaret Hennessey. 55 years old. British. Former nanny to a Duke's children.
He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning for any weakness. "No," Roman said, tossing the folder into the trash can with a definitive thud.
Sarah blinked. "Sir? She has impeccable references."
"She's a disciplinarian," Roman snapped, his protective instinct flaring. "Look at the notes from her last employer. 'Strict adherence to schedule, no emotional outbursts permitted.' Adam doesn't need a drill sergeant. He needs someone who actually sees him."
He opened the second folder. Elena Rodriguez. 28 years old. Degree in Early Childhood Education.
Roman didn't even get past the second page. "Toss it."
"Why, sir?"
"She's a social climber," Roman said, his icy blue eyes fixing on Sarah. "Look at her social media history. She's tagged herself at every high-end gala and luxury hotel in the city for the last three years. She doesn't want to care for my son; she wants to use my name to get into the right rooms. I won't have a parasite in my house."
The third folder followed the first two into the bin. Janet Miles. "She smokes," Roman said before Sarah could even ask. "I can see the yellowing on her fingers in the headshot. I don't want that poison around my son's lungs."
He picked up the fourth and final folder. He stared at the woman's face- a kind-looking grandmotherly type. He read the file for exactly thirty seconds.
"She's too soft," Roman growled, throwing the last folder away. "She'd let Adam eat candy for breakfast and cry his way out of his lessons. My son needs to be strong. He needs someone with a backbone, someone who can keep up with him, but someone who..."
He trailed off. His mind, traitorous and focused, drifted back to the image of Violet in the park. 'Claire clearly has the brains of a toasted marshmallow,' she had said.
She had been fierce. She had been protective. She had been sassy enough to stand up to him, yet sweet enough to make a scared five-year-old feel like a king. She worked a hard job in a hard part of town and still managed to sing like an angel. She was strong enough to lift weights at 6:00 AM and humble enough to serve coffee to the poor.
Roman stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city he owned. He realized with a jolt of dark, possessive clarity that no nanny was going to be good enough. Because none of them were her.
He felt that strange, irrational jealousy flare again. He was jealous that Adam had gotten to spend hours with her. He was jealous that she had held his son's hand. He wanted that for himself, but he also wanted her in his house. He wanted to wake up and hear that voice in his hallway, not on a recorded track.
"Sir?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling. "That was the last of the top-tier candidates. Should I call the agency for more?"
"No," Roman said, his back still to her. "Stop the search."
"Stop? But Adam needs-
"I'll handle it myself," Roman interrupted.
He watched his reflection in the glass. His black hair was perfectly in place, his suit was worth more than the coffee shop Violet worked in, and his build was that of a man who got what he wanted. He knew where she was now. He knew where she trained, and he knew where she worked.
The aggression in his soul shifted from frustration to purpose. He didn't care if she didn't want "stalkers." He didn't care if she wanted to be invisible. He had found her, and Roman Thorne didn't let go of things that belonged in his world.
"Sarah," he said, turning around. "Get Adam. We're going for a drive."
"A drive, sir? You have a merger meeting in twenty minutes."
"Cancel it," Roman said, grabbing his charcoal coat. "My son wants a blue flower. And I want a cup of coffee."
He walked out of the office, his presence a dark, magnetic force. As he scooped Adam up from the sofa, the boy's face lit up.
"Are we going to see Violet, Daddy?"
Roman looked at his son, seeing the same hunger for her light that he felt in his own dark heart.
"We're going to find her, Ace," Roman whispered. "And this time, we aren't leaving until I get what I came for."