The drive back to the South Side was a descent from the gilded clouds of their dinner back into the grit of reality.
The high of the pizza shop and the shared laughter began to ebb, replaced by the familiar, low-level hum of anxiety that always followed Violet when she approached her own front door. Roman was silent, but his presence was a heavy, grounding force beside her. He had insisted on walking her all the way to her landing, despite her half-hearted protests that she was a "big girl."
The hallway of her apartment building smelled of damp concrete and old cooking. As they reached the third floor, the flickering fluorescent light overhead cast long, jerky shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
Violet reached into her small clutch for her keys, but she stopped three feet from the door.
The scarred wooden frame, usually held tight by a sturdy deadbolt, was splintered. The door wasn't just unlocked; it was slightly ajar, hanging at a pathetic angle like a broken wing. A cold draft licked out from the dark interior of her sanctuary.
"Roman," she whispered, the word catching in her throat. She waved him down frantically as he started to turn toward the stairs. "Someone broke into my apartment."
The shift in Roman was instantaneous and terrifying. The "dinner date" vanished, replaced by a predator whose territory had been violated. He didn't hesitate. He stepped in front of her, his massive shoulders blocking her view of the threshold.
"Stay here," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
He didn't enter the room; he breached it. Roman moved through the small space with a silent, lethal efficiency, checking the bathroom, the small kitchen, and the bedroom where her modest vanity sat. Violet stood in the hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly it felt like it would bruise. She heard the heavy thud of his boots on the floorboards, the sound of a man who was ready to tear an intruder apart with his bare hands.
"Clear," Roman barked from inside.
Violet stepped into the room, her breath hitching. The apartment hadn't been tossed- not in the way a burglar would do it. Her television was still there. Her meager jewelry box was untouched. But the atmosphere was poisoned.
Roman was standing by her kitchen table, his face a mask of white-hot fury. He was staring at the center of the table, where a small, jagged piece of obsidian sat on top of a hand-torn scrap of notebook paper.
"You're not staying here," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. He looked at the door- the shattered wood and the ruined lock. "Even if I called my security team to stand guard, this place is compromised. You're coming to the estate. Tonight. For good, if I have my way."
Violet was shaking. It wasn't just the cold air rushing in through the broken door; it was the realization that her technicality had finally found her. She looked at the note. It didn't have a name. It didn't have a threat. It just had four words written in a cramped, familiar hand: I found you, Songbird.
"Violet?" Roman's voice softened, but only slightly. He moved toward her, his hand hovering over her shoulder.
"It's probably Vane. Or some low-life looking for a quick score who got spooked before he could take the electronics. I'll have Tyson look into it, but right now, we are leaving."
Violet didn't correct him. She couldn't- not yet. She felt a wave of nausea. The obsidian was a calling card, a piece of a past she had tried to bury under a mountain of sassy remarks and jazz standards.
"I... I need to pack," she whispered, her voice sounding small and fragile in the wreckage of her home. "Just a bag. Some clothes. Necessities."
"Five minutes," Roman said, his eyes scanning the room as if he expected the shadows to grow teeth. "I'll be right here."
Violet moved through the apartment like a ghost. She threw a few changes of clothes, her toothbrush, and her songbook into a worn leather duffel. She moved with a numb, mechanical precision. Every time she passed a window, she felt eyes on her. Not Roman's protective gaze, but something colder. Something that had been watching her for a long time.
As they walked back down the stairs, Roman took her bag, his free hand resting firmly on the small of her back. He was leading her out of the wreckage, his possessive energy acting as a shield. Inside, a part of him was soaring- he finally had her. She would be under his roof, in his world, where he could control every variable of her safety. But the circumstances tasted like ash. He hated that she was afraid. He hated that someone had made her feel small in her own home.
They climbed into the back of the SUV, and the driver pulled away immediately, heading toward the bright, secure lights of the Thorne estate.
The interior of the car was dark, the only light coming from the passing streetlamps that strobed across Roman's intense profile. He was already on his phone, his thumb flying across the screen as he messaged his security chief.
"I'm doubling the perimeter at the house," Roman muttered, more to himself than to her. "Vane is getting desperate. To break into a woman's home... it's the move of a coward who's lost his leverage in the courtroom."
Violet looked out the window, watching her neighborhood fade into the distance. She felt the weight of the man beside her- his heat, his strength, his absolute certainty that he knew who the enemy was.
"It wasn't Ryder," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Roman paused, his phone halfway to his ear. He turned his head slowly, his icy blue eyes searching hers in the dim light. "What do you mean? Who else knows where you live, Violet? Who else has a motive to intimidate you?"
Violet took a deep breath, the air in the car suddenly feeling very thin. She looked down at her hands, twisting the blue pipe-cleaner ring Adam had given her. The time for secrets was dying. The shadow had stepped into the light.
"Ryder Vane is a spoiled brat playing at being a villain," Violet said, her voice dropping into a hollow, haunted tone. "He sends birdcages and lawsuits. He doesn't break doors, and he doesn't leave obsidian."
Roman's eyes narrowed, his entire body tensing like a coil. The aggressive energy he had been directing at the idea of Vane suddenly sharpened into a focused, deadly curiosity. "Then who was it? Who left that note?"
Violet turned her head, meeting his gaze. She saw the dragon behind his eyes, the man who would burn the world for her, and she felt a surge of agonizing guilt for the fire that was about to rain down on him.
"It was my husband," she said.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the sound of a world shattering. Roman didn't move. He didn't blink. He looked as though he had been turned to stone by the very word. The technicality had just taken on a heartbeat, a name, and a crowbar.
"Your... husband," Roman repeated, the words sounding like they were being crushed between his teeth. The jealousy that had been a low simmer for weeks erupted into a cold, lethal roar in his mind. "The man you're 'technically' married to? The one you said was a mistake?"
"He's not a mistake you can just file away, Roman," Violet whispered, a single tear escaping and tracking through the makeup she'd worn for her set. "He's not Ryder Vane, and he's not some ghost. He's a man who doesn't believe in divorce. And he just told me he found me."
Roman's hand, the one with the bruised and bandaged knuckles, reached out and gripped the leather upholstery of the seat until the stitching groaned. His jaw was so tight it looked painful.
The realization hit him- he wasn't just fighting a playboy for a singer; he was in a war with a man who had a legal, historical, and physical claim to the woman he loved.
"What is his name?" Roman asked, his voice a terrifying, low-frequency growl that made the windows of the SUV vibrate.
Violet shook her head, pulling her coat tighter around her. "Not yet. If I tell you... you'll go to him. And that's exactly what he wants. He wants to see the dragon come out to play."
Roman leaned in, his face inches from hers, his presence filling every cubic centimeter of the car. He looked possessed, his love for her twisting into a dark, aggressive shield.
"He touched your door," Roman hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "He sat at your table. He threatened what is mine. I don't care if he has a marriage certificate or a crown. He is a dead man walking."
As the SUV pulled through the massive iron gates of the Thorne estate, Violet realized that she had finally brought the war to Roman's doorstep. She was staying at the estate, just as he had wanted, but as she looked at the grim, lethal resolve on his face, she wondered if any walls in the world were thick enough to keep her husband out- or to keep the dragon in.