Chapter 2

ROMAN

I'd never looked at a girl twice in my life. Not once. I didn't have to.

It was always simple for me. Clean and easy. I'd see her, decide if I wanted her, and that was it. No hesitation. No overthinking. No space for complications. That was my rule.

One glance. One decision. Move on.

And yet... here I was. Staring.

At her.

Eve.

The moment Courtney said her name, I expected... I don't know. A smile. A handshake. Some polite acknowledgment, the usual scripted bullshit people perform when they meet.

But Eve didn't play.

She didn't even look at me when Courtney introduced us. Not really. Her eyes flicked over me once. Quick, detached, cold...like I was just another irrelevant face in a room she didn't want to be in. No fake grin. Nice to meet you. Nothing.

Just one flat glance... and then she walked away.

Barefoot. Quiet. Shoulders stiff, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. Her oversized sweater hung off one shoulder, exposing the soft curve of her collarbone.

And her eyes ... God, they were slightly swollen, the faintest pink under them, like she'd been crying but refused to let anyone see.

I couldn't look away.

My jaw tightened as I watched her disappear up the stairs, each soft step muffled against the polished wood. I caught myself leaning forward slightly, like my body wanted to follow without my permission.

"What the fuck?" I muttered under my breath, forcing myself back against the sofa.

Because... what was that?

I didn't do intrigue. I didn't do curiosity. I didn't chase. That wasn't me.

And yet there I was, sitting in the middle of Courtney's parents' perfect living room, stuck on the image of her sister walking away like she couldn't care less if I lived or died.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, forcing my expression into something neutral, pretending like I hadn't just forgotten how to breathe for a full five seconds.

No one noticed.

Courtney definitely didn't. She was too busy buzzing around like a caffeinated wedding planner on steroids, bouncing from her mother to a pile of glossy wedding magazines spread across the coffee table.

"Mom, look at these table settings," she said, shoving a page forward. "I'm thinking Parisian lace for the tablecloths. And orchids — real ones, imported from Singapore, obviously. Do you think we can book the florist from that Vogue wedding spread? I want that vibe. Chic but timeless. You know?"

I blinked at her. Slowly.

It wasn't that I hated Courtney. She was... fine. Gorgeous, even.

She had that polished, put-together vibe that turned heads when she walked into a room. And she knew it. She fed on it. She'd been raised to. The perfect girl, living proof of her parents' obsession with appearances.

But God, she was exhausting.

Every word out of her mouth came perfectly packaged, like an Instagram caption she'd rehearsed in the mirror before posting. Perfect lighting, perfect filter, perfect Courtney. There was never room for silence with her. No oxygen between sentences.

I leaned back against the arm of the sofa, staring at the ceiling like maybe it would rescue me, while she flipped through another magazine, gasping over imported orchids and Parisian lace like we were planning a royal wedding instead of... whatever this was.

How the hell did I get here?

A wedding. My wedding. To Courtney.

I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it.

"...and the invitations have to be embossed in gold," her mother was saying, waving a thick binder like it contained the secrets of the universe.

"Roman doesn't care about gold," Courtney snapped, rolling her eyes. "God, Mom, he's simple. He'll wear a tux and show up. That's it."

She wasn't wrong. But the problem was deeper than tuxes and orchids. The problem was that I wasn't sure I'd even show up at all.

Courtney turned to me suddenly, her perfect brows arched. "Right, babe? You don't care about the little details, do you?"

I forced a lazy smirk, the kind she liked. "As long as there's alcohol, music, and someone stopping you from throwing a tantrum, I'll survive."

She smacked my arm playfully, laughing like I'd said the most charming thing in the world. Her mom chuckled awkwardly, but the tension between them didn't ease.

I could feel it, the undertone of expectation, pressure, and appearances. Everything about this wedding was a performance.

Everything about us was a performance.

I tipped the glass of whiskey to my lips and let the burn ground me, but my mind wandered anyway... back to the night everything started.

The night of the charity gala.

I hadn't even planned on going.

The only reason I showed up was because my friend, Austin, insisted. Networking, he said. Connections, he said. "These people matter, Roman." He made it sound like survival.

The ballroom had been ridiculous, chandeliers dripping crystals, champagne flutes in every hand, a string quartet humming in the background.

I'd shown up in a black suit, tie loose, already irritated. I hated rooms like that. Rooms full of rich smiles and fake laughter, people pretending to like each other while measuring their worth in dollars and family names.

And then I saw her.

Courtney.

She was standing near the grand staircase that night, the first night I met her.

A glass of wine in her hand, head tilted back, laughing like the world had never told her "no." There was something magnetic about her, something reckless and loud that demanded attention without asking for it.

People hovered around her like planets orbiting the sun, drawn to her heat, her shine... her world.

I remember thinking she didn't look real. Perfect dress, perfect smile, perfect confidence. The kind of girl who didn't ask for rooms to open; they just did.

And then she caught me watching her.

It wasn't subtle — I wasn't subtle. She saw me, and her lips curved, sharp and deliberate, like she'd just discovered a new game to win.

Without hesitation, she crossed the room. No second thoughts. No pause. Just heels clicking against marble, each step calculated like she already knew how the night would end.

"You're Roman Hayes," she'd said, her voice smooth, the kind of smooth that came from knowing her worth.

"And you are?" I asked, deliberately bored, like I hadn't already memorized the slope of her shoulders, the way the gold light caught her skin.

"Someone you should buy a drink for."

That was Courtney. Bold. Shameless. Utterly unapologetic. A girl who treated the world like it was hers, and most of the time, it was.

I didn't buy her a drink. But somehow, she made sure I didn't leave her side for the rest of the night.

She was relentless in a way that felt... dangerous. Addictive. The kind of danger you don't recognize until it's too late. And somehow, by the end of it, she was in my car, heels tossed carelessly on the floor, perfume staining the air between us.

Looking back now, I'm not sure if I fell for her or for the chaos she carried like second skin. Maybe I just needed an escape. Maybe I was restless, reckless, searching for something sharp enough to cut through the numbness. And Courtney... she was the distraction I chose.

I didn't believe in love then. I still don't. But Courtney? She knew how to make herself unforgettable.

And somehow, that's what landed me here...

Trapped.

Trapped in wedding plans I never asked for, sitting at a polished oak table covered in ivory fabric swatches and gold-embossed invitation samples, while my fiancée debated flower arrangements with her mother like our entire future depended on roses versus orchids.

"Roman?"

Her voice cut through the fog in my head, snapping me back to the present.

Courtney was watching me now, arms folded tightly across her chest, one perfectly arched brow raised in irritation.

"What?" I asked, leaning back in my chair like I had all the patience in the world when, in reality, I had none.

"You're spacing out. Again."

"I'm listening," I lied smoothly, lifting the tumbler of whiskey to my lips. The burn was sharp, grounding, but not enough. "Go on. Gold invitations. No orchids. Got it."

She narrowed her eyes, like she didn't believe me but wasn't in the mood to fight — not yet. With a quiet huff, she turned back to her mother, sliding another glossy sample card across the table.

I drained the rest of my drink in one swallow and set the glass down harder than necessary, the sound cutting through their chatter. My patience was a thread—thin, fraying, seconds from snapping.