“He Booked a Midnight Suite for His Secret Lover—Then His Ex-Wife Walked In With a Billionaire CEO, and the Trap Went Loud”
The hotel lobby smelled like expensive flowers trying too hard to hide the scent of rain.
Adrian Shaw stepped through the revolving door with water on his coat collar and a lie in his pocket. Outside, the city was a blur of headlights and wet pavement. Inside, everything was polished—marble floors, glass chandeliers, staff who smiled without looking you in the eye. The kind of place where people came to celebrate, to negotiate, to betray each other in rooms that cost more per night than most people’s monthly rent.
He adjusted his cuffs and forced his breathing into something calm.
Tonight was supposed to be simple.
A suite. A bottle of something chilled. A few hours where the world didn’t ask questions. A night planned with a woman who never said the word “future” and never asked him to be honest.
He nodded at the concierge like he belonged here. Like he hadn’t checked in under a different name.
His phone buzzed.
Lena: You’re late.
Adrian’s mouth tightened. He didn’t answer. He walked faster.
Then he saw her.
Not Lena.
Someone else—someone he hadn’t expected to see in this building, in this city, in this version of his life.
Naomi.
His ex-wife.
She stood near the center of the lobby in a tailored coat that made her look sharper than any memory he’d kept. Her hair, once always hurried, was smooth and deliberate. Her posture wasn’t the guarded curve of someone surviving; it was the clean, upright stance of someone who’d decided she would never again apologize for taking up space.
Adrian’s heart did something unpleasant.
Because Naomi wasn’t alone.
A man walked beside her—tall, calm, perfectly unhurried. He moved like the room belonged to him. Not like he owned it on paper, but like reality naturally shifted to accommodate his presence.
Adrian recognized him instantly, because everyone did.
Roman Kade.
A billionaire CEO with a name that floated through business news like a storm warning. Founder of Kade Horizon. The kind of man who bought companies the way other people bought coffee—without blinking, without checking the price.
And Naomi was with him.
Not behind him. Not trailing. With him.
Roman leaned slightly toward her, speaking low, and Naomi laughed—softly, genuinely—like the sound wasn’t expensive or rare, like it didn’t cost her anything to let it out.
Adrian felt the lobby tilt.
His fingers went cold around the keycard envelope he hadn’t yet picked up.
He watched them approach the elevators, flanked by two men in dark coats who didn’t look like hotel staff. Their eyes scanned the room without obvious urgency, but they saw everything. Security—private, trained, serious.
Naomi glanced up.
For a fraction of a second, her gaze landed on Adrian.
And she didn’t freeze.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t look away.
She looked straight through him, like he was a stranger whose face might later bother her only because it was familiar in the wrong place.
Then she turned back to Roman and stepped into the elevator, unhurried.
The doors slid shut.
Adrian realized he’d been holding his breath.
He exhaled, sharp, and a bitter laugh almost escaped him—caught in his throat like a thorn.
He should’ve walked out.
He should’ve taken the rain, the cold, the humiliation, and disappeared into the city.
But Adrian Shaw had never been good at walking away from something that felt like an insult.
He took the keycard envelope from the front desk with a forced smile and moved toward the private elevator bank reserved for suites.
His phone buzzed again.
Lena: Suite 4109. Don’t make me wait.
Adrian stared at the message until the letters blurred.
Then he typed:
On my way.
His thumb hovered, then added a second message:
Change of plan. You didn’t mention company.
Three dots appeared. Then vanished.
No reply.
The elevator carried him upward in silence so smooth it felt like floating. Adrian watched his own reflection in the mirrored walls: expensive haircut, tired eyes, jaw clenched in a way that made him look confident instead of rattled.
He practiced an expression of control.
It didn’t fit.
When the doors opened on the forty-first floor, the hallway was quiet, carpet thick enough to swallow footsteps. A wall of framed art pretended the world was gentle.
Suite 4109 waited at the end, its door like a sealed mouth.
Adrian slid the keycard, listened to the click, and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the city glow through floor-to-ceiling windows. A table near the couch held a bucket of ice and a bottle angled like a promise. Two glasses. A small velvet box with a bracelet inside—something Lena had once pointed at in a display window and said, You could make up for a lot with that.
Adrian hadn’t brought it as an apology.
He’d brought it as leverage.
“About time,” Lena’s voice called from the bedroom.
Adrian set his coat down slowly and stared at the reflection of the city in the glass. He could see himself faintly—his outline superimposed over the lights.
“What’s wrong?” Lena asked, stepping into view.
She wore a silk robe and a smile that looked practiced. Her hair fell over one shoulder like she’d arranged it in the mirror until it agreed with her. She looked like someone who never had to take responsibility for consequences—someone who could float through trouble because someone else always drowned first.
Adrian didn’t smile back.
“You said you were alone,” he said.
Lena blinked. “I am alone.”
Adrian stared at her until her smile started to slip.
“I saw Naomi,” he said.
That name changed the air.
Lena’s eyes flicked toward the window, away from him. Her fingers tightened briefly around the robe tie.
“And?” she said, too casual.
“And she’s here with Roman Kade,” Adrian said. “In this hotel. Tonight.”
Lena’s throat moved. “That’s… not my problem.”
Adrian took one step closer. “You work in my building,” he said quietly. “You hear things. You see calendars. You know who meets who and where.”
Lena held his gaze, but her confidence was thinning like cheap fabric. “I know what I need to know,” she said.
Adrian’s voice stayed calm, which made it more dangerous. “Don’t play games with me.”
Lena exhaled. “Fine. Yes. I heard something. But you’re overreacting.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Overreacting?”
Lena lifted her hands like she was calming a child. “Roman Kade does deals everywhere. He meets people everywhere. Naomi probably—”
“Don’t,” Adrian snapped. The sound cracked through the suite.
Lena flinched, and the flinch annoyed him more than it should have.
He took another step. “Naomi hates this world,” he said. “She hated my dinners, my conferences, my ‘networking.’ She hated watching men like Roman Kade smile and take and pretend it was charm.”
He leaned in. “So if she’s with him, it’s not coincidence.”
Lena’s eyes darted toward the entryway—toward the door—as if she suddenly remembered it existed.
Adrian noticed.
His stomach tightened. “Why are you looking at the door?” he asked.
Lena forced a laugh. “Because you’re acting like a man in a movie.”
Adrian didn’t move. “Answer.”
Lena swallowed. Her voice dropped. “Adrian… don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Turn this into something it isn’t,” she whispered.
Adrian’s mind clicked through possibilities—sharp, quick. A meeting. A setup. A trap.
He looked around the suite again. The bottle. The glasses. The velvet box. The dim lighting.
The room was staged.
Not for romance.
For theater.
Adrian’s jaw tightened so hard it ached. “Who’s here?” he asked.
Lena’s eyes shimmered with panic now. “No one.”
Adrian reached past her and yanked open the bedroom door.
The bedroom looked untouched—bed neatly made, curtains half open, no sign of anyone hiding.
But Adrian wasn’t looking for people.
He was looking for evidence.
He crossed to the bedside table and saw it: a phone propped against a book, camera lens facing the room. The red recording light blinked like a heartbeat.
Adrian froze.
Then the fury hit—hot and sudden, like someone had lit a match inside his ribs.
He snatched the phone up, and Lena gasped. “Adrian—don’t!”
He looked at the screen. A live video feed. The room. His face.
His voice.
His confession, if he said the wrong thing.
He turned slowly toward Lena.
Her face crumpled. “It’s not—”
“Who else is watching?” Adrian asked, voice low.
Lena’s mouth opened, closed. “I—”
Adrian stepped toward her.
And before Lena could speak, the suite’s doorbell chimed.
Once.
Polite.
Then a second time.
More insistent.
Adrian’s eyes didn’t leave Lena. “Who is it?” he asked.
Lena’s voice was thin. “It’s… it’s too late.”
The doorbell chimed again.
Adrian’s grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened. His voice dropped into something sharp. “Lena. If you did this—”
The doorbell stopped.
A different sound followed: a quiet click, like a lock being turned from the outside.
Adrian’s stomach dropped.
“What did you do?” he hissed.
Lena whispered, “I didn’t lock it.”
The door opened.
Naomi stepped inside first.
No hesitation. No fear. She wore black like it was armor, her eyes clear and steady. Behind her came Roman Kade, calm as a man entering his own office.
And behind Roman, two security men moved in with silent efficiency, filling the doorway like a closing wall.
Adrian stood in the center of the suite, phone in hand, anger and shock tangling so tightly he couldn’t tell which was choking him more.
Naomi looked at him like she’d already finished grieving.
“Hello, Adrian,” she said.
Adrian’s mouth worked. “Naomi… what is this?”
Roman’s voice was smooth. “It’s an overdue conversation,” he said, as if they were discussing a missed dinner reservation.
Adrian’s eyes locked onto Roman. “You,” he said, tasting the word like something bitter. “Of course.”
Roman didn’t react. He just watched Adrian the way a strategist watched a piece on a board.
Adrian turned to Naomi, desperation sharpening into accusation. “You brought him here to—what? Humiliate me?”
Naomi’s expression didn’t change. “You humiliated yourself,” she said. “I’m just finally looking at it.”
Adrian laughed once, harsh. “You’re with him now?”
Naomi’s gaze held steady. “That’s what you think this is about?”
Roman stepped forward slightly. One of his security men shifted to match him, quiet and ready.
Roman said, “Adrian Shaw. Chief Financial Officer of Mercer & Blythe. The man who moved numbers like a magician moves cards.”
Adrian’s pulse slammed in his ears.
Roman’s tone stayed mild. “I admire creativity. But I don’t admire theft.”
Adrian’s skin went cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Naomi exhaled, almost tired. “Stop.”
Adrian looked at her. “Naomi—”
“You took money,” she said, voice flat. “Not just from the company. From people. Pension funds. Vendor payments. Charity accounts. You tucked it into places you thought no one would look.”
Adrian stared, stunned by the precision.
Naomi continued, “And when I questioned things during the divorce—when I asked why you were moving cash around like you were afraid of light—you told me I didn’t understand.”
She stepped closer, and for the first time Adrian saw something sharp in her eyes—not sorrow.
A controlled rage.
“I understand now,” she said. “I always did. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
Adrian’s throat tightened. He glanced at Lena, whose face was wet with quiet tears.
“Lena told you,” Adrian said.
Lena flinched.
Naomi’s voice turned colder. “Lena didn’t tell me. Your own habits told me. Your own arrogance. Your own need to keep proving you were smarter than everyone else.”
Roman’s gaze stayed fixed on Adrian. “Your company is about to be audited,” Roman said. “A deep one. Not the polite kind.”
Adrian forced a smile that felt like cracked glass. “You’re bluffing.”
Roman lifted a folder from under his arm and tossed it onto the table. Papers slid out—statements, transaction records, annotated spreadsheets.
Adrian recognized his own work.
His secret work.
His stomach turned.
Roman said, “You were careful. Not careful enough.”
Naomi looked at Adrian, voice quiet but lethal. “This is why I left,” she said. “Not because you cheated. That was just the loudest symptom. I left because you were becoming someone I didn’t recognize.”
Adrian’s hands shook. The phone in his grip suddenly felt heavy, stupid.
He looked at Roman again, fury flaring. “So what is this? You want to buy my company? You want me out so you can swoop in and play hero?”
Roman didn’t deny it. “Your board will accept an acquisition offer,” he said. “Especially when their CFO becomes radioactive.”
Adrian’s lips curled. “And Naomi gets what? A seat at your table? A new life financed by my destruction?”
Naomi’s eyes narrowed. “My life was never financed by you,” she said. “It was restricted by you.”
Adrian took a step forward.
One security man moved instantly, placing himself between Adrian and Roman like a silent door.
Adrian stopped short, nostrils flaring. “Move,” he snapped.
The security man didn’t answer.
Roman’s voice remained calm. “Don’t,” he said to Adrian. “You’re already drowning. Don’t flail at the people holding the rope.”
Something snapped inside Adrian.
Maybe it was humiliation. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the unbearable sight of Naomi standing there, steady, while he felt like the floor had turned to ice beneath his feet.
He lifted the phone and hurled it.
It smashed against the wall near the window, the sound sharp enough to make Lena gasp.
Adrian’s breathing turned ragged. “You think you can just walk into my life and rewrite it?” he barked. “You think you can take everything and call it justice?”
Naomi’s voice turned dangerously soft. “I’m not taking everything,” she said. “I’m taking myself back.”
Adrian lunged.
Not at Naomi.
At Roman.
He drove forward, shoulder lowered, rage steering him like a blind driver.
The security man intercepted him with brutal speed, slamming an elbow into Adrian’s chest and shoving him back. Adrian stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the couch.
The second security man moved in, a compact device in hand—something that clicked and crackled faintly, warning more than promising.
Roman didn’t move. His eyes stayed on Adrian, cool and unblinking.
Adrian’s breath came faster. The room felt smaller, hotter.
“You don’t get to judge me,” Adrian spat at Naomi. “You left. You walked away.”
Naomi’s jaw tightened. “I survived,” she said. “That’s not the same as walking away.”
Adrian’s hands curled into fists. He looked at Lena—her ruined robe, her fear—and something cruel rose in him.
“You’re all in on it,” he snarled. “You set me up.”
Lena’s voice broke. “You set yourself up. I just stopped covering for you.”
Adrian took a step toward her.
The security man shifted again, blocking.
Adrian’s gaze flicked to the table—bottle of champagne, heavy base, glass thick. His mind calculated without permission.
He grabbed it.
The security man’s eyes widened.
Adrian swung.
The bottle didn’t shatter in a spray of anything dramatic. It hit the security man’s shoulder with a sickening thud, and the man staggered, jaw clenched, pain flashing across his face.
The second security man moved instantly, bringing the crackling device forward.
Adrian swung again, wild, desperate.
The second man dodged and drove a hard strike into Adrian’s ribs—precise, practiced. Adrian grunted, stumbling back, bottle still in hand.
Naomi shouted, “Adrian, stop!”
Adrian’s eyes were bright with something ugly. “No,” he hissed. “Not now.”
Roman’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp now. “Enough.”
Adrian charged again.
The crackling device touched Adrian’s side.
A jolt tore through him like lightning under skin.
His muscles locked. His vision went white for a fraction of a second. The bottle dropped from his hand and rolled across the carpet like a failed weapon.
Adrian fell to one knee, shaking.
He tried to breathe. His lungs refused to cooperate.
He heard Naomi’s voice, distant: “Don’t hurt him—”
Roman answered, quieter: “We’re not.”
Adrian forced himself up, furious that his body betrayed him.
He looked at Naomi with hatred so raw it surprised even him.
“You think this makes you clean?” he rasped. “You think standing next to him makes you—what? Untouchable?”
Naomi’s eyes glistened, but her voice stayed steady. “No,” she said. “It makes me awake.”
Adrian lunged again—this time toward the door.
He shoved past the security man who was still recovering from the bottle strike, slammed his shoulder into him, and bolted into the hallway.
He ran.
Carpet muffled his footsteps, but the suite door slammed loud enough to echo.
Behind him, voices rose—security calling out, rapid footsteps pounding, hotel staff startled.
Adrian sprinted toward the service exit he’d noticed earlier, the one with the plain metal handle and the “AUTHORIZED ONLY” sign. He yanked it open and plunged into the stairwell.
The stairwell smelled like industrial cleaner and old concrete. His shoes slapped steps as he descended, breath harsh, ribs aching.
Behind him, the door banged open.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Adrian didn’t look back. Looking back was how you got caught.
He hit the twenty-ninth floor landing, then the twenty-eighth, then the twenty-seventh. His legs burned. His mind raced faster than his body.
He needed out.
He needed air.
He needed a plan.
He burst through a service door into a maintenance corridor—pipes along the ceiling, a flickering light, the hum of HVAC machinery like a restless animal. He ran past a cart stacked with linens, past a locked supply room, past a shocked janitor who flattened himself against the wall.
“Move!” Adrian snarled, shoving the cart aside. It clattered, blocking the corridor behind him.
He heard the pursuing footsteps slow, then a grunt as someone shoved the cart away.
Adrian swung into another corridor and nearly collided with a hotel security guard. The guard’s eyes widened, reaching for his radio.
Adrian didn’t stop. He drove his shoulder into the guard, knocking him back into the wall. The guard’s radio clattered to the floor, crackling.
Adrian kept running.
He found another door—marked “STAFF ONLY”—and slammed it open.
A kitchen.
Hot air hit him. The smell of oil and spices. Chefs shouted, startled, as Adrian tore through their workspace like a panicked animal.
“Hey!” someone yelled. “What the—”
Adrian grabbed a metal tray off a counter and flung it behind him without looking. It clanged, skidding, forcing people to jump back.
He darted out the far end, into another hallway, then down another set of stairs that led into the underground levels.
The hotel’s belly.
Concrete again. Dim lights. The smell of damp and machinery.
The parking garage.
Adrian’s lungs felt like they were tearing. His suit jacket hung open, hair disheveled, hands shaking with adrenaline.
He reached the garage and spotted his car—black, sleek, parked near a pillar.
He sprinted toward it like it was salvation.
Keys—keys—
His fingers fumbled in his pocket.
A shadow moved ahead of him.
Adrian froze.
Roman Kade stood near Adrian’s car, hands in his coat pockets, calm as ever. One security man stood a few steps behind, recovered enough to look ready again. Another figure stood near Roman too—Naomi.
Adrian stared, stunned.
“How—” he rasped.
Roman’s voice was quiet. “There are elevators you don’t know about,” he said.
Adrian’s breath came ragged. He glanced around wildly—empty rows of cars, concrete pillars, harsh lighting.
A cage.
Naomi stepped forward. “Adrian,” she said softly. “Stop running.”
Adrian’s laugh came out ugly. “You brought me down here to corner me?”
Naomi shook her head. “I came down here so you couldn’t pretend this is just business,” she said. “I wanted you to look at me when you realized what you did.”
Adrian’s eyes blazed. “What I did?” he spat. “What I did was survive. I built something. I made money. I—”
“You took,” Naomi cut in. “You took, and you lied, and you convinced yourself it was clever.”
Adrian’s hands shook. He backed up a step, then another, as if distance could restore control.
“Don’t,” Roman warned quietly, voice firm now. “Don’t make this worse.”
Adrian’s gaze snapped to Roman. “You think you’re better than me?” he hissed. “Because you have more? Because you have a name that makes people bow?”
Roman’s eyes didn’t flicker. “I’m not better,” he said. “I’m just not reckless.”
That word hit Adrian like a slap.
Reckless.
Like he was a child breaking toys.
Adrian felt heat rise in his face.
His gaze fell to a maintenance cart nearby—left by a garage attendant. On it: cones, a flashlight, a metal tool that looked like it could break more than concrete if swung hard enough.
Adrian moved.
Fast.
He grabbed the tool and turned back, grip tight, stance wide.
The security man shifted forward instantly.
Naomi’s eyes widened. “Adrian—”
Adrian shouted, “Stay back!”
The security man stopped. Roman didn’t move.
Adrian’s voice cracked. “You can’t do this to me,” he rasped, eyes wild. “You can’t erase me and call it justice.”
Naomi’s voice trembled, but she didn’t retreat. “You erased yourself,” she said. “Piece by piece.”
Adrian raised the tool higher.
The security man’s hand moved toward his belt—baton, device, something non-lethal but final.
Roman’s voice sharpened. “Adrian. Put it down.”
Adrian’s laugh was almost a sob. “Or what? You’ll have your man drop me? You’ll write it off as self-defense and move on to your next purchase?”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said. “I’ll make sure you live long enough to answer for what you did.”
That should’ve calmed Adrian.
It didn’t.
Because Adrian didn’t fear being ended.
He feared being exposed.
He feared being reduced to a headline and a cautionary tale while Naomi stood in the light beside a man who could buy any ending he wanted.
Adrian charged.
The security man moved like a machine, stepping into Adrian’s path and bringing his baton up in a clean arc.
The baton struck Adrian’s forearm. Pain shot up his arm like fire.
Adrian snarled, swinging anyway—wild, furious.
The tool clipped the security man’s shoulder. The man grunted but didn’t drop. He stepped inside Adrian’s swing and drove a hard strike into Adrian’s thigh.
Adrian’s leg buckled. He staggered.
Roman stepped forward—finally moving, not to fight, but to close distance like a man ending an argument.
Adrian swung the tool toward Roman’s head.
Roman’s security man intercepted the swing with his baton, deflecting it just enough that it slammed into a pillar instead. The impact vibrated up Adrian’s arms, numbing his fingers.
Roman seized Adrian’s wrist and twisted—quick, controlled.
Adrian cried out, the tool clattering to the ground.
For a second, Adrian and Roman were close enough that Adrian could smell Roman’s cologne—something understated, expensive. Roman’s eyes were cold, but not cruel.
“Listen to me,” Roman said low. “This ends here.”
Adrian tried to wrench free.
Roman’s grip tightened like a vise. “Don’t,” he warned.
Adrian spat, “You don’t get Naomi.”
Roman’s expression flickered—something almost like irritation. “Naomi isn’t property,” he said. “Not yours. Not mine.”
Naomi stepped closer, voice quiet and shaking. “Adrian, please,” she said. “Stop. I don’t want this to become… worse.”
Adrian’s eyes snapped to her.
The sound of her voice—pleading, soft—hit him in a place he’d kept sealed. For one small second, he saw her the way she used to look at him in their kitchen when she still believed in him.
And that second made him furious.
Because belief was a mirror he could no longer stand.
He shoved hard, ripping his wrist free at the cost of pain. He stumbled back, panting, hands empty now, weapon gone.
He looked between Naomi and Roman, chest heaving.
“You think you won,” Adrian rasped.
Naomi’s eyes were wet but steady. “I’m not trying to win,” she said. “I’m trying to end this.”
Adrian’s laugh broke. “End it?” he snarled. “You don’t get to end it clean.”
He moved again, not toward Roman—toward Naomi.
Roman’s voice snapped. “No.”
The security man lunged, intercepting Adrian before he could reach her. The baton struck Adrian’s ribs—hard.
Adrian folded with a strangled grunt, dropping to one knee again.
He tried to rise.
A second strike—this one to the shoulder—drove him down.
Adrian fell onto the concrete, breath torn out of him.
He lay there, stunned, the world tilting, garage lights buzzing too loud.
Naomi stood above him, hands shaking. Roman stood beside her, expression controlled. The security men held position, breathing steady, ready for more if Adrian tried to become more.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the garage—hotel security, then police sirens faintly approaching aboveground like distant anger.
Adrian blinked up at Naomi.
He wanted to say something sharp, something poisonous.
But his mouth couldn’t form it.
Naomi looked down at him with something like pity—and Adrian hated that more than anything.
“You could’ve stopped,” she whispered. “So many times. You could’ve stopped.”
Adrian swallowed, throat burning.
Roman’s voice was calm again. “It’s over,” he said to Adrian.
Adrian stared at him. “Is she… with you?” he rasped, voice raw.
Naomi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s still the only question you can ask?” she said.
Roman’s gaze shifted to Naomi, and for the first time, there was something softer in his expression—respect, maybe. Not possession.
Naomi looked back at Adrian. “I’m with myself,” she said. “Finally.”
The words landed heavier than any strike.
Adrian’s vision blurred, not from tears—he would’ve rather choked than cry—but from the shock of realizing the world had moved on without his permission.
Police entered the garage, voices echoing, instructions sharp. Hands grabbed Adrian’s arms, turned him, secured him.
Adrian didn’t fight this time.
Not because he’d become wise.
Because he’d become tired.
As they hauled him upright, he caught one last glimpse of Naomi standing beside Roman Kade, her shoulders squared, her face pale but resolute.
He realized, too late, that the real violence tonight wasn’t the strikes or the chase.
It was the moment he watched Naomi look at him like a lesson she’d already learned.
Later, in a quiet conference room on the hotel’s lower level, Naomi sat with a cup of water between her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her posture stayed upright. Roman spoke with officers, giving statements with clipped efficiency.
Lena sat in the corner, wrapped in a borrowed coat, eyes red, staring at the floor like it might open and swallow her shame.
Naomi glanced at Lena.
Lena looked up, guilt twisting her face. “I didn’t want it to go like that,” Lena whispered.
Naomi’s voice was soft. “He made it go like that,” she said.
Lena flinched. “I thought if we confronted him, he’d just… give up. I thought he’d be scared.”
Naomi’s eyes hardened. “Some men are scared,” she said. “And some men are scared of only one thing.”
Lena swallowed. “What?”
Naomi’s gaze drifted to the closed door, beyond which Adrian was being processed, photographed, reduced.
“The truth,” Naomi said quietly.
Roman returned and sat across from Naomi. “They have enough,” he said. “The documents, the accounts, the recordings. He won’t be able to charm his way out.”
Naomi exhaled, slow. Her hands finally stopped shaking.
“Good,” she said.
Roman studied her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Naomi’s mouth tightened. “No,” she said honestly. “But I will be.”
Roman nodded once, as if he understood that kind of promise.
Outside, the city kept moving. Rain kept falling. Headlines would form and spread and turn Adrian Shaw into something people consumed with their morning coffee.
Some would call Naomi ruthless.
Some would call her lucky.
Some would call Roman Kade a predator disguised as a savior.
The world loved controversy because it was easier than nuance.
Naomi didn’t care anymore.
She looked down at her hands and thought of all the years she’d spent shrinking so Adrian could feel tall. All the times she’d ignored the uneasy feeling in her chest because love made excuses and fear made habits.
Tonight hadn’t been clean.
It hadn’t been gentle.
But it had been real.
And for the first time in a long time, Naomi felt something that wasn’t grief or anger.
She felt free.
Roman’s voice broke into her thoughts, quiet. “Naomi,” he said. “When this becomes public, it will get noisy. People will spin stories. They’ll try to make you either a victim or a villain.”
Naomi met his gaze. “Let them,” she said.
Roman’s eyes narrowed slightly—approval, not control. “All right,” he said.
Naomi leaned back in her chair, exhaustion settling into her bones.
And as the hotel’s lights hummed overhead, Naomi understood something Adrian never had:
A man can plan an entire night believing he’s in charge…
…only to learn, too late, that the people he underestimated were the ones writing the ending.
