Chapter 6
Emery's POV
I attempted to convince myself it was nothing. I was in control. No business and pleasure. No attachments. No falling in love with billionaires, and certainly not the emotionally unavailable, brooding, secretive kind with heartbreaking eyes and lips that could devastate a woman. But the image of him, fingers running down my lower back as he pulled me into his side amidst all the cameras, looped like a broken record.
The media wasn't favorable.
By the morning, the headlines went haywire. Billionaire Bachelor Off the Market? Mystery Lady Swipes Roman Hart's Heart. And the worst of them came next. Digging up my history. Altering facts. Speculating.
Somebody even got a picture of me leaving Roman's penthouse weeks ago and splashed it on the web with the caption: "The Designer Who Redesigned His Life."
I tried to dismiss it. But once I got to my office, this: a manila envelope with no return address. Inside it, tabloid clippings, a printed-out screenshot of my private Instagram, and a Post-It note written with: "You're not the first woman he's used. You won't be the last."
Roman had already waited when I arrived at his penthouse, suit pressed, eyes bloodshot as if he'd slept no more than a few hours. I gave him the envelope in silence.
He flipped through it, jaw locked. "This person is fishing."
"That doesn't mean it's not terrifying."
"I'll find out who."
"And then what?"
"I'll deal with it."
There was a moment that hung between us like a rope stretched taut. He glared at me, voice low.
"I'm banishing you this weekend. To the Millhaven estate."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You need some breathing room. And we need to be seen together. Officially. And then there's a board member's daughter who's been spreading rumors that I'm crazy. If I'm the face of romantic passion, it kills that."
I crossed my arms. "So it's business, too. Terrific."
He didn't blink. "What did you think?
I didn't respond. Largely because I wasn't certain myself.
Millhaven resembled something from a Gothic romance novel. Towering oaks. A twisting gravel path. A manor house made of stone with ivy creeping up the sides as if nature herself did not want to release it. The staff received us as Mr. Hart and Miss Blake. Polished. Respectful. Watching.
Within. There was the. smell of cedar and leather. Roman gave me the. grand tour as if. he were walking through the. past always in. front of. me but never giving. me. time to catch up.
"This was my mother's wing," he said softly as we passed. down. a. hallway filled with old. portraits.
"Did she. live here?"
"When she wasn't. on. the. road."
That was all. he. said.
I spent most of the first afternoon working on designs on my tablet since Roman had meetings in the upstairs study. The quiet was creepy. As if the walls themselves remembered.
By dinner, I was worked up. I wandered the halls after dessert, wine in hand, trying to distract myself from the outside media storm and tension building between Roman and me inside.
It was there that I stumbled upon the library.
It was concealed behind a carved doorway. Ceilings that went on high, glass cases, wood ledges that were dense with old books. I ran my fingers over the spines, relishing the silence. Roman had style, I'd give that.
I nearly didn't notice it. A high shelf that was packed with picture books, covered in dust and forgotten. I pulled one down, curious.
The pages rustled as I flipped through them. Roman at the age of boy. Gangly, ungainly, with those same intense eyes. Holiday snaps. Christmas trees looming over me taller than I'd ever known. Then.
A group photo. Five adults at some charity function. Roman looking about twenty. Standing beside him my father.
I stopped.
It was not an accident. Geoffrey Blake. Architect. Charismatic and controversial. My father, who had died when I was seventeen. And there he was, standing next to Roman Hart like they were business partners. Smiling. Laughing.
I stared at the photograph forever. My throat dry, my heart racing.
They knew each other.
Years before Roman and I had ever met.
I didn't know whether to call him on it. Or hide the picture and pretend like I hadn't seen. But one thing was certain:
It wasn't business anymore.
It never was.
There was a knot in my stomach before I even set eyes on him.
Roman stood in the midst of the vast library of the estate, flipping through a frayed leather book as if he had not just destroyed the fragile ground beneath my feet. The photo burned my pocket, but I did not need to see it any longer. It was etched into my mind now. Roman Hart, ten years younger. And beside him, a stranger even then my father.
I coughed.
He looked up. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Why didn't you tell me you knew my dad?"
"No." The words spilled out too fast, too brusquely. He stopped, book open in the middle, his eyes expressionless.
"I don't know," he replied, but there was a hesitation in his voice that wound the knot tighter.
I pulled the picture from inside my coat. "This was in your library. My father died before you ever hired me. And there he is standing next to you like the two of you were friends."
Roman just stared at the photo for a second. Then he slowly exhaled. "It was a long time ago."
"That's not an answer."
He placed the book on the table with a soft thud. "Your father was an investor. A genius. Ahead of his time. We met way back when I was still struggling to get Hart Holdings going. He guided me through a few tough calls."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
His jaw clenched. "Because it wasn't anything to do with us." He said with his gaze fixed on me like he was looking for something ...in mine.