Chapter 23
ROAN
I wake up first.
The soft light filtering through the blinds feels almost obscene in how calm and peaceful it is, like the world hasn’t gotten the memo about what kind of devastating day this is going to be. But I’m awake now, and I know without question that sleep won’t come back to me.
My gaze drifts to the shapely figure beside me.
Katie's lying on her side, facing away from me, the sheet draped over her hip but slipping low enough to expose the curve of her back, and I catch myself staring longer than I should.
She looks like she belongs in my bed. Like this is normal.
Like we didn’t fuck with desperate, grief-fueled intensity last night. Like I didn’t bury myself in someone I should be keeping at arm’s length—someone who walked into my life with a mission, someone who’s been constantly lying to me from day one. My enemy.
And yet… I can’t seem to summon a single drop of regret. I don’t know what the hell that says about me.
She’s not supposed to matter like this. I keep pushing the idea that I’m just using her, that she’s nothing more than a convenient body in my bed, that I’m playing her better than she’s playing me—she doesn’t even know yet that I’m onto her, that I know exactly who she really is.
But then I look at the way she’s curled up so peacefully, relaxed and vulnerable, completely unaware of the war raging inside me, and something in my chest twists.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I hadn’t meant to fuck her last night of all nights.
Hell, I hadn’t meant to touch her at all.
But she was there, and I needed to forget. I needed—her.
Unable to resist, I lean over and press a soft kiss to her temple, and I hate how natural it feels. How right. Goddamn it.
I slide out of bed without waking her, then make my way to the bathroom for a quick shower. When I come out, I move as quietly as possible into my walk-in closet and pull on my clothes—black shirt, black pants, belt, watch. Simple. No bullshit.
A deep, hollow ache settles back into my chest the second I emerge from the closet. I’ve been trying not to think about it since last night, desperately trying to outrun the truth by drowning myself in sex and silence—but the truth isn’t going anywhere. My father is gone.
And today is the world’s first morning without him in it.
My first morning as an orphan. Huh.
It doesn’t feel real. Not yet.
Part of me still expects to see him when I walk past his office, sitting in his chair like a king on a throne, bitching about me taking over his workload and leaving him with nothing meaningful to do.
But I know that’s not going to happen. I spent the better part of yesterday in Ate’s room with his lifeless body while Jonas and his team pumped the embalming fluid into his veins, preserving what was left.
The whole estate feels different today. There’s a somber note hanging in the air, heavy and oppressive.
Like the place itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to break.
My men move quietly when they think I’m watching, voices deliberately low.
Some already know the news. Others can probably sense something terrible has happened just from the atmosphere.
When I reach the main house, I hesitate at the front door—just for a second, just long enough to steel myself—then turn the handle and walk in. Everything feels off inside, his absence already deeply felt even in the silence.
The men I pass in the hallways don’t say much. Some look at me and nod respectfully, acknowledging the change. Others carefully avoid my eyes, not sure how to navigate what comes next. Most already know I’ve been in charge the past few weeks, but some still see me as the son, not the boss.
That changes today.
I text Dhimiter to get all the men into the main house as I head to the great hall. But word must’ve spread faster and further than I imagined, because most of them are already assembling there when I arrive.
I stand in front of them and clear my throat, unsure where to even start with so many eyes fixed on me, full of unspoken questions.
“Some of you know Shefi had a medical scare a few months ago,” I begin, my voice steady, even though I feel anything but.
“I had to take over many of his responsibilities because his doctor advised him to step back and take it easy due to high blood pressure. Yesterday morning… he had a heart attack. Died before anyone could get to him.”
No one moves or speaks, the silence so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.
I give them a moment to process the news before I continue.
“We’ll hold a funeral in a few days. I’ll share more details soon—the time, the place, all the necessary arrangements.
For now, I want you all focused on one thing: protecting this estate and everyone in it. ”
I let my gaze sweep across the assembled men, making sure they understand the gravity of what I’m saying.
“Our enemies might think this is their golden opportunity. They’ll try to exploit our grief.
They’ll assume we’re unstable, vulnerable, and they’ll test us to see if we’ll crumble without Afrim’s leadership.
” I pause, letting the silence settle over the room again, then do my best to look each man in the eye.
“But we’re not going to let them use our grief as a tool to destroy our empire. To destroy my father’s empire. Are we?”
“No!” they answer in unison, voices loud and resolute.
“Good,” I say with a single, firm nod. “Dismissed.”
They begin to filter out, speaking in hushed murmurs among themselves, their footsteps heavy as if the weight of Ate’s death is physically pressing down on them. The same suffocating weight I’ve been carrying since yesterday.
Dhimiter approaches me as the room thins out, studying my face like I might spontaneously combust. “You good?”
I shrug noncommittally. “Are the cars ready?”
We’d been in the middle of discussing how I would get to Maximo and Elira’s penthouse today when he informed me he’d taken Katie to the frigorifer last night—a conversation that had nearly ended in violence.
But we’d already discussed vehicle arrangement and which men would accompany me before that explosive revelation.
“Yes, they are. Everyone’s waiting for you in the garage.” Then he hesitates, eyeing me warily. “What happened last night between you and her?”
My jaw tightens. I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about.
Katie. The woman pretending to be the innocent maid Mia Jorge, who right now is probably still lying tangled in my sheets.
I know what he’s worried about. I know I can’t do this with her.
But I don’t need him breathing down my neck about it like I’m some reckless teenager.
“I need to go see Elira,” I say flatly, my tone making it clear the subject is closed.
His lips thin into a disapproving line, but he doesn’t try to push for an answer. He knows better. He nods in acquiescence, but the way he continues watching me makes it clear he’s not done thinking about it. We’ll most likely revisit this conversation later, whether I want to or not.
I don’t say another word as I walk out of the hall and exit the mansion, heading for the garage where, sure enough, two black armored SUVs are waiting, engines already running. One is filled with the men I personally picked last night—except for Vance, who opens the back door of mine for me.
I slide in, and he closes it, then circles around to climb into the passenger seat up front. Leaning my head back against the leather headrest, I let my eyes shut briefly as I try to center myself for what’s coming.
We pull out of the garage and drive in a slow procession towards the main gate, drawing a few curious stares, but I don’t care. There’s only one person occupying my mind right now: Elira, and how to tactfully tell her she’s become an orphan.
The drive there is quiet. The men don’t speak unless they need to, and I’m grateful for that—I don’t think I could carry much conversation right now.
Each minute winds my throat a little tighter, like an invisible hand is slowly closing around it.
So I keep my gaze fixed on the window, watching the city pass by in muted streaks of color.
As the penthouse comes into view, my stomach knots hard enough to make me nauseous. I don’t know how she’s going to take this news—whether she’ll scream or go silent, whether she’ll break down or hold it together. I just know I need to be the one to tell her, face to face.
We pull into the underground lot where Maximo’s men watch us with cautious, assessing eyes.
I leave my men with them and take the elevator alone.
The ride up feels too short and too long at the same time.
When the doors slide open, I hear her laugh before I even move, and my heart squeezes painfully, knowing I’m about to destroy that joy completely.
Lorenzo—Maximo’s right-hand man—opens the door for me, and I step inside to see her barefoot, cradling little Luca in one arm and bouncing him gently. Her red hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her face. The instant she spots me, her whole being lights up.
“Roan!” she exclaims, grinning. “This is such a lovely surprise!”
No, Lira. No, it's not.
She crosses the room with ease, even with the baby, and wraps her free arm around me in an enthusiastic side hug. I let her do it, hugging her back, just for a few precious seconds. Needing it more than I expected.
Then I glance past her and meet Maximo’s eyes. He’s standing in the background, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. But when our gazes lock, he gives me a slow, somber nod.
He knows why I’m here—I texted him during the drive, gave him a heads-up so he could prepare for the fallout.
Elira pulls back and shifts Luca in her arms. “Say hi to your uncle,” she coos, then holds him out towards me. “Here. You haven’t held him in ages.”