Chapter 24 Roman
ROMAN
Alana wheels a rack of garment bags down the hallway beside me while Dr. Levin follows a few steps behind with his medical bag in one hand and his coat folded over his arm.
The three of us make an odd procession—a stylist, a doctor, and a man who hasn't slept well in days—and Rebecca watches us pass the kitchen doorway with her hands wringing a dishtowel.
"Is she expecting you?" Rebecca asks.
"No."
"Roman, she's not going to—"
"I know." I keep walking and Rebecca shakes her head.
I can feel her disapproval following us down the hall, but she doesn't try to stop me.
She knows better than anyone that Mila can't keep going the way she's been going.
Besides, I need her help with things, and I don't like being ignored.
She's been sick for long enough that it's concerning.
I intend for my doctor to check her over and no one is going to stop me.
I knock on Mila's door and open it without waiting.
When I walk in, she's sitting cross-legged on the bed in sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, a book open in her lap and a piece of dry bread in her hand, mid-bite.
Her hair is unwashed and pulled into a knot and the shadows under her eyes have deepened since the last time I saw her.
The room smells stuffy and dank with the curtains drawn, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand with her lip gloss ring on the rim.
She looks up at me, then at Dr. Levin, then at Alana and the garment bags filling the doorway, and her face goes from surprise to irritation in about half a second.
"What's this?" she asks, dusting the crumbs off her book before closing it. She hastily sets it to the side next to the glass on the nightstand and slides out of bed.
"This is Dr. Levin. He's going to check you over. And this is Alana. She's here about the gala."
"Roman," she says with feigned politeness, though I hear the frustration edging her tone. "I didn't ask for a doctor. And I'm not sure what you mean about the gala."
"You didn't need to ask me for help. I know you need it.
" I step inside and hold the door open for the other two who walk past me into the room and make themselves comfortable.
"You've been sick for over a week and you're barely eating and the gala is in seven days.
So here we are." Levin and Alana start setting up, following my orders, because they know what's good for them.
They'll do as I ask regardless of how Mila feels.
"I don’t need—"
"Sit still and let the doctor do his job," I grumble, and she bites her tongue.
It's one thing I can count on from Mila, that she doesn’t want to embarrass herself.
So long as these two are around, I hope she continues to behave herself.
I just want to get to the bottom of this and find out why she's sick so we can get her back to work.
I can't have a wilting flower at my gala when I present my plans to a room full of people.
Mila scowls at me before sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Alana parks the rack near the window and Dr. Levin settles on the edge of the bed beside Mila, opening his bag.
"I'm fine," she says to the doctor before he's touched her. "I really don't need anyone doting on me. It was just the flu or something."
"Let me confirm that." He's calm and unbothered and he has orders.
One of the reasons I respect him so much—he does what he's told.
He checks her pulse, her temperature, shines a penlight into her eyes, presses his fingers gently under her jaw to feel for swelling.
Mila endures it without grumbling too much, but I see the anger in her eyes.
It's an invasion to her, not a courtesy, and I'm her enemy now.
Well, so be it. She has no clue that I'd stop the world from spinning if it meant making sure she was well cared for. Maybe no one has ever stopped to care for her before, and she's not used to this. I don't think I should have to spell it out for her, though.
"Any pain?" Levin asks.
"No." Mila shies away from his penlight.
"Dizziness?"
"Sometimes," she says, shrugging.
"How often is sometimes?"
"When I stand up too fast. When I haven't eaten." Hearing that she's not eating well is discouraging. I treat my staff well, give them anything they want without exception. Mila is so much more to me now. Why does she think she can't eat?
"And when did you last eat a full meal? Not bread. A meal." Levin looks up at me questioningly, but I have no answer for him. I don't babysit her any more than any of my other staff members.
She glances at me too, and I see fear in her eyes now. "I don't remember."
"Days?" the doctor asks.
"Maybe."
He huffs and pulls a blood pressure cuff from his bag, wrapping it around her arm, and then he pumps it and watches the gauge.
"Your pressure's lower than I'd like." He unwraps the cuff and packs it away and looks at her with compassion.
"You need to eat, and not bread. Protein, vegetables, water.
Your body's running on nothing right now…
Is everything alright? Are you depressed? "
Mila bobs one shoulder and looks away from him, and it starts to dawn on me what I am dealing with.
"Well if you're feeling down, I can prescribe some medications." Levin stands, but he hovers.
"I'm alright. I promise, if I need something, I'll call you." She looks uncomfortable, and I feel relieved that Levin hasn't announced some need for further testing yet.
"Try to eat more," he says, tucking his penlight away.
"I'll try," Mila mumbles, but her head is hanging now like a scolded child.
Levin finishes and gestures for me to step into the hallway. I pull the door halfway closed behind us as I follow him and he starts talking.
"She's dehydrated and run down, but nothing alarming," he says at almost a whisper.
"Her blood pressure's low, and it appears she's exhausted and mildly depressed.
She needs sunshine and water, and people around her.
The withdrawal, the appetite loss—it's consistent with grief.
If her father's death was recent, this is likely the worst of it. "
"How long does this last?" His words are no surprise after my lightbulb moment in the room.
I've been expecting Mila to act normally because her loss hasn't touched me.
I'm not mourning Anton in any way. I stand to benefit from his death.
I'm foolish, and I feel my heart breaking for her.
It's an odd sensation for a man who never allows himself the luxury of emotions.
"Depends on the person—weeks, months? There's no timeline for mourning, Roman. Everyone moves through it differently."
"Is there anything you can give her?" I ask, now worried I'm going to fail at caring for her because I am so inept when it comes to matters of intimacy and compassion. "Should I be worried?"
"I'll send over supplements for the dehydration and some vitamins. But the grief isn't medical. She needs to feel safe enough to eat and rest and reconnect with the people around her. That's not a prescription I can write."
And of course the one thing she needs most is something that challenges me to my core.
If you ask me to fight, I'll knock out my opponent.
If you ask me to run a business or enforce rules, I'm going to be successful.
But if you ask me to hold a woman while she cries, or soothe a scared child, I'm going to fail. I don't know the first thing about it.
"Yes, okay," I mutter, feeling hopeless. Maybe Rebecca will help. God knows if it's up to me, Mila will only get worse.
Dr. Levin turns and walks down the hallway with his bag while I stand there for a moment with my hand on the doorframe, watching him go.
I could've handled a virus or infection, but grief wasn't what I expected. I love this woman. I've known it for weeks now. But hearing a doctor tell me she's drowning in grief while I stand outside her door unable to do anything about it makes the knowing worse.
I'd buy her a house if she'd take it. I'd fly her anywhere in the world if she'd let me. I'd tear Vera apart with my bare hands if it would bring the color back to her face. But grief doesn't respond to force or money or grand gestures, and that's the only way I know how to solve problems.
After everything Vera put her through—the manipulation, the isolation, the years of being treated as less than her stepsisters—I can't force Mila's hand.
I know that now. But I can protect her from whatever Vera has planned, and I can make sure she walks into that gala the way she deserves to—like a queen, not as a servant borrowing someone else's life.
When I walk back in, Alana has unzipped three garment bags and draped the dresses across the foot of the bed—an emerald floor-length gown with a fitted bodice and a slit up the left side, a midnight blue with a draped back and thin straps, and a black silk tea-length with an asymmetric neckline.
She's got a measuring tape around her neck and a pincushion on her wrist and she's already in work mode.
"This would be stunning on you," Alana says, holding up the emerald dress and turning the hanger so the fabric shimmers in the light. "With your coloring, this green is perfect. The bodice sits here"—she gestures across her own chest—"and the slit falls mid-thigh. Elegant without trying too hard."
Alana looks up expectantly, and the poor thing doesn't realize I'm forcing Mila to do this.
Meanwhile, Mila looks like a ticking time bomb ready to explode and it's all my fault.
If I'd have known it was all just grief and mourning her father, I’d never have pushed this on her.
We'd have had an entirely different conversation.
"This one is more understated." Alana sets the emerald gown down and picks up the blue. "See how we have classic, very clean lines. The drape in the back is gorgeous." Her hands fan out over the material and her warm smile is convincing, but Mila isn't having it.
"I'm not going to the gala," Mila says, her eyes on me, not Alana.
"You are." After what the doctor said, I want to be gentle with her, not forceful, but my plan doesn't work if she's not there.
"I told you I'm not." Now she's just being stubborn, folding her arms over her chest as she rises from the bed staring at me defiantly.
"And I told you that you don't get a choice. The gala is in seven days and you need a dress." What doesn't she understand about this? It's not optional. She will be with me. It has to be this way.
"I don't need a dress because I'm not—"
"Try the emerald one," I tell her, cutting her off. My tone is calm and I'm trying to sound friendly, but she's being so stubborn. "You don't have to put it on, just hold it against yourself and look in the mirror."
"No," she spits, and I see the tears building, the shine in her eyes that she's fighting to hold back. She hugs herself more tightly as her bottom lip trembles and she looks to Alana, who's gone still by the window.
I turn to Alana, knowing I'm not going to get anywhere with Mila tonight, but she still needs a dress. "We'll use the emerald gown, thank you. Use the measurements I sent over and have it fitted by Wednesday. Bring hair and makeup the night of."
"Of course." Alana shoves the dresses back in the bags and zips them, then collapses the rack, moving more quickly now. "I'll have everything delivered."
She wheels out and closes the door, and the second Alana's gone, Mila walks toward me with an angry expression. I don't know that I've ever seen her so emotional.
"How dare you," she snaps, but she's going to break. "I didn't ask for a fucking doctor, and I don't want to be styled by some seamstress." She takes a breath, pushing through the tremor in her voice. "You want me to look as fake as my bimbo stepsisters, is that it?"
"I'm trying to take care of you, woman. Can't you see that?" I feel angry, which I know is not the right response, but there's no one here to tell me what is.
"I didn't ask you to take care of me."
"No, you didn't, but you're not the same." I can hear my voice rising and I don't stop it. "You've been disappearing, Mila, piece by piece. And I'm not going to sit here and pretend I don't notice."
She fumes, stomping a few paces one direction and then back in the other. "I can't stand you. You do not own me."
"I was giving you a choice, okay? Letting you pick the dress was—"
"My choice? Nothing has been my choice since I walked into this house. You have made every choice for me since I came to this prison, and now you're deciding I'll stand beside you and watch you pick one of my stepsisters to marry."
"You don't know what I'm going to do at that gala!" I shout, and I regret it. My blood is boiling right now. No one ever speaks to me this way because they're terrified of me. Why the hell do I let this woman push my buttons until I'm shouting?
"I know enough." Mila walks over to me and glaring, says, "You invaded my privacy, Roman. Can't you see that? You don't fucking own me. This arrangement gives you my labor, not my dignity."
My temper breaks. I grab her arms and shake her hard, well aware that I could leave marks on her, but she's so fucking infuriating.
"You have no idea how to let someone care about you," I snarl, so angry that I don't care how scared she looks.
"You can't recognize genuine compassion even when it's offered. "
Her eyes are wide, her throat working as she swallows the fear, but she's trembling, not crying.
"Your father's dead, Mila. You're grieving and you won't let anyone in." The cruelty of what I'm about to say registers a full second after it leaves my mouth. "And maybe Vera's assumptions about you were right. Maybe there is—"
She slaps me so hard, I see stars, and when my vision clears and I look back at her, there are tears running down her cheeks and her whole body is trembling. Something passes between us that lodges in my chest painfully deep.
I deserve that. Every syllable of what I said, I deserve that.
"I'm sorry," I say against her mouth. "I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did."
"I didn't. I said it because I'm frustrated watching you fade away."
"I hate you," she mumbles as I loose her arms and she wipes the tears from her eyes.
"You don't mean that," I say softly. She can't mean it. It can't be that easy to wreck what tender connection we've made. Can it?
"I do."
My body reacts before my mind can, and I cup both of her cheeks and pull her in for a kiss. Her lips are supple and soft, and my touch is so gentle she could pull away if she tried, but she doesn't.
"I don’t think you do," I whisper.