CHAPTER 31 FAE
FAE
The ballroom is obscene. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, crystals dripping like frozen rain as it reflects gold light over polished marble floors.
The walls are trimmed in gilded moulding.
Thick velvet drapes frame floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook nothing but darkness and money.
Round tables clothed in ivory linen are scattered with centrepieces so tall they look like they’re trying to outgrow the room.
Of course he included white orchids, he always does.
It’s a bitter reminder that my mum is no longer here and a hollow display that he misses her.
Unlike the subtle scent of the flowers, this place reeks of champagne and power.
Everywhere I look, there are faces I recognise from boardrooms, charity galas, and the dungeon. Executives. Investors. Monsters. These are the men who shake hands with one hand and ruin lives with the other. Women in silk gowns and diamond necklaces laugh too loudly at jokes that aren’t even funny.
I walk in on Roman’s arm like I own the place. In a way, I do. This is my inheritance. At some stage in my life, I forgot that, but the men who break bread with Father see me as nothing more than a pawn in his game.
Looking across the room, I spot him by the champagne tower, one hand resting casually at his back, the other wrapped around his drink. His smile is smooth and calculated. It’s control I’m convinced he’s practised in the mirror.
Beside him, I see the nightmare that is my reality and my stomach tightens.
Dr. Fisher. They lean towards each other like co-conspirators.
Father says something; Fisher throws his head back in laughter, the sound sharp even from this distance.
Memories hit all at once and my cheeks burn with humiliation.
How many times did he laugh in my face when I failed him?
When I humiliated myself in front of him?
That same cackle makes my shoulders go rigid before I can stop it but Roman notices immediately. His hand shifts at my waist, in a grounding, possessive hold.
“Don’t,” he says low enough that no one else can hear, “ignore them.”
“I am,” I lie, grinding my teeth. Roman chuckles, his thumb brushing over my hip bone.
“Mmm, let’s ignore them some more, shall we?”
Before I can argue, he gently but firmly steers us away from Father’s line of sight, cutting across the ballroom towards someone I don’t recognise. She stands near the far end of the room alone, yet somehow doesn’t look lonely.
She’s older, with an air that makes her seem regal. Her skin is deep, rich, and luminous under the chandeliers, glowing against a pink gown that commands attention without begging for it. The colour should be soft, but on her it looks powerful.
She sees us approaching and her entire face transforms.
“Roman! There you are!” Her voice cuts through the noise, warm and confident in an unapologetic way. Even as heads turn, she doesn’t seem phased as I am left trying to place who she is.
Roman sighs, but there’s something softer beneath it that makes me double-take.
“Mum,” he says simply, a small tilt to his lips.
Mum?
My heart stutters.
He steps forward and she pulls him into a hug that he automatically relaxes in to, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek before they separate. Her gaze lands on me as I try to control my breathing. I brace for the barb, for the hatred I expect to follow.
Instead, she confuses me.
Her eyes soften, something almost whimsical flickering through them as she beams at me and takes a step forward.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh, Roman, she is beautiful.”
I blink, staring at her like a statue as Roman clears his throat.
“Fae. This is my mother. Fiona Longstaff.”
Before I can prepare myself or introduce myself, she pulls me into her arms. It’s not tentative.
It’s not polite. It’s warm and motherly.
The kind of hug that knocks the breath out of you before softening at the edges.
My eyes water without my permission. No one has hugged me like this in years.
Not since my mum died; it hits me how much I missed as a child.
She smells like fresh linen and raspberries, like she’s just come from baking. Her hand presses briefly against the back of my head and my chest splinters.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushes as she pulls back, keeping her hands on my shoulders. “You are even more beautiful than he described.”
He described… me?
My face heats. I feel awkward and exposed, unsure where to put my hands or how to receive this kind of affection without flinching.
I chance a glance at Roman. Looking between them, I can see the resemblance.
Now that she’s up close, I’m surprised I ever questioned who she was.
He’s a lighter, younger, taller version of her.
I turn back to her and smile. Or at least, I hope I do. I worry it comes across as a grimace.
“Thank you,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “It is lovely to meet you.”
Fiona takes my face in her hands, tilting it left and right like she’s inspecting a rare painting.
“Just look at you,” she says, pulling her hands away and clasping them beneath her chin. “You must come over for dinner sometime soon.”
Just as I’m about to respond, a thick arm bands around my waist and pulls me back. The moment I hit his chest, I realise it’s Roman.
“Mum,” he says flatly, like he’s trying to tell her something else.
Fiona’s face pales as she steps back, her gaze dropping to his arm around me. She has that look in her eyes, the same one Roman gets when he’s cataloguing something. Her gaze flicks between where my hand rests over his and where his fingers flex lightly at my hip.
Her expression shifts. She opens her mouth, then closes it. My body coils with tension as she looks between us, blinking slowly before lifting a finger.
“You are touching her,” she announces like it’s world-breaking news and I frown. Is this not allowed in his family? I don’t have much experience with healthy family dynamics, but it’s a strange thing to point out.
“Yes,” Roman replies, dry and deadpan, pulling me even closer to his body.
Heat floods my cheeks and I try to subtly fan myself as Fiona’s eyes widen like she’s just discovered something remarkable.
“Do you…” she begins carefully, “touch? You know, naked?”
I choke on my spit and Roman moves one hand to rub my back as I press my hands to my cheeks through the mortification.
My eyes dart between Roman and Fiona, not knowing what to say or how to act.
I want the marble floor to swallow me up whole as Roman’s palm keeps gently rubbing circles on my back.
Part of me wants to lean into the feeling, knowing that he is my safe space, and the other part wants to pull away from the source of embarrassment.
“Mum!” Roman growls, making me jump slightly.
“Oh, stop,” Fiona flaps her hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s natural.”
“The act is natural, Mum,” Roman scoffs, “but I am not going to answer if we get naked together. It is private.”
“I will answer it for them, Mumzy,” I groan and throw my head back against Roman’s chest at the sound of that voice.
Out of all the men in all of my business, it had to be Riggs. He is bound to say something inappropriate. I watch him move in from the left of Roman and me, swooping in to give me a peck on the cheek before moving to kiss Fiona as she beams up at him.
“Oh, Riggs, darling, how are you?” If she were a colour, she would be yellow. Her aura is so radiant and bright, it’s impressive she was half the reason for Roman.
“Much better now,” he replies with a serious face and Fiona gasps, cradling his cheek. The sunny disposition dims slightly as a shadow crosses her face, like she could single-handedly conquer his troubles.
“What happened?” Fiona demands.
“I haven’t been sleeping well, Mumzy.”
“Riggs,” Roman barks and I feel his body coil for a fight as Riggs throws him a feral grin before turning back to his mum.
“Your son has been keeping us awake with all his naked dancing.” Riggs bounces his eyebrows and winks as Fiona chuckles and taps him on the cheek.
“Riggs, shut up,” I say through gritted teeth, giving him my best warning glare, but he pretends not to hear me, snagging a champagne glass as a waiter passes.
I have murdered men, done some disgustingly taboo and plain gross things on shrivelled dicks, yet nothing has ever unnerved me like this conversation.
I try to subtly wipe my sweaty palms on my dress as Fiona looks between me and Roman with the happiest expression on her face, before something flickers across her eyes.
“Does she know?” Fiona frowns slightly, then redirects the question at me when Roman doesn’t answer. “Do you know?”
“Do I know what Mrs Longstaff?”
“One, it’s either Fiona or Mumzy. Never that, it makes me feel old. And two… about, you know, his touch…”
“Oh, yes, I know he doesn’t like touch.”
“But do you know why?” she pushes, her eyes laser-focused on both of us and I feel Roman tense behind me, shifting slightly so he’s more at the forefront, protecting me from an unseen threat.
“Mum, it’s irrele—”
“No,” she snaps, “it’s not.” She takes a breath as I watch, confused and slightly thrown by the interaction, before turning back to me. “He has autism.”
“Oh.” I say because it’s not really a revelation. Looking up at him, I see his cheeks flush as an expression I’ve not seen before flickers across his eyes. Is he… embarrassed? “I know.”
“What?” He snaps his head down, the frown between his brows deepening. “How? Let me guess, Felix?”
“Erm, it was kind of obvious, Ro,” I respond, ignoring the Felix comment, because we have spoken about it, but I can already tell he wouldn’t like that.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” he snaps, before looking to the ceiling as Riggs jumps in.