CHAPTER 31 FAE #2
“Because it’s true. We spend all day, every day with you, Roman. It makes no difference to us, also we are literally taught to read people. Jesus, I think we all make Leo Kanner look inept with the amount of shit we are taught about autism.”
“Language,” Fiona admonishes Riggs, like she didn’t just ask if I was fucking her son.
“Sorry, Mumzy,” Riggs’ cheeks go red, and I raise an eyebrow at that. Before Roman or I can respond, a shadow falls over us.
“Fiona.”
The voice is deep and smooth with an edge of control I already know.
Mr. Longstaff.
He steps beside his wife, tall and composed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the kind of man who has never raised his voice because he’s never needed to.
His hand slides to Fiona’s waist as he kisses her cheek with unmistakable affection.
You can tell from his eyes it isn’t performative or stiff like the other founders.
This is real.
Raw.
“My love,” he murmurs softly.
The look he gives her is pure devotion and it disarms me more than anything else in this ridiculous ballroom. Mr. Longstaff straightens, turning to me.
“Hello again, Fae. You look beautiful.” His handshake is firm but not crushing as he nods once at Riggs. “Evening, Riggs,” he adds, still shaking my hand.
We both respond before Mr. Longstaff’s gaze shifts to Roman.
“Son, a word.”
Roman’s body goes rigid beside me. His arm tightens around my waist in an automatic, defensive move and I shiver at the intensity of it. He pulls his eyes from his dad and looks down at me, his cold, calculating gaze softening into something he keeps only for me.
“I’m busy,” he replies flatly, not taking his eyes off me.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fiona huffs softly, “don’t start. I will look after her.”
He flicks his gaze to his mum. It’s not aggressive or cold, but calculating. Fiona holds it, lifting her chin with a stubbornness he clearly inherited, before rolling her eyes.
“Fine,” he relents, “she’s not to leave your sight.”
Fiona frowns at that, checking me over. For what, I’m not sure. Does she think I’m abused? That Roman is controlling me and fears I’ll run? Of course she wouldn’t know the truth. The Company’s women never do. Just stand still and look pretty, that’s what most founders want from their wives.
What she doesn’t realise is that Roman’s control is what makes me feel safe, what makes me feel loved, what gives me hope for the first time in my life.
“I’ll be back,” he says, bending down to press an indecent kiss to my lips.
That’s the problem with Roman and me. We don’t flare; we detonate.
No matter how much a kiss starts as a peck, it quickly devolves into fire and fuel.
If I had my wits about me, I’d pull back, but the flutter in my stomach ignites and I fall into the softness of his lips and the harshness of his tongue as it seeks entrance.
I nearly lose myself completely before a low cough pulls me back. We break apart with a jolt, but Roman just smirks, knowing exactly what he does to me, before squeezing my arse and stepping away.
Fiona loops her arm through mine before I can second-guess it and gently steers me to the opposite side of the room. Each step feels heavier as my eyes flick instinctively to Roman, now across the room. He’s already deep in conversation with his dad and his jaw is as tight as his posture is rigid.
I hate it.
I hate how easily I can see it.
Whatever this conversation is, it sucks away the carefree feeling we had a moment ago and puts me on edge.
Focusing on the room again, I take stock of my surroundings. I don’t trust rooms like this. I don’t trust powerful men in tuxedos. I don’t trust kindness without a cost, especially not from people who belong in this world.
Fiona seems to sense my hesitation, casting furtive glances as she continues to guide me where she wants me.
“I promise,” she says softly as we stop near a quieter alcove by the balcony doors, “this isn’t an interrogation.”
I offer a polite smile, whilst inside I’m coiled tight. We take the stairs as I try to control my breathing. Half of me wants to believe this is innocent and that Fiona wouldn’t do anything against her son’s wishes; the other half knows I should never walk off with a stranger in this house.
We come to a stop at one of the balconies overlooking the dance floor.
Up here, I can see Felix, Victor, and Atlas with their dates.
Riggs has disappeared somewhere and Father is still holding court at the champagne tower.
Fiona turns to face me fully, her expression losing some of its earlier brightness, which does nothing to calm my racing heart.
I worry it’s beating so loudly she can hear it.
“I owe you an apology,” she says, now it’s my turn to open and close my mouth like a fish.
She waits me out, letting me gain my footing as I mumble back, “For…?”
“For coming on too strong,” she sighs. “I got excited. Roman doesn’t bring people into his life lightly.
I knew he would have his other promised, but I also knew he saw that as duty and nothing more.
The difference is, he has spoken about you for so long that when I saw you together, I just became overenthusiastic, I suppose,” she shrugs before she continues,
“It’s hope I thought had died. It’s one of a mother’s hardest things to overcome, you know? The idea that when I die, my baby will be all alone because he never found a family for himself. It has eaten at me since I found out about his diagnosis.
“Parents of neurotypical children never have to question these things. It’s a given.
Especially in this world. We live, we die, we marry, we procreate.
But Roman…” she gestures lightly, a sad smile playing across her face, “at some stage I stopped hoping and started preparing, but then you came along.”
My heart beats slow and painful in my chest. I picture her younger and softer around the edges, holding a small Roman against her hip. His dark curls are wild, his tiny fingers fisted into her dress, with eyes already too observant for his age.
I imagine doctors’ offices. Whispered words. A diagnosis delivered like a life sentence instead of a difference.
I imagine her driving home in silence, gripping the steering wheel too tightly while the world quietly rearranges itself around her child.
It makes my eyes burn.
How do you grieve a future that is still breathing in your arms? How do you mourn a life you were promised without ever letting your child feel the loss? I cannot begin to understand that kind of love. The kind that fears dying not for yourself, but for who will hold your son when you are gone.
Then there is the stigma, the assumptions. The way this world chews through anyone who doesn’t fit its mould. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s the cruelty of a system that makes a mother feel like she has to bury hope just to survive it.
And the worst part? I have never thought of Roman as someone who could be alone. He is a force to be reckoned with. He is fire. But then it hits me, he was someone’s baby first.
“That must have been hard,” I reply lamely, kicking myself for not saying something more profound as her eyes search mine.
“He’s not an easy man,” she says plainly and I huff a small laugh, turning back to the ballroom and catching his eye.
“That’s one way to put it,” I respond, shifting my attention back to her as I see her lips twitch.
“He has always been different. Brilliant, of course, but intense and singular.” Her voice softens. “And yes, the autism shapes him. It makes certain things harder, especially touch.”
I nod slowly. “I know.”
“I worry,” she admits, studying me carefully. “I worry that he doesn’t know how to be soft without breaking something, and that he doesn’t always understand the weight of his own edges.”
“He’s careful with me,” I say before I can stop myself, my chest tightening. Fiona’s gaze sharpens at that.
“That’s good,” she pauses. “He’s not a good man, I know that. I’m not delusional. I know what my son is capable of, what he does, and who he is.”
My heart beats faster as she takes my hands in hers, gently squeezing them, so similar to how her son does.
“But,” she adds gently, “I do believe he can be a good partner.”
I smile at that because it’s my exact thought process, said out loud. Nobody can be a good man in The Company, but a good partner… that is like winning the EuroMillions.
“I don’t expect you to fix him, and I don’t expect you to tolerate anything that hurts you. But if you are with him, truly with him, then I need you to understand that loving him will never be simple. It will be deliberate. Every day.”
“I know,” I whisper, and I do.
Fiona’s expression softens completely.
“I’m protective of him,” she admits. “But I’m not blind. I can see the way he looks at you.”
“And how is that?”
“Like you’re the only thing in this entire room that makes sense.”
My throat goes dry as she reaches forward and squeezes my hands.
“And if you ever need someone,” she says gently, “someone who understands him from the beginning… you can come to me.”
The offer hangs between us. It’s warm, but unsettling in a dangerous way, because I don’t know how to trust mothers and I don’t know how to accept kindness without checking for the blade hidden behind it.
Across the room, Roman glances up again, his eyes find mine immediately. Even through the noise, even through the crowd, we are drawn together like twin stars spiralling towards impact, not wondering if we’ll collide, only how much of the universe will survive it.
Fiona thinks loving Roman isn’t simple.
But it is the easiest goddamn thing I have ever done.