14. Roman
ROMAN
“Son, how can I help?”
I lean back against the marble counter, my mobile pressed to my ear as I stare out across the quiet kitchen.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Ah, just in London. Some business things. Can I help?”
There’s a faint rustling sound on the other end of the line, as if he’s moving through a room or shifting something out of the way whilst he listens.
My fingers tap lightly against the marble counter as I watch the late afternoon light stretch across the garden outside.
Dad has always been a busy man. Even when I was a kid it was normal for him to answer calls between meetings, or to step out of rooms mid-conversation because something needed his attention.
The work never really stops in this family, and it never bothered me.
If anything, it was something I admired growing up.
“Yeah, all good here. Just wanted to let you know the package you dropped off was very useful.”
“Ah, that is good to hear. Is that all, son?”
“No,” I sigh and swipe my hand down my face. “Look, I need permission to move in on Ackworth.”
I can almost picture him standing somewhere expensive and quiet with that same calm expression he always wears.
Dad has always been good at separating the two sides of his life, keeping the weight of the organisation from bleeding too far into the family home.
It can’t have been easy balancing both but growing up he never made it feel like a burden.
The only time that line ever really blurred was with Quinn.
Even then I sometimes wonder if it would have mattered as much if I hadn’t already been drawn so completely toward Fae.
By the time Dad started pushing me in Quinn’s direction, it was already too late.
Whatever he thought was best for the family had collided with something I wasn’t willing to compromise on, and the more he pushed, the more the cracks started to show.
Despite everything, it still feels good to be working together again.
“Is it him?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He sighs softly and I hear movement. A door closes, followed by the unmistakable metallic click of a gun safety being pushed back into place.
The sound makes me pause. Curiosity flickers through me, but I don’t question it.
Dad has always been cautious about where he takes certain calls, especially when they involve the organisation.
If he’s stepped somewhere more private to finish the conversation, I’m sure there’s a reason for it.
“Then you have it,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to the other founders and the council.”
Relief loosens deep in my chest as my shoulders drop and the tension bleeds out of them.
Doing things properly has always mattered in this family and hearing the approval from Dad gives me the boost to keep going.
And now… we can move. Now the waiting stops.
We’re finally close enough that the next step actually means something, and for the first time in weeks the path ahead feels clear.
Felix is going to want to hear this the moment I hang up.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Of course, son...”
“Yes?”
“I’m proud of you.”
The line clicks dead.
I stay exactly where I am, the phone still in my hand as I stare out through the tall glass windows at the gardens stretching out behind the house.
Early evening light spills across the lawn, catching the tops of the hedges and the old oak tree that’s been there longer than any of us, the branches glow softly where the sun is beginning to dip behind them.
It’s peaceful in that quiet, golden way that makes the house seem to glow.
The light makes me think of Fae, the way it used to catch in her hair when we walked across campus, turning the lighter strands almost copper.
The memory hits me in the chest and my grip tightens around the phone as the calm of the garden in front of me clashes violently with the reality that she’s still out there somewhere.
God knows where.
I still have no idea where she is, whether she’s safe or cold or hurt or still fighting the way I know she would be. But I do know one thing…
Fisher.
If that man has laid a single finger on her, I swear to God there won’t be enough left of him to bury.
I force the thought down before it spirals any further.
Anger won’t help her. Not yet. What she needs is for me to stay focused, to follow the path we’ve finally managed to carve out of the chaos of the last few weeks.
The kitchen behind me shifts, and I don’t bother turning around. I already know who it is. I hear the soft tempo of her footsteps crossing the tiles and the faint scent of fresh linen drifting through the room; it is clean and familiar in a way that makes the whole house feel warmer.
“Roman?” Mum says softly.
I push away from the counter and turn as she steps fully into the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron tied loosely around her waist. The smell of vanilla and warm sugar drifts in with her, and it takes about half a second to realise she’s baking again.
At this point I’m fairly certain the woman deals with stress by feeding people.
She smiles the moment she sees me and the pain in my chest loosens automatically, the way it always has around her.
My mum has that effect on people. There’s a warmth about her that softens whatever room she walks into, the kind of quiet kindness that settles over people without them even realising it.
Most of the men in my life carry a certain amount of damage from the world we live in; Felix, Atlas, Riggs, all of us have been shaped by the darker corners of it but somehow her light still reaches them anyway.
She never tries to push or pry; she just exists and the brightness of it seems to seep into the cracks people try so hard to hide.
She’s the sort of person who turns a house into a home simply by being in it.
“Hey,” I say, stepping closer.
I slow slightly as a frown pulls at my brow.
The light that’s usually there is duller today.
There’s a tightness around her eyes that doesn’t belong and a faint shadow of exhaustion sitting beneath the smile she’s trying to hold in place.
Most people probably wouldn’t notice it.
It’s subtle enough to pass for nothing more than a long day.
But my Highly Superior Autobigraphical Memory (HSAM) has always made things like that impossible for me to miss.
It’s irritating in a lot of situations, but when it comes to the people I care about, it makes it impossible for them to hide when something’s wrong.
I close the distance between us and pull her into a hug before she can say anything else. She lets out a soft laugh against my chest as my arms wrap around her and her hands automatically come up around my back.
“Well hello to you too,” she murmurs as I press a kiss to the top of her head and hold her there longer than usual.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
“Of course I am,” she answers, but the words come out a little too bright.
I lean back just enough to look at her properly, my hands still resting on her arms as I study her face.
“Mum…” I say, the single word carrying a warning she’s heard from me a hundred times before.
She exhales a sigh. “I’m fine, Roman,” she insists, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “You worry too much.”
“I learned from the best.”
She smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“You just caught me in the middle of baking,” she says, nodding toward the counter behind her.
I glance past her shoulder and sure enough there’s a mixing bowl sitting on the island, flour dusted lightly across the marble beside it like a small explosion.
A wooden spoon rests inside the bowl and thick batter clings to the sides.
I step around her and walk over before she can say anything, dipping a finger straight into the mixture and scooping up a bit to taste.
She makes a soft noise of protest behind me but it’s already too late.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“You’re almost twenty-two.”
“And?”
“You can’t still eat cake batter.”
“It’s quality control,” I shrug, and she swats my arm lightly with the towel in her hand.
“You can help me then if you’re so desperate to eat it.”
“My pleasure.”
Her smile settles across her face this time, the warmth of it softening the tightness I noticed earlier.
The kitchen feels exactly the way it always has.
Just a mother and her son standing in the middle of a flour-dusted counter.
The soft guitar of ‘Bloom by The Paper Kites’ drifts from the small speaker on the windowsill.
Mum turns toward the sink and turns the tap on as she starts rinsing out measuring cups and spoons.
Water splashes against the basin whilst the scent of sugar hangs in the air and mixes with the faint citrus smell of the washing up liquid.
I grab the wooden spoon and start stirring.
The steady scrape of the spoon against ceramic joins the gentle music and the running water as the sounds layer together into the kind of calm that only seems to exist inside this kitchen.
“How are you holding up?” she asks.
A slow breath slips out of me but I don’t answer.
I just keep stirring the batter, watching the thick mixture fold slowly over itself in the bowl whilst I try to choose my words carefully.
Mum doesn’t need the truth in its rawest form.
She doesn’t need to hear how often my mind goes to the worst places when I think about where Fae might be.
It happens more than I like to admit. The questions always creep in during the quiet moments.
The uncertainty is the part that grinds at me the most. It sits deep in my chest like pressure that never quite releases as a constant reminder that she’s out there somewhere and I haven’t reached her yet.
“I’m fine,” I say eventually.