15. Roman
ROMAN
I can’t stop staring at the last text from Brooklynn.
Brooklynn:
Don’t talk to me.
Me:
You know I wouldn’t leave unless I had to.
Brooklynn:
You don’t HAVE to, Bear.
My eyes burn when she pulls out the nickname. She knows how to kick me when I’m down, that’s for sure.
Me:
I’m doing this for you and Ma, kid.
Brooklynn:
Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like you got sick of being broke and went to where the money is.
Sighing, I darken the screen of my phone, slip it in my pocket, and stare out the window of my dad’s private car.
The ceiling is stars, the upholstery is a buttery leather, and the driver—Bartholomew—keeps calling me sir .
I always knew my father was rich, but damn, had I underestimated what it would feel like to be part of it. It makes Brooklynn’s implications burn a hole in my pocket.
A deep-seated hatred takes root, knowing how my sister has had to survive and how my father lives.
The trees blur together as we drive, and when they give way to Victorian-style houses with the Greek alphabet on the fronts, I know we’re getting close.
Verona University isn’t a large school, but tradition holds true, and the various fraternity and sorority houses make up a large part of the campus edges.
Welcome to Rosebrook Falls.
A weird feeling hits me when we reach the actual town limits, like I’m entering an alternate life. Flashes of the coulda, woulda, shoulda’s play like a movie, and I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like if I grew up here instead of in California.
If my father hadn’t been married to Eleanor, and had been able to love my mom freely.
My stomach cramps.
“How much longer?” I ask.
“About ten minutes until we’re in the HillPoint, and then another five to make it to your father’s manor.”
“What’s the HillPoint?”
Bartholomew’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “The neighborhood your father lives in.”
My brows furrow, because I’m not sure that I knew it was called that, but I guess it makes sense. My father’s mansion sits on top of a hill, the largest one in the area, like he’s looking down on peasants.
We pass by the entry to Verona County Park, and my breath hitches.
Juliette. This is where we first met.
A sick sensation whirls through my middle, because I know what will happen once she sees me again. Part of me is dreading it and the other part is anxious, scratching at my insides like a dog searching for a bone, desperately trying to get to her.
I assume she’ll hate me just on principle alone, but I can’t help the voice in the back of my head filling me with a sliver of hope.
Maybe if we’re in the same town, there’s a chance for… something .
I should’ve told her at the coffee shop. I had every chance. She was right there, sipping her drink and letting me flirt with her while I acted like I wasn’t the biggest liar she’s ever let into her life.
And I didn’t say a damn thing. Coward.
The car rolls past the county park, and then before long, we’re in the town square, historical buildings lining the streets, a grassy area in the center surrounding a large white gazebo.
If I had a nickel for every time the name Calloway showed up on a building or plot of land here, I’d be a rich man, but I guess I am anyway, now.
It’s obvious when we hit the HillPoint.
Besides there being an actual sign signifying the area, the branding changes from the Calloway name to an intricate M with a rose behind it and a sword through the middle, filigree surrounding the image.
There’s a white colonial-style building that sits right on the edge of the neighborhood with a faded red sign that says The Round Table Tavern .
The sidewalks are smaller. Streetlights flicker, and every few blocks, the lights don’t work at all.
This is my father’s area—the Montgomery area—and it pisses me off to see it not being tended to in the same way as the rest of the town.
It isn’t like Rosebrook is giant; there’s no reason for so much disparity.
Apparently, my father’s habit of not taking care of the things in his life extends beyond an estranged child.
We creep up a large hill, and even from a distance, I can see my father’s manor at the top of it, secluded from the rest of the neighborhood and behind a giant black gate so nobody can reach him.
The gate is a newer addition. When I was nineteen, I was able to make it all the way to the front door before I was turned away, and part of me wonders if maybe it was added because of that visit.
My knee bounces in place like a rhythmic clock as the car gets buzzed in through the gate and climbs up the gravel drive, the sound of pebbles crunching underneath the tires loud in my ears.
The driveway is shaped like a U, circling by the front of the mansion, and I stare at the place, frozen in my seat as the car rolls to a stop.
The house itself is nice, the upkeep far surpassing what we just drove through at the bottom of the hill, and another bit of resentment buzzes in my ear like a gnat.
It’s Tudor-style architecture with so much green foliage, it’s climbing up the walls.
There’s light-brown stucco on the front with darker brown wood pieces placed strategically to create a pattern of squares on the surface, and a wraparound deck that’s half hidden behind meticulously trimmed bushes.
I’m frozen in place. When I get out, everything will change.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I grab it, desperate for an excuse to put this off.
Ma:
You there yet?
I grit my teeth and reply.
Me:
Yeah.
Ma:
Remember what I said. Let him protect you. This is meant to be YOUR empire, Roman. Don’t forget who put you there. And if you see Juliette Calloway, don’t let a little thing like names get in your way.
Inhaling deeply, I reach out to open the car door and enter my new life, my heart in my throat, but before I can, Bartholomew is there swinging it open for me.
This is a different world.
I step into the crisp evening air, calm infusing itself into the moment.
It’s quiet, other than the gravel crushing underneath my shoes. I crack my neck, the anxiety rolling off my shoulders. My thumb spins my ring on my forefinger, and I wish I had a joint to calm the nerves.
A flash goes off in the distance from the direction of the gate, and I turn toward the quick light but don’t see anything.
“What was that?” I ask Bartholomew.
He turns to look in the direction I was. “What was what, Mr. Montgomery?”
I give him a sharp look.
“Roman,” he corrects.
“You didn’t see that flash?”
His bushy salt-and-pepper brows furrow, and he squints but then shakes his head. “Probably paparazzi from The Rosebrook Rag .” He gives me a worn and tired look. “I’ll have Frederick keep any photos from the press.”
I don’t know who Frederick is, but I don’t ask questions. It’s not surprising my father would have someone who knows how to control the media.
“Pop the trunk, Bartholomew. Guess I should get this over with.”
He looks affronted. “I’ll have your luggage taken inside, sir. You just go on in.”
Oh. Right.
“Great,” I say, acting like I know the first thing about having the type of money where people literally do everything for you.
It’s a little off-putting, to be honest.
He tips his hat. “Have a good night, sir.”
“Yeah, you, too,” I reply. But my attention is already off him.
Is my father inside waiting?
Does he even care enough to be here?
I focus on the front doors, so large I have to crane my neck to stare at the top of them as I make my way up the porch.
One swings open and a young man walks out, his blond hair perfectly swooped, and a movie-worthy grin pasted on his suntanned face.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him, but it doesn’t matter. My mom rammed the idea of who my family is through my brain from a young age, showing me pictures and videos she collected from various news sources.
I’d recognize this guy from a mile away.
Benjamin Voltaire .
Eleanor’s nephew and my dad’s by marriage. Technically, my cousin, although we aren’t blood related.
Last time I saw him, he was a kid, two years older than me, and I only ever interacted with him from a distance. I’m not sure if he even knew about my existence.
Still, the bitterness churns up like it’s fresh. I remember being furious that Benjamin was treated like a son—that he got to experience my father in a way I never did.
Maybe because he’s a Voltaire, so money was already in his blood.
The private schools, the summers on yachts, the nepotism that allowed him a life of advantage while others had to beg for scraps.
Privilege.
The kind you’re born with, not the kind you work for.
“Roman fucking Montgomery.”
It’s a jolt to my system hearing my old name pouring from his lips, but I guess I should get used to it. Ryder Speare died the second I stepped on that private jet.
“Benjamin,” I say coolly, tipping my chin. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”
That’s a lie. He hadn’t even crossed my mind.
His brows rise high on his forehead, and his upper body leans back like my words surprise him.
“So, you do know who I am,” he says. “I knew you, too, but hell, man, we thought you were dead.” He laughs. “And it’s Benny , by the way.”
Before I can respond, a honey-slick voice cuts in from our right.
“Benny, don’t be rude.”
She’s tall, with strawberry blond hair, and dressed like she walked out of a fashion magazine. She eyes me like she already knows everything there is to know about me, and she doesn’t quite trust what she sees.
Benny throws an arm over her shoulder, and tugs her into his side harshly, whispering in her ear. “I thought I told you to stay in my room.”
She shrugs, her eyes never leaving mine. “I got curious.”
He grimaces and then looks at me. “Roman, this is Rosalie Bault.”
She puts out a hand, and I take it. Her grip is firmer than expected. “You’re his girlfriend?”
“His better half,” she corrects.
“And I’m the prettier half,” comes another voice, as a tall man with light-brown skin and short, wavy black hair walks into the room.
I watch him come closer, amused at how jovial he seems.
“ You must be the Montgomery back from the dead,” he says, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “God, I love a good family scandal.”
Rosalie sighs. “Merrick, please.”
“What?” he asks, eyes still on me. “I’m being welcoming.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Benjamin pipes in.
Merrick slings an arm around my shoulder, mirroring Benjamin’s hold on Rosalie.
“Welcome to Montgomery Manor.” He winks. “And welcome to the family. Officially .”
Benjamin grips Rosalie’s hand in his and they both follow as Merrick walks me down a hall. I school my features as I take in the interior of my father’s home, and another shot of something bitter hits me in the gut. All these years, and this is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot inside.
The foyer alone is the size of my entire apartment back in California, and it’s sleek and stunning.
Beige walls contrast beautifully against the shiny cedar floors, and a gorgeous stairwell is the focal point of the room.
Just beyond it is an open archway with two long, thin steps showcasing a sprawling living area with floor-to-ceiling windows and dark wood banisters that line the vaulted ceiling.
It feels wealthy here. Like the floor itself is too expensive for me to walk on. I want to crawl out of my skin, discomfort raging through me.
“So,” Merrick says, “how long before Roman figures out we’re all fucked in the head?”
“I already figured that out,” I mutter, smirking at him.
He grins. “Good. Then you’ll fit right in.”