Chapter 4 – Roman
I should’ve handed her over the moment we got here. That would’ve been the smart move—bring her to Adrian, to Lukin, let them do the questioning, decide if she’s a pawn or an enemy.
But I’ve never survived this long by ignoring my instincts.
And every single one of them is screaming that Elara Chang is important.
Not to the mission. To me. To my vendetta against David Chang.
The thought unsettles me. I’ve seen women like her before—spoiled, sharp-tongued, used to getting their way. But there’s something different about her. Something that hums under her composure. Defiance. Fear. Fire. Maybe all three.
It intrigues me in ways I’ve never let myself feel in a long time.
I’m in my office, the low hum of the computer filling the silence. Numbers and intercepted messages blink across the screen, but none of it holds my attention anymore. She does.
I finally turn from the monitor, resting back in my chair as I study her. Elara Chang. The daughter of David Chang. My ticket—or my curse. I haven’t decided which yet.
She’s across the table, spine straight despite the exhaustion written in the curve of her shoulders.
Her wrists are still bound, skin marked faintly where the zip ties have bitten into her.
But her chin is high, proud, like a soldier waiting for an execution and daring the firing squad to flinch first.
Her hair has come loose, dark strands framing her face, half-shadowed under the dim light. She doesn’t shake them away. She doesn’t move at all, just watches me with those sharp, defiant eyes that hold too much intelligence for someone who should be terrified.
She looks almost regal. A queen stripped of her throne but not of her pride.
And when her gaze meets mine, it’s steady, unflinching, burning with something between challenge and hatred. I almost smile.
Almost.
Because that fire in her eyes? It tells me one thing.
Breaking her won’t be easy.
And that’s exactly why I want to try.
I slam the manifest down between us hard enough that the paper flutters. She gasps at the action, a small, satisfying sound. “Tell me why you changed this,” I say, slow and flat.
Her lips press into a thin, defiant line.
“You promised to answer honestly,” I remind her.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.” She sneers, and for a heartbeat, I want to enjoy the way her arrogance cracks under my stare.
I lean in until the heat from the monitor washes over my face. My voice drops low, dangerous. “You think I won’t break you? I’ve broken men twice your size, twice your cleverness. Don’t test me.”
For a second, I imagine the defiant mask will hold. How many times have I seen that exact set of lips and stubborn jaw on people who thought words were armor? But hers shifts. The sneer cracks like glass.
“Because my father was going to sell them,” she says, the words spilling out too fast. “And if I couldn’t stop him, I wanted to make sure he lost money doing it.”
The words land between us like a thrown stone. Her confession doesn’t shock me—the sabotage I half-expected—but the rawness in her voice does: all that hatred aimed not at me, but at the man who sired her.
I sit back and study her. David Chang’s daughter.
A pawn on an old board, but pawns have value, especially when they expose a weakness in the game.
Still, this isn’t bitterness toward me; it’s a personal, teeth-bared fury at her own blood, and it changes the scope of what I can do with her.
A realization is finally dawning in my head, and I decide to expose it.
I keep watching until she bites out, “What?”—snapping at me for the silence that’s become pressure.
“Before you came to the museum tonight, where were you?” I ask, careful with my voice until I’m not. I’m running out of patience.
She swallows; the movement says what her mouth won’t.
I press, “Answer my fucking question!” and slam my fist onto the table.
The wood answers with a dull knock.
She flinches, then forces the words out. “I was with my father. He hosted a dinner.”
I let that settle, let the implication hang in the air. “Your father offered you tonight,” I say, slow and flat. “He auctioned you to the highest bidder.”
Her head snaps up. First shock, then shame, then a blaze of fury that makes her beautiful face into something dangerous. She doesn’t deny it; she asks instead, voice tight, “How do you know that? That only happened a few hours ago.”
I laugh, low and humorless. “Because I’ve been watching Chang for months,” I tell her.
“He’s sloppy with the important things—he thinks money buys discretion.
But tonight’s information was pretty tough to get a hold of.
I doubled down and found the guest list. It made the purpose obvious: high-value foreign buyers only show when the item is rarer than a painting.
I couldn’t tell what the object was from the manifests, until I saw you. Put the pieces together.”
I watch the color drain from her face as the realization lands. The ledger I hold is suddenly more than paper—it’s leverage.
My pulse ticks faster. I should feel satisfaction—confirmation that David Chang is exactly the monster I always knew he was. But instead, something sharper cuts through it. Anger. Protective, dangerous anger that burns in my chest before I can stop it.
I shove it down hard. I can’t afford to see her as a victim. Not when she’s leverage. Not when she’s Chang’s daughter.
“You’ll stay here,” I say, my voice low and final. “You’ll answer when I ask. And until I decide otherwise”—I lean closer, close enough to see the pulse beating fast in her throat—“you’re mine, Elara Chang.”
Her lips part, eyes flashing with fury and disbelief. She doesn’t speak, but that glare is sharp, stubborn, alive, and it meets mine and doesn’t waver.
Good. Let her hate me. Hate is easier to handle than fear. Hate, at least, I understand. Hate will keep us both sharp.
“You can’t keep me here,” she spits. “It’s kidnapping.”
I smirk, leaning back in my chair. “Who’s going to stop me?”
“You’re a monster.”
“From what I hear,” I murmur, tilting my head, “you’re already familiar with monsters, printsessa.”
She gasps, color draining from her face, but she recovers quickly. “Back at the museum—my car is there. I have my bag in it, with important items. I need it. I also need my phone to make calls.”
I rise from my chair, slow and deliberate, the air between us shifting as I close the distance. Her chin tilts up in defiance, but I can see the faint tremor in her hands.
“Let me make this clear,” I say, voice low and edged with steel.
“In case you didn’t get it the first time.
You’re not a guest, Elara. You’re a prisoner.
My prisoner.” I stop inches from her, my shadow swallowing hers.
“You don’t have the luxury of your bag, or your phone.
You should worship me because you’re still breathing. ”
She stiffens, jaw tight, eyes burning holes into me, but she doesn’t look away. That defiance again. That fire. The same kind that gets people killed.
“My father might hate me,” she bites out, voice trembling but steady, “but at least I’m useful to him. He’ll try to find me. And when he does, you’ll regret it. I promise you.”
I laugh—dark, humorless. “You think threats make you sound powerful, printsessa?”
I glance toward the door. “Luka.”
He steps forward instantly, silent as a shadow.
“Cut the zip ties.”
She blinks, startled, as Luka draws a knife from his belt and slices clean through the plastic. The ties snap apart, and she jerks her hands free, rubbing at the red, raw marks on her wrists.
“If she attempts anything stupid,” I add, my tone almost bored, “bind her again. With her legs this time.”
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “You—”
“Careful,” I warn softly, cutting her glare with one of my own. “You’re not in a position to test me.”
She folds her arms, every line of her body rigid with contained rage. “You will regret this.”
I give her a small, amused tilt of my head. “I look forward to it.”
“Take her away,” I tell Luka without another glance in her direction.
Luka grips her arm and starts for the door.
She doesn’t struggle this time, but as she’s dragged out, her voice follows me, low and certain.
“You will regret this.”
And for reasons I can’t explain, the echo of her words lingers long after she’s gone. No, I’m not scared of her father. Far from it. But there’s a timbre in her voice that arrests me. I don’t have time for this.
I walk to the window, watching the night press against the glass. It’s past midnight, but my men are still out there, moving shadows under the floodlights, rifles slung across their backs, boots crunching gravel. The world outside is at rest, the way I like it. But my mind isn’t.
It drifts, unbidden, to her. To Elara.
I should talk to Lev. Or Sasha. They both know her; she was at their wedding, smiling like she had nothing to hide. I could ask them what they know, what they think of her. But the thought of saying her name aloud—of admitting I have her locked up downstairs—makes something twist in my gut.
No. Not yet.
For now, I want to sit on it. Keep her existence mine alone. Why? I have no damn clue.
It won’t stay quiet for long anyway. David Chang is too big a name. The second his daughter vanishes, he’ll raise hell—or at least, that’s what any normal father would do.
But David isn’t normal, is he?
No father sells his daughter to the highest bidder.
I drag a hand through my hair and exhale slowly. The man is a bastard. Greedy. Cold. The kind that measures love in profit margins.
Still…men like him love an audience. Even when they’re the villain, they need someone to clap. If his daughter’s missing, he won’t suffer in silence. He’ll make it a spectacle. A show.
And when he does, I’ll be waiting in the wings—watching the performance unfold, knowing the prize he auctioned off now sits in my house.
The door opens, and I turn to see Luka step in. I lift an eyebrow; he nods once.
“She’s fine. I made sure she’s comfortable,” he reports.
“Does she have all the, uhm, bathroom supplies women use?” I ask, flat.
He nods again. “Everything.”
“Send men to the museum.” I don’t waste breath. “Her car is there. Bring it down here. She has private property in it.”
“Okay, Boss.” He still doesn’t move. He waits. I sigh. “What is it, Luka?”
“She’s not the enemy,” he says. “Her father is.”
I blink. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m just saying we don’t have to hurt her to get to David.”
I study him. “Does she look hurt?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Luka lowers his head for a second in that deferential way he sometimes does.
He’s my shadow in a dozen darker ways—a former sniper spotter from my military days, the man who watched my back when the world narrowed to a target and a breath.
He’s blunt and violent and the sort of man who prefers breaking bones to making plans, but he’s always had a soft spot for women and children.
That softness shows itself now in the way he argues against unnecessary cruelty.
“Go get her car, Luka,” I say. “Let me deal with Elara.”
He inclines his head. “Okay.”
Then he disappears.
I turn back to the window. The night outside is still quiet, too quiet for my mind.
As a former military man, I also don’t hurt women.
That was one rule I never broke, even when orders blurred lines and morality was a luxury.
But David Chang…he’s a different breed of monster.
And monsters breed consequences. His daughter would pay for his sins—directly or indirectly.
That’s how our world works. You don’t have to like it. You just accept it.
I walk to the minibar in the corner of my office, the floorboards creaking under my shoes. I pour myself a drink—whiskey, neat—and let it burn its way down my throat. The sting helps. It anchors me.
For a long moment, I just stand there, glass in hand, watching the faint reflection of my own face in the dark window. Somewhere out there, Elara Chang is probably cursing my name. Maybe she should.