The sleek office table of his office desk offered a cold, grounding surface, but Roman barely noticed it. He leaned back in his ergonomic leather chair, the faint, lingering scent of expensive cologne hanging in the quiet air of the room. He knew, with absolute clarity, that he had hurt Jane. He knew he was in the wrong, and a quiet, persistent flicker of guilt buzzed at the back of his conscience.
Yet, as he stared blankly at the abstract painting across from her desk, he realized he didn't really care.
To Roman, the equation was simple. They had shared a sex, but that physical intimacy didn't translate into an emotional ledger. He wasn't into romance, he wasn't interested in her beyond a fleeting physical convenience, and he certainly wasn't about to stumble blind into a relationship just because clothes had been shed. That wasn't how he operated. That wasn't who he was.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Even knowing that his emotional detachment had left a sting, he had already mapped out his exit strategy: absolute denial through supreme normalcy. When they crossed paths next, he would look her in the eye with disarming neutrality. They would speak of spreadsheets and quarterly targets as if their bodies had never memorized the curves of one another in his office. To Roman, it was a masterclass in compartmentalization—he could simply brush it all away, turn the page, and pretend the world remained entirely unchanged.
Miles away, the heavy bass of Rosa's Club vibrated softly through the plush walls of the VIP lounge. Jordin sat alone on the deep velvet couch, a crystalline glass of liquor resting on the low marble table in front of him. His gaze was fixed on the amber liquid as he gestured for one of the floor attendants.
The worker stepped into the private room cautiously, recognizing the sharp, unyielding aura radiating from the man on the couch.
"Get Elsa," Jordin said, his voice flat, demanding, and devoid of unnecessary pleasantries.
The worker hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Sir... she isn't working here anymore."
Jordin's head snapped up. His eyes narrowed instantly, turning into sharp, dangerous slivers as he locked onto the employee. "Did she get fired?"
His mind raced defensively. Jordin hadn't given any orders to let her go—in fact, the mere thought of management making such a call over her minor, harmless mistakes infuriated him. He hated the idea of arbitrary discipline, especially when it involved her.
"No, sir. She didn't get fired," the worker replied quickly, visibly intimidated by the sudden, freezing intensity in Jordin's posture.
Silence stretched heavily across the room. Jordin said nothing. He didn't blink, and his face remained a mask of carved stone. The worker searched desperately for any trace of emotion—anger, disappointment, sorrow—hoping to read the billionaire's mood, but found nothing. The surface was entirely unreadable.
"You can leave," Jordin finally commanded, his voice dangerously low.
"Yes, sir," the worker muttered, practically tripping over himself as he turned and hurried out the door, sliding it shut behind him.
Fuck.
The curse echoed viciously inside Jordin's mind. Why on earth had she quit? Her departure meant she would be gone before his extended stay in the city wrapped up. As he sat enveloped by the shadows of the VIP room, a thick, suffocating wave of irritation rolled off him. He was annoyed that she was gone. Annoyed that he cared. Annoyed, above all else, that he actually missed her.
Fuck, he repeated silently.
He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, suddenly finding himself restless in a way that felt entirely foreign, almost terrifying. An unfamiliar itch of emotion was clawing at his chest. Was it possible she had resigned because of what he'd done? The thought struck him like a physical blow, instantly dismissed as arrogant bullshit—and yet, the doubt lingered. He considered calling Steve to see if anyone had a forwarding address, but he stopped that wasn't necessary.
Instead, he snatched his glass and took a harsh swallow of the burning liquor.
His mood soured further with every drop. He hadn't meant to be rough with her. It had been weeks since that night, but the memory still scraped against his conscience. He knew he hadn't handled her gently. While he hadn't been outright brutal, he knew the sudden way he had yanked her hair back, the bruising intensity of the way his teeth had bitten into her sensitive ear—it would have terrified her.
A sharp spike of self-loathing hit him. He was furious with himself for losing control like that. Yet, a stubborn, defensive part of his brain muttered: She hadn't even apologized to me yet.
Immediately, he shook the petty thought away. It didn't matter. None of that bureaucratic nonsense mattered. He just wanted to see her.
Their encounters had unlocked something he couldn't easily categorize. In a life defined by noise, chaos, and endless demand, Elsa had somehow given him a profound sense of peace. More than that, beneath the rough exterior of his desires, a strange, creeping realization had taken root: he felt a deeply wired responsibility toward her. The idea of taking her as a permanent fixture in his life—his partner, his equal—didn't terrify him the way it should have. In fact, for reasons he couldn't fully articulate, it felt entirely right.
So why had she thrown it all away and resigned?
It wasn't because I hurt her, was it, their sex?
The question burned like acid in his stomach. If that single, volatile night hadn't happened, she would still be walking these floors. She would still be within arm's reach. And now, he was trapped in a club he suddenly hated, forced to walk out its doors empty-handed.
A bitter hollow disappointment settled deep in his chest. He felt unsettled, unhappy, and profoundly disheartened.
Minutes later, Jordin slipped out into the cool night air. The parking lot was quiet, illuminated by the orange hum of overhead lamps. He climbed into the driver's seat of his car, pulling the door shut with a heavy, muted thud.
Leaning his forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel, he closed his eyes.
"Elsa," he whispered.
The name slipped past his lips like a forbidden prayer, heavy with a longing he refused to speak out loud.
It wasn't just about pride, or the lack of an apology. It went infinitely deeper than that. She had bypassed his armor, slipped past the barricades of his guarded heart, and quietly entrenched herself in his soul. He craved her—not just with the physical hunger of a man starved, but with a visceral, emotional ache that left him feeling hollowed out. And now, fury burned in his veins simply because the universe had denied him access to her.
Sitting alone in the dim interior of his car, the silence pressing in from all sides, one haunting question echoed relentlessly in the quiet of his mind:
Will I ever see her again?
Fuck, he cursed into the empty car, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned stark white.