"Stop!" Roman's voice cut through the hallway as I pushed the suite door open.
I stumbled inside and saw him across the room. He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, back to the city lights, the suit clean, the tie loose. For a split second I forgot how to breathe.
"Roman?" I said, because my mouth moved before my brain did.
He turned slow. No surprise in his eyes. Just that calm everyone said could freeze a room. "Elliemae," he said. "You do know this is Kristensen VIP, right? You don't just—"
"Don't finish that," I snapped. "You dragged my name through tabloids and corporate press releases. I don't need your pity tour."
He arched one eyebrow. "Two years," he said. "Two years and you waltz in like you own my lobby."
"I own nothing of yours," I said. "I'm looking for an apartment. The concierge sent me to the wrong number. Fix your door signage."
He laughed without humor. "You expect me to believe that?"
"I expect you to stop pretending you run my life," I said. "I'm not your problem anymore."
He crossed the room with three steps. His hand was on the glass railing before mine could reach the frame. The light threw lines across his face, sharp and deliberate. He smelled like the boardroom—clean, expensive.
"You always were stubborn," he said. "You'd rather ruin yourself than ask for help."
That line pulled something raw out of
