Checkmate, Husband

Roman confessed the affair on our anniversary. He orchestrated it perfectly. Fireworks booming in the night sky outside the window.

He coaxed me into his lap, mapping my skin until my mind clouded over.

Right as the pleasure crested, his voice dropped to a low, steady murmur. "Sloane, I swore I'd never keep secrets from you. There's a girl. I've been taking care of her.

You'll accept this, right?" My nails were biting into his shoulders. The aftershocks were still rolling through my veins. The realization hit like a physical blow.

Acid burned the back of my throat. A suffocating wave of shame swallowed me whole. I tried to pull away, to rip myself out of his grip.

His hands locked on my hips, pinning me flush against the cold glass of the vanity mirror. "Look at yourself," he whispered.

The heat of his breath scalded the shell of my ear. "Your body doesn't lie. You can't leave me." The man holding me was rotten to the fucking core. And I was going to bury him.

Chapter 1 He wanted to destroy me. To drop this bomb while I was entirely defenseless, breaking my spirit so I’d never stand up to him again. My palm cracked against his cheek.

The sharp sting radiated up my forearm. Roman’s head snapped to the side. He didn't even flinch. He just pulled back, flicking a lighter to ignite a cigarette.

The flame illuminated the dead, hollow look in his eyes. "Hit me, scream at me, Sloane. Do whatever you need to do.

But two things are off the table." He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, his gaze pinning me down. "One—we aren't getting a divorce. Two—leave the girl out of this.

She's innocent." I wanted a divorce. I wanted Roman ruined, stripped of everything he loved. I even wanted him dead. But we had a decade behind us.

High school sweethearts to husband and wife. I had never built walls against him. By the time I started digging into our finances, I realized the grim truth.

Our joint accounts were drained. Mortgaged, leveraged, wiped clean. Even the law firm carrying my name was bleeding out, and the knife belonged to Roman.

Two of my four senior partners had pulled their capital two months ago, taking our biggest accounts with them. I spent the last eight weeks hustling to keep the lights on.

Roman had rubbed my shoulders, kissed my forehead, and played the supportive husband—while secretly funding their exit. He rigged the game before he ever sat down at the table.

That was why he confessed so casually. He had systematically dismantled my life, waiting for me to crawl back to him.

I had pulled two consecutive allnighters at the office with Gemma, my only remaining partner. We ripped through the files.

The red flags had been there all along, hiding in plain sight. But we weren't dead in the water yet. We split up. My target was Marshall, our firm’s biggest corporate whale.

If I could lock in his renewal contract, the firm survived. Marshall was dodging me.

When I finally cornered him, he gave me a slippery, noncommittal answer, claiming he was hosting a VIP client tonight and his PR rep had bailed.

I swallowed my pride and offered to fill in. I pushed open the heavy oak doors to the private dining room. I froze in the doorway, the air punching out of me.

Roman was sitting at the head of the table. Next to him was Ruby. Roman didn’t even blink. He fully expected me to walk through that door.

His eyes slid over my face, blank and indifferent, like I was the waitress handing him a menu. The girl pressed against his side was jarringly young.

She had this spoiled, wideeyed innocence radiating from her.

She tilted her head, studying me, before shrinking closer into Roman’s space. "Should I call her 'miss' or 'ma'am'?" she whispered. Roman leaned his head down to catch her words.

A soft, indulgent smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. An invisible fist crushed my chest. The pain was sharp, radiating straight to my ribs.

I slipped my hand into my blazer pocket, my thumb blindly clicking the record button on my digital voice recorder. "Roman, this is Sloane, one of the attorneys over at the firm," Marshall said, stepping up beside me. "They're hitting some turbulence lately.

She's pitching a renewal. But since we're partnering with your corporation now, Roman, I know your compliance standards for legal counsel are… strict." Roman picked up his teacup.

He took a slow, deliberate sip, letting the silence stretch. He kept his eyes lowered.

The harsh ambient light cast a sharp shadow across the bridge of his nose, masking his expression entirely.

Ruby let out a bright, bubbly giggle. "Roman, don't be so mean to the nice ma'am… I mean, lady," she said. "Look at her undereye bags.

She looks so stressed." Roman raised his hand, his fingers tangling smoothly into her hair. The gesture was sickeningly intimate. "You talk too much," he murmured to her.

My stomach violently churned. I dug my fingernails into my palms, using the pain to suppress the urge to flip the table.

Chapter 2 Roman finally spoke. "I'm not familiar with Sloane's track record," he said.

His voice was low, but it completely silenced the private dining room. "So, how about this… I have a minor case on my desk right now. It's a bit delicate.

It requires an attorney who is highly rational, someone who can detach their personal feelings from the work.

If Sloane handles it properly, it might prove she actually has the grit to navigate complex situations." Marshall immediately chimed in. "That's a fantastic idea, Roman.

A perfect test run. A real opportunity." My stomach dropped. A cold weight settled in my gut. I already knew exactly what Roman was doing. "What kind of case?" I asked.

Roman set down his teacup. The porcelain clinked sharply against the glass table. "An employee of mine is dealing with a messy domestic situation.

His wife is spreading cheating rumors everywhere, completely dragging his reputation through the mud. He wants to sue her for defamation." He raised his eyes.

The physical weight of his stare pinned me to my chair. "It's a small claim, but family drama gets emotional. Fast.

I wonder if Sloane can keep her cool and defend my employee's legal rights?" The room went dead silent. Muffled laughter leaked through the walls from the next private suite.

Ruby blinked, shattering the quiet. "Roman, isn't suing people super exhausting? Why would that lady spread nasty rumors like that?" Roman ignored her.

He kept his eyes locked on mine. Behind his tailored frames, his gaze was pitchblack and freezing. It held an unquestionable sense of control.

And a twisted, sadistic spark of amusement. He was backing me into a corner.

He was using my dying firm as a weapon, forcing me to crush another woman's desperate fight for survival.

He wanted my hands covered in the blood of my own kind, so I could never stand on the moral high ground again. My fingernails sliced deep into my palms.

The pain was the only thing keeping me awake and dignified. "If I win this defamation suit, does Marshall sign the renewal contract?" I asked.

Marshall shot a quick, deferential look toward Roman. "Absolutely. I'm a man of my word." Marshall raised his glass toward me across the table.

I slowly reached for the untouched shot of liquor in front of me.

I tipped my head back and swallowed the burn. "I'll take the case." Trevor had been publicly humiliated in front of his entire family and friend group.

Now, he was suing Rachel for defamation, demanding a formal public apology and heavy damages for emotional distress. My job was to ruthlessly defend Trevor.

Securing Marshall's contract meant forcing Rachel to apologize and pay up, a realization so sickening that I walked out of the dinner early.

The second I got home, I collapsed on the bathroom tiles, throwing up over the toilet bowl.

Every single trait I used to obsess over in Roman—his calculated dominance, his razorsharp intellect—was now a serrated blade carving me hollow.

Minutes later, the electronic keypad on the front door beeped. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway and stopped right outside the bathroom frame. Roman didn't say a word.

He casually tossed his wool overcoat aside and rolled up his crisp dress shirt sleeves.

He ran a washcloth under the cold tap, wringing it out. "You can't handle hard liquor, Sloane. Why push yourself?" He pressed the damp cloth gently to my feverish cheek.

His other arm slid seamlessly around my waist, hauling me flush against his chest. As if he wasn't the monster who just held a gun to my career. My stomach contracted.

I shoved hard against his chest, ripping myself out of his grip, and gagged over the porcelain rim. "Get out!" Chapter 3 Roman leaned back against the bathroom tile, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. "Look at the state of you.

Where exactly do you expect me to go?" He dropped his chin.

The harsh overhead light caught the sudden, raw exhaustion lining his face. "Sloane, do you honestly think you're the only one bleeding right now?

Watching you tonight… it ripped me apart.

The woman I've worshipped for a decade, begging a room full of strangers rather than just asking her husband for help." "I wanted to trigger you.

I wanted to shove it right in your face so you'd finally snap." His voice turned gritty, desperate. "You know damn well how this works. All you had to do was claim what’s yours.

If you fought for me, it would be you sitting beside me!" He gave a bitter, selfdeprecating laugh. "I know your ego. I know you won't bend. But that's fine.

I'm a sick, pathetic bastard when it comes to you. I couldn't stand the thought of you hurting.

I pictured you coming home to this empty house to cry alone, so I walked out on a VIP dinner just to chase after you." He reached for me again.

His expression was devastatingly tender, but his grip was ironclad. He hauled me to my feet, spinning me around until I was trapped between his chest and the bathroom vanity.

We faced the mirror. A brutal flash of memory hit me—the day we renovated this master bath. We had stood in front of this exact same glass.

Roman had wrapped his arms around me from behind, his eyes blindingly bright, a massive grin splitting his face.

Barely three years later, the reflection stared back at two shattered, toxic ghosts. The tequila finally hijacked my nervous system.

Hot tears spilled over my lashes, tracking fast down my cheeks.

The broken woman in the reflection looked so genuinely fragile that even I didn't know where the performance ended and my actual collapse began. "Roman, what did I do to deserve this?" My voice cracked, raw and jagged. "I gave you ten years of my life.

Don't I even get a clean break?" Roman stood flush against my back.

One large hand locked like a vice around my waist, while his other thumb brutally wiped the wetness from my cheek. His own eyes were redrimmed. "Why would we ever break clean?

Sloane, I am never letting you go!" He crushed me tighter against him. "You'll understand, Sloane.

You have to." His voice dropped into a dark, frantic cadence. "Understand that my hands are tied. Understand that in my world, loyalty makes you a target.

Being a saint makes you weak." The man staring back through the mirror looked completely unhinged. "I know this is ripping you up, but I am bleeding right next to you!

If I didn't love you, I would have just handed you the divorce papers and walked away." His chest heaved against my spine. "But the problem is I'm utterly obsessed with you.

I cannot physically exist without you!" His features remained carved out of marble, but a single, perfectly timed tear slipped down his jaw. "Sloane, do you even remember your vows?

You promised love would conquer everything! But the second things get dark, you don't even try to see it from my side.

You just try to throw me away." That single tear dropped with agonizing precision, searing hot into the curve of my neck.

And just like that, what started as my sole breakdown turned into a mutual tearful confession. His face twisted with raw agony.

He dipped his head, his teeth sinking aggressively into the sensitive skin of my neck. A low, jagged growl vibrated out of his throat.

His rough palm slid directly under the hem of my silk blouse, his fingers gripping my bare ribs with a punishing, bruising heat. It was another perfectly choreographed trap.

Break me down while I was drunk and emotionally shattered, cry right along with me, and then use that vulnerable whiplash to drag me to bed. Halfcomforting, halfforcing.

If he succeeded tonight, he knew I would lose the will to fight back. The very last, pathetic shred of hope I held onto for our marriage instantly evaporated into dead ash.

I let the silence hang for a split second. Then, I thrashed wildly, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Roman’s muscles locked in shock, but his grip refused to let go, his heavy body trying to drag me down to the floor.

Until I whipped my arm around and blasted a stream of pepper spray straight into his eyes.

The next morning, feigning absolute reluctance, I officially took Trevor's defamation case. Trevor's demands were brutally simple.

He wanted the winning verdict, the public apology, and maxedout financial damages. He couldn't care less about the legal maneuvering.

But after a closeddoor meeting with Roman, Trevor completely changed his tune.

He told me a private settlement was suddenly on the table—but only if I personally acted as the mediator. Chapter 4 I knew exactly what Roman was doing.

This was the first lesson he wanted to teach me. That afternoon, I came facetoface with Rachel.

She lived in a rundown apartment building slated for demolition on the west side of the city. Barely four hundred square feet.

When the peeling front door creaked open, a tiny, terrified threeyearold girl—Cora—was clinging desperately to Rachel's sweatpants. "Mediation?" Rachel let out a harsh, scraping laugh. "He screwed around.

He beat me. He drained our joint accounts and strapped me and my baby with a mountain of debt. He won't even pay basic child support. You want me to apologize to that animal?

I’d rather die." The sharp, jagged edge of her voice terrified the little girl. Cora burst into heavy sobs, her chest rattling with a wet cough.

Rachel immediately dropped to her knees, her rough palm rubbing circles into the child’s back. "Shh, it's okay, baby.

Mommy's going to get your medicine right now." As her sleeve pushed up, several dark bruises were visible on her forearm. The marks were terrifyingly fresh. My throat closed up.

I pressed my lips together and spoke with difficulty. "The current situation is heavily stacked against you. If you keep fighting this, you won't just be forced to apologize.

He'll ruin your credit, and that will completely destroy your chances of getting full custody." Rachel didn't even let me finish.

She stayed crouched on the linoleum, tilting her chin up to lock eyes with me. Her eyes were bloodshot. "I don't believe you!" Her neck went rigid.

Hot, angry tears spilled over her lashes. "I refuse to believe the justice system has zero equity.

I refuse to believe you highly educated, Ivyleague elites would literally force a mother and daughter into an early grave!" Her words drove a rusted spike straight through my ribcage.

My legs felt like lead as I stumbled out of the trashlittered stairwell. Roman's gleaming black Escalade was idling right by the curb.

He stepped out, his hand wrapping firmly around my elbow to steady me. The drive back was entirely silent.

Roman finally shattered the quiet, his tone clinically detached. "She caused a massive scene at corporate.

Trevor caught a disciplinary writeup and got temporarily pulled from his project manager role.

Naturally, their cash flow dried up." I kept my face turned toward the tinted glass, staring blankly at the blur of streetlights.

My reflection looked utterly distracted and listless. Seeing the absolute shutdown in my posture, Roman dropped the subject.

That evening, he went to the market and used expensive ingredients to personally cook a large dinner for me.

Right as he set the porcelain plates on the dining table, the concierge buzzed up a delivery. A heavy, velvet Cartier box.

Inside was an obscenely expensive diamond bangle. "My apology is sitting right here," he murmured. "I'll wait as long as it takes for you to accept it." I didn't touch the bracelet.

My fingers gripped the heavy silver fork for a long, agonizing minute.

Finally, with my vision burning and blurring, I pierced a piece of meat and forced the first bite into my mouth. Roman smiled.

A slow, satisfied curve of his lips. "Peace at home, Sloane," he whispered softly. "That's how we survive." To prevent Trevor's mess from tanking the corporation's PR, Roman demanded realtime crisis management.

Which led to my second encounter with Rachel. It went down in the courtyard of an ultraluxury gated community. Trevor and Rachel were there, but so was another woman—Tiffany.

Rachel's chest heaved as she grabbed Tiffany's designer coat. "Trevor, you absolute scum!

You let your own daughter hack up her lungs because you refuse to pay for her medical bills, but you buy this homewrecker a penthouse in this zip code?!" She was sobbing so hard her vocal cords tore. "Open your fucking eyes!

Your daughter considers a McDonald's Happy Meal the best day of her life! But look at her! She’s dripping in Gucci!

One of her purses could feed your own flesh and blood for an entire year!" Tiffany thrashed against her grip, her face a mask of pure terror and absolute disgust. "Shut your mouth, you crazy old hag!

This condo is in my name! Every cent I spend is my own money! Don't you dare slander me without proof!" And that was the fatal flaw. Rachel didn't have solid proof.

All she had were a few blurry, grainy photos from the night she caught them, and a handful of cropped Venmo transaction screenshots.

As long as Trevor and Tiffany denied it to the grave, that evidence wouldn't hold up in a courtroom for thirty seconds.

Chapter 5 Roman had already called Trevor, barking at him to shut the circus down because corporate needed him back immediately.

So, under Rachel’s blazing, furious stare, I was the one who pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Inside the precinct's concrete mediation room, Rachel’s eyes were completely dead.

She stared right through the cinderblock wall. Officer Davis kept trying to deescalate.

She completely ignored him. "This isn't right," she chanted, her voice a hollow rasp. "This isn't right." I grabbed my purse to leave.

Her dull, bloodshot eyes dragged over to me. "You're a woman, Sloane. Why are you handing him the knife?" Trevor gave me a ride home that evening.

He kept shooting nervous glances at me from the driver's seat. "It never had to get this toxic," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel. "She hasn't clocked into a job since the day we said 'I do.' I grind eightyhour weeks to pay the mortgage, and I never complain.

She gets my credit cards, free time, little road trips with Cora… what more does she want?

But she's just obsessed with destroying me." I kept my head down, staring at the floor mats in suffocating silence.

When I unlocked the front door, the scent of a gourmet dinner filled the air. Roman had set the dining table flawlessly.

In the center sat a sprawling bouquet of white peonies—the exact same flowers he bought the night he proposed. "Sloane, I know I had no choice, but I still feel like I failed you," he murmured.

He slid his platinum Amex across the mahogany wood. "Take total control of the finances from now on.

Don't let someone else's messy divorce drain your energy." Hot, silent tears slipped down my cheeks. I picked up the heavy silver fork. I ate the food.

I slid the platinum card into my pocket. A dark, satisfied smirk hitched the corner of Roman’s mouth. "Breathe, Sloane," he whispered. "The liens on the house will be cleared soon.

The debt is just a temporary cashflow issue.

As long as you stand behind me, we’ll rebuild our empire." The actual truth was infinitely more sickening than what I saw on the surface.

Trevor had been methodically gaslighting Rachel and hiding assets for four entire years. Every single one of Rachel’s desperate, screaming pleas for help had hit a brick wall.

Over the course of five meetings, Roman observed me closely. He watched my transition from initial reluctance to final numbness.

Once he was satisfied I was broken, he gave Trevor the green light to kill the mediation. The final time I saw Rachel was the morning of the trial.

Roman had called in heavily priced favors to fasttrack the civil docket, ensuring the psychological torture wouldn't drag on for months. Roman never left anything to chance.

He dragged Marshall into the public gallery, seating him right in the front row. It was a physical leash.

A glaring reminder to keep my emotions entirely out of my opening statements. The wooden benches were packed with Trevor’s frat brothers, colleagues, and family members.

He wanted his reputation scrubbed clean in front of a live audience. Across the aisle, the defense table was completely empty, except for Rachel. She couldn't afford a lawyer.

Her knuckles were bonewhite as she clutched a stack of printed Venmo screenshots in one hand and crumpled legal pads in the other.

Her eye sockets were bruised and hollowed out, but her entire body was coiled like a wire, glaring straight at the judge’s bench.

The second Judge Marcus finished his opening inquiry, Rachel's hoarse, desperate voice cut through the silence. "Your Honor, I don't know your fancy legal jargon," she rasped, her vocal cords scraping. "I just want to know one thing.

When my husband waited until I was bedridden with a highrisk pregnancy to drain our savings accounts… does that count as concealing marital assets?" She snapped a piece of looseleaf paper open.

It was covered in frantic, scribbled math. "This charge right here. When his mother, Joyce, got sick, I pulled five grand from my personal emergency fund.

I still have the bank receipts." Her hands shook, rattling the thin paper. "This line right here. When Cora was hospitalized with pneumonia, he lied to my face.

He claimed his corporate bonus was delayed and forced me to max out my credit cards for her inhalers. And this one. Last Christmas.

He claimed he needed to bribe his executives with luxury gifts and pulled out thirty thousand dollars…" She shoved her cracked iPhone high into the air, aiming the screen directly at Judge Marcus.

The display showed a grainy, blownup Venmo transaction log. All the money funneled straight to Tiffany.

Chapter 6 "Judge Marcus, look at this." Rachel shoved the printouts forward. "The exact same time. He wired her two grand. The memo literally says 'new purse'. And this one.

Four thousand dollars.

For a luxury spa and makeup." Her voice skyrocketed, sharp as nails scratching across glass. "My baby girl was suffocating in a hospital bed because we couldn't afford her medical copay, and he was funding his side piece's Sephora hauls!" A low murmur rippled through the wooden pews.

Trevor’s jaw locked, his face draining of color. Tiffany snapped her head away, staring at the floor. Rachel’s chest heaved heavily.

She clawed at the cuffs of her faded sweater, viciously shoving her sleeves up to her elbows.

The ugly, mottled purple bruising was entirely exposed under the harsh fluorescent glare. "This is from the twentyfifth!" she screamed. "I went to the farmer's market.

I caught him buying premium lobster tails for his mistress. When I confronted him, he beat me right into the pavement.

Half the market saw it!" Her gaze finally locked onto Trevor at the plaintiff's table. Pure, unadulterated venom radiated from her hollowed eyes. "Trevor.

Do you dare look me in the eye and swear on Joyce's grave that you never laid a hand on me? That you didn't hide a single dime?

That you weren't screwing her while your own flesh and blood was literally dying?" The veins in her neck bulged. The last sentence tore out of her throat in a raw, primal shriek.

The scream entirely hollowed her out. Her knees buckled. She stumbled forward, grabbing the edge of the defense table to steady herself.

Those rabid, desperate eyes stayed pinned to the bench. "I'm asking you, Your Honor. He is a monster. What reputation is there left to protect?

Every word I posted was the absolute truth! How the hell is it defamation?" The courtroom went graveyard silent. You could hear the hum of the HVAC unit.

In the gallery, Roman’s brow twitched. He tapped his index finger against his tailored knee. Once. Twice. His eyes darkened into pitch. Next to him, Marshall shifted his weight.

He casually lifted his leather briefcase, letting the unsigned renewal contract slide out just enough for me to see the blank signature line.

Every single pair of eyes in the room instantly snapped to me. I slowly pushed my chair back and stood. My fingertips were blocks of ice.

When I opened my mouth, the voice that came out was detestably cold and detached. "Your Honor, the defendant's allegations regarding asset allocation and domestic abuse have absolutely zero legal bearing on this specific defamation claim.

We request the court instruct the defendant to pursue those grievances in a separate family court filing." Rachel stared at me. Her jaw went slack.

She whipped her head toward Judge Marcus, her entire frame vibrating. "How is it zero bearing?!

If he wasn't beating me and stealing my money, I wouldn't have had to expose him!" Judge Marcus kept his eyes anchored to his paperwork.

The heavy wooden gavel slammed down. "Counsel is correct. The defendant's grievances constitute a separate legal dispute entirely.

Plaintiff's counsel, you may proceed with your opening arguments." Rachel stopped breathing. She stared dead at me. Her chest rising and falling.

Her mind completely shortcircuiting as she realized her blood, her bruises, and her undeniable truth couldn't buy her a single ounce of justice.

Chapter 7 My voice was entirely devoid of emotion. "First, regarding the alleged asset concealment. Trevor's corporate position requires constant, highvolume capital flow.

Every single expenditure cited by the defense is fully documented and backed by his company's financial division, proving legitimate business allocation." Rachel’s hands clamped into fists.

Her knuckles bleached bonewhite. "Second, regarding the Venmo screenshots and wire transfers. The source is entirely unverified. The authenticity is highly questionable.

Even if admissible, isolated transactions do not legally prove an illicit affair.

They fall under a wide range of legal umbrellas—personal loans, joint investments, or standard gifts." "Third, regarding the allegations of domestic violence.

Sworn affidavits from Trevor’s colleagues place him in a business meeting on the exact dates in question. He has an ironclad alibi.

Furthermore, the defense has completely failed to provide any police reports, medical evaluations, or concrete evidence of assault." "In conclusion, without a shred of factual evidence, the defendant, Rachel, broadcast highly defamatory statements against my client across public spaces and social media platforms.

She severely damaged his professional reputation and completely disrupted his life.

Her actions flawlessly meet the legal threshold for defamation." I gave a curt, formal nod. "The plaintiff firmly stands by the original filing.

We request the court rule in our favor and legally compel the defendant to issue a formal apology." Rachel stood frozen behind her table, shaking.

The dark, ugly bruises mapped across her emaciated arms looked grotesque under the harsh fluorescent lights. A sickening, sharp irony.

A heavy, suffocating thud hammered against my ribs. Trevor had been heavily coached from the start. This lawsuit was strictly boxed into defamation.

Rachel’s desperate plea for moral justice didn't stand a chance in hell against the actual legal code.

But the second Judge Marcus read the final verdict, Rachel completely shattered. "Why?!" Her agonizing scream ripped through the courtroom. "Why is he the monster, but I'm the one who has to apologize?!

Why?!" My hands trembled as I shoved my files into my briefcase. Roman’s large hand slid over mine, pinning it down. He towered over me.

His bespoke wool overcoat draped flawlessly over his shoulders. He carried the effortless, crushing presence of a man entirely in control. "Brilliant work, Sloane.

You really don't let emotions compromise your judgment." As the words left his mouth, Holly, the court clerk, handed the finalized verdict directly to Rachel.

Rachel ground her teeth, her redrimmed eyes tracking every single printed word. Roman shifted his grip, lacing his fingers seamlessly through mine. "Stop looking at her, Sloane.

We'll never reach that point. Right?" Rachel’s face suddenly went entirely slack. Her pupils locked onto a specific line of text. She read it.

Then read it again, absolute shock washing over her features. Her head snapped up. I slowly pulled my hand out of Roman's grip. "You're right. We won't reach that point