Chapter 3 - The Midnight Visitor
Maple Street was dead quiet at 2:00 AM, the historic brownstones shrouded in a damp, clinging fog that rolled off the Blackwater River. Sabrina’s townhome glowed with a faint amber light from the second-floor bedroom window.
When the black sedan pulled up to the curb without headlights, the driver’s side door opened with a heavy, muffled thud. Roman didn't wait for Marcus to open his door. He stepped out into the cold drizzle, his face half-hidden by the upturned collar of his coat, his stride long and unrelenting as he walked up the granite steps of the brownhome.
He didn't knock.
He hit the heavy oak door with the flat of his palm once—a sharp, splintering crack that echoed down the empty street.
Inside, footsteps scrambled across hardwood floors. A deadbolt slid back with a metallic screech.
The door swung open to reveal Sabrina Voss wearing a silk robe that cost more than most people's monthly rent, her hair pinned back in loose, careless waves designed to look effortless. But the moment she saw Roman standing under the porch light—alone, coat damp with rain, eyes completely dead—the color drained entirely from her face.
“Roman... what are you—how did you find me here so late?” Her voice trembled, the practiced fragility cracking at the edges.
Roman didn't answer. He simply stepped past her, his massive frame forcing her back into the entryway as he walked uninvited into her pristine, minimalist living room. The scent of expensive jasmine candle wax hung heavy in the air, clashing violently with the damp chill he brought in from the street.
“You left your purse on the counter at the hospital yesterday,” Roman said smoothly, his hands sliding into his coat pockets.
Sabrina swallowed hard, her hand flying to her throat where a diamond pendant caught the lamplight. “I... I didn't leave my purse. I had it with me.”
“Not your handbag, Sabrina.” Roman turned slowly to face her, his gaze dropping to the coffee table where a small, clear plastic bag sat beside a half-empty glass of Pinot Noir. Inside the bag was a receipt from the Blackwater Reproductive Health & Hormone Clinic, dated two days prior. “Your trail. You left a trail wide enough for a freight train to drive through.”
Sabrina’s eyes darted toward the table, then back to his face. For a fraction of a second, the terrified girl act vanished, replaced by a cold, hardened calculation that matched his own.
“You’re trespassing, Roman,” she said, her voice dropping the theatrical quiver. “If you think you can come in here and intimidate me into dropping my claim, you’re out of your mind. My attorney has copies of everything filed with the county clerk. Whether Naomi is breathing or not doesn't change the fact that you and I spent the weekend at your lake house six weeks ago.”
“We didn't spend the weekend at the lake house six weeks ago, Sabrina,” Roman said softly, stepping closer until she was forced to lean back against the bookshelf. “Six weeks ago, I was in Zurich negotiating the port acquisition. My passport stamps are public record. Furthermore, my security team picked up your encrypted phone logs to Julian Vance this morning.”
Sabrina’s breath hitched. The mask slipped completely now, revealing the desperate, cornered opportunist underneath.
“Vance is nothing,” she spat out, her chin lifting defiantly. “He just gave me the push I needed. You’re vulnerable, Roman. Your wife is dead, your kids are dying in an incubator downtown, and your entire empire is sitting on probate ice. All I wanted was a piece of the pie. A settlement to walk away. Ten million dollars and I disappear forever.”
Roman stared down at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
“Ten million,” Roman murmured. “A modest price for an empire.”
“You can afford it,” Sabrina said, her confidence flickering back, mistaking his calm for surrender. “Sign the transfer papers in the morning, and I’ll drop the paternity suit. No scandal. No messy court battles while your babies are fighting for their lives.”
Roman reached into his coat pocket. He didn't pull out a checkbook. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen twice, and held it out toward her.
On the display was a live feed from the neonatal unit at St. Jude’s. Through the glass, Elena Hart could be seen adjusting the flow rate on the baby boy’s oxygen monitor, her face serene, focused, utterly dedicated to keeping two tiny lives anchored to the earth.
“Do you know what Nurse Hart told me yesterday morning, Sabrina?” Roman’s voice was barely a whisper now, cold enough to freeze blood in the veins.
Sabrina stared at the screen, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“She told me that most people react emotionally before they react strategically,” Roman said, stepping back until he was standing by the front door. “She watched you smile when my wife died. She watched you calculate your entrance like an actress stepping onto a stage. And then she helped me realize something very important.”
“What?” Sabrina breathed, her voice tight with sudden, unadulterated dread.
“That trash like you doesn't belong anywhere near my family,” Roman said, his hand resting on the brass door handle. “Vance is going to lose his development license by sunrise. Every bank holding his debt has already been bought out by D’Angelo Holdings as of midnight. By noon tomorrow, he won't even own the clothes on his back.”
Sabrina lurched forward. “Roman, wait—you can’t—!”
May you like
“As for you,” Roman continued, not looking back as he pulled the heavy oak door open to the rainy night, “your fake pregnancy documents are currently being forwarded to the District Attorney’s office under charges of fraud, extortion, and tampering with probate records. Enjoy your townhome while you can, Sabrina. It’s already in foreclosure.”
He stepped out into the dark, leaving her screaming empty threats into an empty hallway.
