Chapter 168: The Beginning Of The Storm II:When The Mighty Stumble
The door was pushed open with sudden force from the outside, the hinges creaking under the impact, and as expected, it was Abigail standing there in the doorway.
She paused for a heartbeat, letting the moment hang in the air, her hand still lightly pressed against the polished brass handle as though she had just claimed possession of the space.
Her beauty was undeniable—dark, silky hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes that shimmered with a soft gleam, and lips curved in a smile that had once charmed many men.
But to Roman, she was nothing more than a ghost from a past that had already been buried.
His gaze, sharp and steady, swept over her, and instantly the weight of comparison surfaced in his heart.
She was beautiful, yes—but no beauty in this world could compare to Julie.
Abigail’s features were like finely cut glass, gleaming but cold; Julie’s were warmth and light, living fire.
Even now, as Abigail’s eyes lingered on him with that old, dangerous affection, Roman’s mind rejected her completely.
She smiled as she saw him standing still at the door. That smile—calculated, practiced, welcoming—was the kind that could make any passerby mistake the scene.
To someone else looking in, it might seem as though Roman was a man caught returning to his lover, and she, a woman waiting with patient devotion.
The curve of her lips held an invitation, a lure meant to ensnare.
But not Roman.
That smile, though it might have stirred desire in another man, found no home in him.
Once, perhaps, when he had been more foolish, he might have been swayed by its softness. But not now. Not after all that had happened between them.
Not after the betrayal that had cut so deeply, leaving scars time itself could not erase.
Roman’s jaw tightened, the muscle clenching visibly as his forehead furrowed into hard, stern lines.
A deep frown etched itself across his face, his expression hard enough to scald, as if his very features were carved in ice.
His presence filled the room, his silence carrying the weight of judgment.
"What," his voice cut through the quiet, deep and edged like steel, "are you doing here?"
Each word dropped heavy, deliberate, carrying both warning and command.
Abigail only let her smile widen, her eyes glimmering as though she found amusement in his anger.
She took a step closer, her movements slow, deliberate, every sway of her hips echoing with false confidence.
"I’m here to see my dear love," she purred, her tone honeyed, dripping with nostalgia she had no right to claim. "Come, come and sit here, my love."
With a gentle motion, she moved toward the bed, her slender fingers brushing against the satin sheets as she lowered herself onto the edge.
She patted the space beside her, her palm pressing against the fabric with an inviting rhythm, as though beckoning him to reclaim something that had long since turned to ashes.
Roman did not move. Instead, he shifted slightly, his body angling backward in a controlled step.
His leg swung across the doorframe, firm and powerful, and with a swift motion he flung the door shut behind him.
The sound echoed—a final note of separation from the world outside—as though he wanted no witness to the confrontation about to unfold.
He took another step inside, the leather of his shoes striking the polished floor with deliberate force. But then something changed. The air hit him.
A strange scent clung to the room, subtle but sharp, coating his throat and crawling into his lungs.
He inhaled, and his nose scrunched instinctively, his expression twisting in distaste.
It was chemical, unnatural—an odor faint yet undeniable, like the acrid sting of something sprayed into the air.
He dismissed it at first, grimacing faintly, but did not let it show beyond that fleeting reaction.
Still, something about the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavier, colder, wrapping around him with an oppressive weight.
It was as though the walls themselves had absorbed frost, exhaling it back into his skin.
The chill pressed down on him, seeping into his bones, as merciless and biting as the winds atop Mount Everest itself.
His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, their dark depths sharp with suspicion as he leveled his gaze on her.
His voice came again, harsher now, resonant with restrained fury, each syllable vibrating in the stillness like a threat poised to strike.
"Don’t make me ask again," Roman said, his tone low, commanding, heavy with the kind of authority that had once made nations bend. "What are you doing here, Abigail?"
His glare cut across the room, steady and unforgiving, aimed at the woman sitting on the bed with the expression of someone who thought herself gifted the greatest treasure in the world.
But Abigail only tilted her head, her lips curving into that same smile—calm, unbothered, and utterly dangerous.
"Come and sit beside me, love," Abigail’s voice purred, her manicured hand patting the empty space on the bed as if it were a throne meant for him alone.
Her lashes lowered with practiced sweetness, the smile on her lips meant to seduce, to remind him of what she thought they once shared.
But Roman didn’t move. His broad frame remained rooted to the floor, his dark eyes cutting through her performance with glacial contempt.
The more she called him by that name—love—the more he felt his patience thin. It wasn’t endearment to him.
It was poison. A word soured by betrayal, by lies that had once brought him nothing but ruin.
For a fleeting moment, he imagined erasing her existence altogether, erasing the voice that dared call him something so hollow. But he knew he couldn’t—not yet.
Then, suddenly, his balance shifted. His body swayed without warning.
Roman staggered backward, his boots dragging against the polished floor as though his strength had betrayed him.
He blinked hard, trying to focus, but his vision wavered, blurring at the edges.
Abigail’s lips curled into a smile so radiant, so wicked, it was almost grotesque.
She tilted her head, watching with an intoxicating glee as the man who once commanded fear with a glance, the man whose name alone shook people into silence, now struggled to remain upright.
Her smile widened, soft laughter spilling from her as she stepped off the bed with deliberate grace.
The mattress dipped and rose behind her as she used her palms to push herself forward.
The sound of her heels echoed softly as she crossed the distance between them, her movements unhurried, savoring every second of his weakness.
Roman grimaced, his jaw tightening as the weight of his own body seemed to drag him down.
He couldn’t understand it—the unnatural heaviness in his limbs, the way his muscles felt drained as though the very life inside him was leaking away with each breath.
His breathing grew ragged, his chest rising in uneven pulls.
"What is happening to me?" he muttered under his breath, though his voice was still low and commanding, even in weakness.
Abigail’s eyes glittered with amusement. She raised one delicate foot, placing it forward, then the other, her stride calculated.
The click of her heel against the floor was a slow metronome of triumph.
"Come, love," she said in a voice soft as silk, stretching her hand toward him as though offering comfort. "Let me help you."
Her hand, pale and slender, hovered inches from him, but Roman reacted with the ferocity of a caged beast refusing to yield.
He shoved her hand aside, his movements heavy but filled with defiance.
His body swayed again, nearly buckling, yet his arm shot out, fingers spreading until his palm slapped against the wall for support.
The cold wall steadied him just enough. He pressed into it, his breathing harsh. Sweat dampened his brow.
His free hand rose unsteadily, fingers pressing against his temple as though he could massage away the fog clouding his mind.
His thumb and forefinger kneaded slowly, his teeth clenched.
"What the hell is wrong with me?" Roman growled, the frustration in his voice sharper than the weakness weighing him down.
That question was the crack she had been waiting for. Abigail’s lips twitched upward, and then—
Laughter burst from her. Sharp. Gleeful. Mocking.
"Hahaha!" The sound filled the room, bouncing off the walls, thick and cruel.
It was the laughter of someone who had won.
The sound of a predator reveling in the moment its prey faltered.
Roman’s head lifted slowly, his dark eyes narrowing even through the blur.
Fury simmered in his gaze, but his body betrayed him, his strength waning.
And Abigail, seeing that contrast—the mighty Roman fighting to hold his ground—laughed all the harder, her shoulders shaking with the force of her amusement.
"Love," Abigail’s voice dripped with satisfaction, each syllable like honey concealing poison, "soon you won’t be able to resist me. You’ll stop pretending you don’t want my help. You’ll beg me for it."
Her words hung heavy in the room, curling through the air with the same sickly sweetness as the scent Roman could no longer ignore.
She had been about to turn away, her confidence radiant, but then she stopped abruptly.
Something dark flickered across her face before she pivoted, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned back to him. The smirk on her lips widened, reshaping into a look that balanced between taunt and confession.
"I heard you earlier," she said, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut. "You were wondering what’s wrong with you, weren’t you? Then let me tell you."