Roman did not move.
For several seconds, the room seemed to shrink around us.
The enormous bedroom, the carved fireplace, the black velvet curtains, the crystal lamps glowing against dark wood—everything disappeared beneath the weight of that single name.
Grant.
Roman's eyes returned to the scar near my shoulder.
It was different from the others.
Most of the marks crossing my back had faded into pale lines or uneven patches, but that one remained darker, almost circular, with a narrow slash through the middle.
Roman knew it.
I could see recognition settling into his face.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
He stepped closer.
"Turn around."
I remained facing him.
"No."
His jaw tightened.
Only hours earlier, Roman Caruso had stood before an altar and quietly threatened me while two hundred people applauded.
He had expected obedience tonight.
Instead, I reached for my dress where it had fallen across the carpet.
Roman caught my wrist.
I looked down at his hand.
He released me immediately.
That surprised both of us.
"Who made that mark?" he asked.
"I already told you."
"Grant gave you the others?"
"Some."
The word escaped before I could stop it.
Roman's eyes sharpened.
"Some?"
I lifted the dress against myself.
"This conversation is finished."
"No, Evelyn."
His voice became very quiet.
"This conversation has just started."
I almost laughed.
Men like Roman always believed conversations began when they became interested.
They rarely noticed how long women had been surviving before they arrived.
I moved toward the bathroom.
Roman stepped into my path.
"What does that mark mean?"
I stared at him.
"Ask my brother."
"I am asking you."
"And I'm declining."
Something flickered across his expression.
He wasn't accustomed to being refused.
Especially not by someone who technically belonged to him under an agreement signed by two families.
I had read every page of that agreement.
Grant had expected me to cry.
Instead, I'd asked for a pen.
Roman studied me for another moment, then looked again toward my shoulder.
"My brother had the same scar."
My hand tightened around the dress.
There it was.
The reason he recognized it.
I said nothing.
Roman continued.
"Lucian came home with it six months before he died."
Lucian Caruso.
I knew the name.
Everyone in New York's shipping circles knew it.
Roman's older brother had been their father's heir before Roman became the man everyone feared.
Lucian had supposedly been charming where Roman was cold, diplomatic where Roman was ruthless.
Then my father's men attacked a convoy carrying Lucian through Brooklyn.
Three men died.
Lucian survived the first night.
He died the next morning.
At least, that was the story.
Roman moved toward me until only a few feet remained between us.
"When I asked him about the mark, he wouldn't answer."
I felt the room tilt beneath me.
Roman noticed.
This time, he didn't touch me.
"You know something."
"No."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I've successfully lied to you all day."
"Not about this."
I looked at him.
His face had become unreadable again, but there was something underneath the control now.
Not rage.
Fear.
That was more dangerous.
Roman Caruso was afraid of whatever connected my scar to his dead brother.
I walked past him.
This time he let me.
Inside the bathroom, I locked the door.
Then I leaned against it and closed my eyes.
My hands were shaking.
Not because of Roman.
Because Lucian had apparently never told him.
I had always assumed he had.
For three years, I'd believed Roman Caruso knew.
That changed everything.
A knock sounded behind me.
"Evelyn."
"I need ten minutes."
Silence.
Then Roman's voice came through the door.
"You have five."
Despite everything, I smiled.
I changed into the silk robe waiting on the vanity, stared at my reflection, and counted backward until my breathing slowed.
When I opened the door, Roman was standing beside the windows with his back toward me.
His tie was gone.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
The transformation was unsettling.
At the cathedral, he'd looked like a king accepting tribute.
Now he looked like a man preparing for war.
He turned.
"Sit."
"No."
"Do you ever obey anyone?"
"Not voluntarily."
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then he gestured toward the armchair anyway.
I remained standing.
Roman exhaled slowly.
"Fine."
He crossed the room and poured whiskey into a glass.
"Tell me about the scar."
"I can't."
"Can't?"
"Won't."
"Why?"
"Because information is the only thing I've ever owned."
He stared at me over the rim of the glass.
That answer, at least, he understood.
Roman set the drink down without touching it.
"Grant tortured you."
I looked toward the fireplace.
"He called it discipline."
"For what?"
"Depends which year you're asking about."
Roman went still again.
There are moments when fury announces itself loudly.
Shattered glasses.
Raised voices.
Threats.
Roman's anger did none of those things.
It became quieter.
Colder.
More precise.
"How old were you?"
"Sometimes sixteen."
His expression didn't change.
"Sometimes younger."
Still nothing.
But the muscles in his forearm tightened.
I continued because stopping would have made the words heavier.
"After Mother died, Father was rarely home.
Grant discovered he liked controlling things.
Servants.
Drivers.
Accountants.
Me."
"And Arthur allowed it?"
I looked at him.
"My father cared about appearances."
Roman understood immediately.
Arthur Mercer had been many things—brilliant, vicious, ambitious—but tenderness had never been among them.
"Why didn't you leave?"
"I did."
Roman's gaze snapped to mine.
"Twice."
"What happened?"
"Grant found me twice."
Roman turned toward the window.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then, without looking at me, he asked, "Did he ever—"
"No."
The question remained unfinished between us.
Roman nodded once.
I was grateful he didn't make me explain.
"Who else knows?" he asked.
"About the scars?"
"Everything."
"No one."
"Doctors?"
"Paid."
"Servants?"
"Dismissed."
"Your father?"
"Indifferent."
Roman finally looked at me again.
"And Lucian?"
There it was.
I walked to the fireplace and held my hands toward the flames even though I wasn't cold.
"Lucian knew some of it."
Roman's face hardened.
"How?"
I looked into the fire.
"Because he found me."
The words changed the room.
Roman took one step forward.
"Where?"
"Three years ago."
"When?"
"Six months before his death."
Roman's breathing stopped.
I had wondered for years whether this moment would ever come.
I had imagined telling him beneath very different circumstances.
Perhaps with a gun aimed at me.
Perhaps while he ordered someone to throw me into the harbor.
I had never imagined telling him while wearing his wedding ring.
"Your brother wasn't supposed to be in Westchester that night," I said.
"He'd come to meet my father privately."
Roman's eyes narrowed.
"My father and yours weren't supposed to know."
"Know what?"
"That Lucian and I knew each other."
Roman stared at me.
And for the first time since meeting him, I saw him lose control completely.
"What?"
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
"Lucian found me near the old greenhouse after Grant had…"
I stopped.
Roman didn't push.
"He helped me."
"How?"
"He called a doctor he trusted.
Hid me somewhere Grant couldn't reach.
For four days."
Roman looked as though I'd struck him.
"Lucian never told me."
"I asked him not to."
"Why?"
"Because he told me what you would do."
Roman's eyes darkened.
"What did he say?"
I remembered Lucian laughing softly despite the bruises on his face from a fight he'd refused to explain.
Your brother scares everyone, Evelyn.
Even people he likes.
I answered carefully.
"He said you had a tendency to solve problems permanently."
Roman didn't deny it.
Instead he asked, "And the mark?"
My fingers touched my shoulder unconsciously.
"Lucian had uncovered something involving Grant.
Something bigger than the abuse."
"What?"
"I never learned all of it."
Roman's patience finally cracked.
"Evelyn."
"I'm telling you the truth."
He walked toward me.
"Lucian died because of your family."
"Yes."
"My men recovered him bleeding out from an ambush ordered by your father."
"That's what Grant told you."
Roman stopped.
The fire snapped loudly behind me.
"What did you say?"
I turned.
"That's what Grant told everyone."
Roman stared at me.
I could almost hear his mind rearranging three years of memories.
"Arthur ordered the attack."
"Perhaps."
"You think he didn't?"
"I think my father gave plenty of orders.
I also think Grant became very skilled at putting Father's name beneath his own decisions."
Roman's face became stone.
"You have proof?"
"No."
"Then what do you have?"
"A memory."
His eyes narrowed.
"The night before Lucian died, he came to me."
Roman's face changed again.
"He was injured?"
"No."
"Frightened?"
"Lucian wasn't frightened easily."
"Then what?"
I remembered the rain striking my bedroom windows.
Lucian standing beside them.
His coat dripping onto the carpet.
His expression unlike anything I'd seen before.
"He was angry."
"About Grant?"
"Yes."
"What had Grant done?"
"I don't know.
Lucian wouldn't tell me."
Roman swore under his breath.
"But he gave me something," I said.
Roman looked up.
"What?"
"A key."
He waited.
I said nothing more.
His voice dropped.
"Where is it?"
"Safe."
"Evelyn."
"You married me to punish my family.
You don't get to become my confidant because you discovered I'm more damaged than you expected."
His expression hardened.
"Don't call yourself damaged."
The response came so quickly I actually blinked.
Roman seemed equally surprised.
Then his face closed again.
He turned away.
"I need the key."
"No."
"It may explain why my brother died."
"And it may be the only reason I'm still alive."
Roman stared at me.
"Grant knows you have it?"
"I don't know."
"Does he suspect?"
"Probably."
"Then why give you to me?"
That was the question.
The one I'd been asking since Grant announced my marriage.
I met Roman's gaze.
"I thought it was because he believed you'd hurt me."
Roman's mouth tightened.
"And now?"
"Now I think he wanted me somewhere he could watch."
"Inside my house?"
"Maybe he wanted the key inside your house."
Roman's gaze sharpened.
Before either of us could speak again, someone knocked on the bedroom door.
Three precise knocks.
Roman's entire body changed.
He reached for the gun beneath his discarded jacket before crossing the room.
"Who?"
"Matteo."
Roman opened the door slightly.
His consigliere stood outside.
Matteo Vieri was a compact man in his forties with silver beginning at his temples and eyes that missed nothing.
His gaze flicked once toward me.
Then back to Roman.
"We have a problem."
Roman stepped into the hallway.
I couldn't hear everything.
Only fragments.
"…camera…"
"…east corridor…"
"…Grant Mercer…"
Then Roman looked back at me.
His expression made my stomach tighten.
"Stay here."
I almost laughed.
Instead, I waited until Roman and Matteo disappeared downstairs.
Then I counted to thirty.
And followed them.
The mansion was unfamiliar, but wealthy houses share a certain logic.
Main staircases are for guests.
Back corridors are for people who know secrets.
I found the servants' stairs beside the linen room and descended quietly.
Voices carried from below.
Roman.
Matteo.
Another man.
I stopped before the kitchen entrance.
"…footage shows Mercer leaving the ballroom at eleven twelve," Matteo was saying.
"When did he return?"
"Eleven twenty-six."
"Fourteen minutes."
"Yes."
"Where did he go?"
"East wing."
I leaned closer.
"Which room?"
Matteo hesitated.
"Your father's old office."
Silence.
Roman's voice became lethal.
"How?"
"The lock wasn't forced."
"Then someone opened it."
Another pause.
"We think so."
I moved closer.
A floorboard creaked beneath my foot.
The conversation stopped.
I froze.
Then Roman said, "You may as well come in, wife."
I stepped around the doorway.
Matteo looked unimpressed.
Roman looked furious.
"You don't follow instructions well."
"I've heard."
"Go upstairs."
"No."
Roman glanced at Matteo.
Matteo suddenly became fascinated by the opposite wall.
Roman approached me.
"Grant entered a secure part of this house tonight."
"Then I'm not going upstairs alone."
His eyes held mine.
Fair point.
He turned.
"Matteo, lock the estate."
The other man nodded.
"No vehicles leave.
No employees leave.
Check every camera from eleven onward."
"What about Mercer?"
"Already gone."
I frowned.
Roman noticed.
"Your brother left twenty minutes ago."
"Without saying goodbye?"
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm suspicious."
"So am I."
Matteo left.
Roman motioned for me to follow.
We moved through the mansion toward the east wing.
The corridors grew darker and quieter as we walked.
Finally, Roman stopped before a set of double doors.
"My father used this office."
"Used?"
"He died two years ago."
"I know."
Roman looked at me.
"Of course you do."
He unlocked the door.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of leather and old tobacco.
Books covered the walls.
A massive desk stood beneath a portrait of Roman's father.
Roman switched on the lamp.
Nothing appeared disturbed.
He checked the drawers.
Locked.
The safe.
Locked.
The windows.
Secured.
"Why would Grant come here?"
I asked.
Roman looked toward a shelf behind the desk.
"I don't know."
Then I saw it.
A small object resting beside an antique globe.
Silver.
Circular.
My heart stopped.
Roman followed my gaze.
He crossed the room and picked it up.
A cuff link.
Engraved with an M.
"Grant's?" he asked.
"No."
Roman looked at me.
"My father's."
Arthur Mercer had worn those cuff links almost every day for twenty years.
After his death, Grant inherited them.
But I hadn't seen them since the funeral.
Roman turned the cuff link over.
Something was scratched into the metal.
Three numbers.
My blood went cold.
Roman noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You know what that means."
I didn't answer.
Roman stepped closer.
"What is 417?"
I stared at the cuff link.
Lucian's voice echoed through my memory.
If anything happens to me, don't trust your father.
Don't trust Grant.
And don't trust Roman until you know what happened in room 417.
I had spent three years trying to understand those words.
Now the number was sitting inside Roman's father's office.
"Hotel room?"
Roman asked.
"No."
"Warehouse?"
"I don't know."
"Then why do you look terrified?"
Because Lucian's final warning had just risen from the dead.
Before I could answer, Roman's phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
Unknown number.
He answered.
"Caruso."
Nothing.
Roman frowned.
Then his expression changed.
He pressed the speaker button.
Static filled the office.
A man's breathing.
Then a distorted voice.
"Congratulations on the wedding."
Roman looked at me.
"Who is this?"
The voice ignored him.
"Did Evelyn show you her scars?"
My stomach dropped.
Roman's face emptied of emotion.
"Where is Grant?"
A quiet laugh came through the phone.
"You still think Grant is the dangerous Mercer."
Roman grabbed the edge of the desk.
"Who are you?"
"Ask your wife about Lucian."
Roman looked at me.
The voice continued.
"Ask her what your brother really found before he died."
The call ended.
Roman immediately dialed Matteo.
"Trace it."
A pause.
"I don't care.
Find it."
He disconnected.
Then he looked at me.
"Talk."
"I told you everything I know."
"No."
He pointed to the cuff link.
"You recognized that number."
I stayed silent.
Roman stepped toward me.
"You want me to trust you?"
"I never asked for your trust."
"Then what do you want?"
The answer escaped before caution could stop it.
"Freedom."
Roman stared at me.
Something complicated moved across his face.
"You think I would stop you from leaving?"
"You bought me."
"I married you."
"Against my will."
His jaw clenched.
"Against mine too."
I laughed once.
"Did Grant drag you to the altar?"
"No."
"Then spare me."
Roman turned away sharply.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
"If you want to leave this house tomorrow, you can."
I stared at him.
He didn't turn.
"No guards will stop you.
No driver will follow you.
No one will bring you back."
"Why?"
Roman finally faced me.
"Because I wanted Arthur Mercer's daughter."
His gaze dropped briefly toward the scars hidden beneath my robe.
"And apparently that woman never existed."
The words hurt more than they should have.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they weren't.
Roman walked toward the door.
I stopped him.
"Room 417."
He froze.
"Lucian mentioned it."
Roman turned slowly.
"When?"
"The night before he died."
"What exactly did he say?"
I swallowed.
"He said not to trust Grant."
Roman waited.
"He said not to trust my father."
"And?"
There was no avoiding it.
"He told me not to trust you."
Roman's face became unreadable.
"Why?"
"He said I needed to find out what happened in room 417 first."
Roman went silent.
Then, strangely, he laughed.
It was a cold sound.
"Lucian trusted me with his life."
"Maybe that's why he's dead."
The words landed between us.
Roman's eyes became dangerous.
I didn't retreat.
Then Matteo appeared in the doorway.
His expression was grim.
"We found something."
Roman turned.
"What?"
"The caller used an encrypted relay.
It'll take time."
"And Grant?"
"Gone."
Roman's jaw tightened.
"But that's not the problem."
Matteo looked at me.
"Mrs.
Caruso's room at the Mercer estate was searched tonight."
My heart stopped.
"When?"
"During the wedding."
Roman looked at me.
"What was there?"
I said nothing.
His eyes narrowed.
"The key?"
"No."
That was true.
"What, then?"
I walked toward the desk.
"The only photograph I had of Lucian."
Roman went still.
Matteo looked between us.
"There was something else," he said.
Roman turned toward him.
"A package arrived at the gate ten minutes ago."
"For whom?"
Matteo hesitated.
"Her."
He handed me a black envelope.
My married name had been written across the front.
EVELYN CARUSO.
No return address.
Roman reached for it.
I pulled it away.
"It's mine."
"It arrived at my house."
"My name is on it."
"Our name."
"Don't become sentimental now."
Something almost amused passed through his eyes.
Then vanished.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
For a moment, I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Then my knees weakened.
Roman caught my arm.
The photograph had been taken through a window.
A man stood inside what appeared to be a small apartment.
Older.
Thinner.
A beard covered his jaw.
But I knew him.
I would have known him after fifty years.
Roman took the picture from my hand.
His fingers began to shake.
On the back, someone had written two lines.
ROOM 417 WASN'T WHERE LUCIAN DIED.
IT'S WHERE HE DISAPPEARED.
Roman stared at the photograph.
The color drained from his face.
"No."
The word barely existed.
Matteo stepped closer.
"What is it?"
Roman didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Because the dead man in the photograph was Lucian Caruso.
Alive.
The image was dated three days ago.
Roman lowered himself slowly into his father's chair.
I had never seen a powerful man look so helpless.
For years he had built his empire around the belief that my family murdered his brother.
Every warehouse burned.
Every man buried.
Every threat.
Every act of revenge.
Everything had begun with Lucian's death.
Except Lucian wasn't dead.
Matteo picked up the photograph.
"This could be fake."
"It's not," I whispered.
Roman looked at me.
"How do you know?"
I pointed toward Lucian's wrist.
A thin black cord was visible beneath his sleeve.
I had tied it there myself three years earlier.
After Lucian found me bleeding beside the greenhouse, he'd stayed awake all night while the doctor stitched the wound beneath my shoulder.
I'd been terrified Grant would find us.
Lucian had given me his knife.
I'd given him the braided cord I wore around my wrist.
"For luck," I'd told him.
He'd laughed.
"I don't believe in luck."
"Neither do I."
"Then why wear it?"
"Because sometimes pretending helps."
He'd tied it around his wrist anyway.
Roman stared at the picture.
His voice was almost inaudible.
"Where was this taken?"
There was an address printed beneath the timestamp.
Roman read it.
Then stopped.
Matteo swore.
I looked between them.
"What?"
Roman raised his eyes.
"That building belongs to Grant."
Cold spread through me.
Roman stood abruptly.
"We're going now."
Matteo blocked him.
"This could be a trap."
"It is."
"Then we don't walk into it blind."
"My brother is alive."
"Maybe."
Roman's hand curled into a fist.
Matteo didn't move.
"Roman.
Think."
For a moment, I thought Roman might hit him.
Then Roman looked at the photograph again.
His breathing slowed.
Control returned.
"Call eight men."
"Four."
"Eight."
"Four attracts less attention."
Roman glared at him.
"Six."
Matteo nodded.
"Six."
He left.
Roman reached for his jacket.
I moved toward the door.
"No."
I looked back.
Roman was watching me.
"You're staying here."
I smiled.
"Absolutely not."
"This has nothing to do with you."
I stared at him.
"Your supposedly dead brother sent me a warning about room 417 before someone tried to erase him from history, my brother owns the building where he may be imprisoned, and I just received his photograph on my wedding night."
Roman opened his mouth.
I lifted a hand.
"Try again."
His eyes narrowed.
For several seconds, we simply stared at each other.
Then he handed me his jacket.
"Put this on."
I blinked.
"Why?"
"Because you're wearing a robe."
I looked down.
I'd forgotten.
Ten minutes later, I was dressed in black trousers, a sweater borrowed from one of Roman's staff, and shoes without heels.
Roman glanced at them.
"Better shoes."
"I told you they were the problem."
His stare suggested he hadn't forgotten my earlier lie.
We left through the underground garage.
Three black vehicles waited.
Roman opened the rear door of the middle one.
Before I got inside, I saw movement near the far end of the garage.
A figure.
Just for a second.
Then gone.
"Roman."
He turned.
"What?"
"I saw someone."
Immediately, men spread through the garage.
Matteo appeared beside us.
"Where?"
I pointed toward the service corridor.
Two guards disappeared into it.
Seconds later, one shouted.
Roman drew his gun.
The guards returned dragging a man between them.
My heart stopped.
He wore the uniform of Roman's security staff.
Blood ran from his lip.
"I found him trying to access the west exit," one guard said.
Roman approached.
"Name."
The man said nothing.
Roman looked at Matteo.
Matteo searched him.
A phone.
A wallet.
And a small silver key.
My key.
The one Lucian had given me three years ago.
For one impossible second, no one moved.
Roman turned toward me.
"You said it was safe."
"It was."
"Where?"
I stared at the key.
"Inside my father's coffin."
Even Roman looked shocked.
I'd placed it beneath Arthur Mercer's folded hands during the private viewing.
It was the one place Grant could never search without exposing himself.
At least, that was what I'd believed.
Roman looked at the security guard.
"Who gave you this?"
The man smiled through bloody teeth.
"Your brother."
Roman froze.
"My brother?"
The man laughed.
"You're all still playing his game."
Matteo grabbed him by the collar.
"Lucian Caruso is dead."
"No."
The guard looked directly at Roman.
"Lucian Caruso has been waiting for this wedding for three years."
The garage went silent.
Then he turned toward me.
"And he said to tell Evelyn something."
I couldn't breathe.
Roman's voice became deadly.
"What?"
The guard smiled.
"He said she kept her promise."
My pulse roared in my ears.
Only Lucian would know those words.
Roman looked at me.
"What promise?"
I couldn't answer.
Because suddenly I remembered the final thing Lucian had asked of me the night before his supposed death.
If my brother ever comes for you, Evelyn, marry him.
I'd thought he was joking.
I'd called him insane.
Lucian hadn't smiled.
Promise me.
And because I trusted him more than anyone I'd ever known, I'd promised.
Roman stared at my face.
Understanding began to dawn.
His expression turned colder with every second.
"What did you promise my brother?"
Before I could speak, the guard moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
A sharp crack echoed through the garage.
The lights went out.
Someone screamed.
Gunfire erupted in the darkness.
Roman grabbed me and pulled me behind the armored car.
Glass shattered.
Men shouted.
Then came silence.
Emergency lights flickered red overhead.
The captured guard was gone.
One of Roman's men lay unconscious beside the service corridor.
The silver key had vanished with him.
Matteo swore and ordered the exits sealed.
Roman barely seemed to hear.
He was staring at me.
The red emergency lights cut shadows across his face.
"What promise, Evelyn?"
I slowly stood.
There was no point lying anymore.
"I promised Lucian that if you ever asked me to marry you…"
Roman's eyes locked onto mine.
"…I would say yes."
Silence.
Roman looked as though the floor had vanished beneath him.
Our marriage had not been Grant's victory.
It had not been Roman's revenge.
It had been Lucian's plan.
Three years in the making.
Roman whispered, "Why?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know."
Then my borrowed phone vibrated inside my pocket.
One message.
Unknown sender.
Roman watched me open it.
There were only seven words.
DON'T GO TO THE ADDRESS.
HE KNOWS.
A second message appeared before I could breathe.
COME TO ROOM 417 ALONE, EVELYN.
And then a photograph loaded.
Not Lucian.
Grant.
He was tied to a chair, blood running from his temple.
Behind him stood a man whose face was hidden in shadow.
But the hand resting on Grant's shoulder wore our father's signet ring.
Arthur Mercer's ring.
The ring buried with him three years ago.
At the bottom of the image was one final message.
YOUR FATHER WOULD LIKE TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING.
…If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thanh Thanh
