Chapter 104 This Is My Space I probably needed a good trim. My hair was almost brushing the tops of my breasts now, a length that told me just how long I’d neglected myself. In the mirror, the truth stared back at me. Red-rimmed eyes, smudgy eye bags, lips cracked and dry, cheekbones cutting sharp under sallow skin. I looked like someone who’d crawled out of a gutter. A junkie clutching her fix. The pill. It sat in my open palm, white and tiny. My other hand held a glass of water, beads of condensation slicking my fingers. The decision should have been simple. It had been simple every other time for a while now. But tonight, my hand trembled. I glanced down at my stomach, palm splaying over flat skin as though I could conjure something—life, possibility. What if? What if Roman’s baby was already there? My baby. I let out a humorless laugh at myself. Who was I kidding? Magic didn’t exist. Pills didn’t just stop working because you wanted them to. I’d been on them for years. If I wanted a chance at motherhood, I’d have to stop—like really stop. And that thought alone made my stomach twist with both longing and guilt.I stared back down at the pill. My eyes trailed to the trash can beside my vanity. What if I just… didn’t take it? What if I skipped, accidentally on purpose, and let nature do what it wanted? Would that make me an evil person? A liar? Would Roman look at me with that cold, merciless gaze and never forgive me? Would he walk away and never look back, leaving me with nothing but his child and his absence? Tears pricked the corners of my eyes as I weighed the possible betrayal. I wasn’t evil for wanting what had been snatched away from me. But I would be if I forced it on him. On us. On whatever we are. But on him, especially, because he had made it very clear that he didn’t want children. And if I crossed that line, I'm sure I’d lose him forever. My throat tightened. I lifted the pill and pressed it against my tongue. It tasted chalky, bitter, dissolving slowly. I kept it there, stubborn, eyes locked on my reflection. My chest rose and fell too fast. I thought about spitting it out. I thought about tossing the whole bottle in the trash. My hand hovered at my lips, the glass of water waiting. I closed my eyes. What am I even doing? I asked myself. It's just been a few weeks. We both can't be that fertile, can we? With a shaky breath, I tipped the glass and forced the pill down, gulping water until my throat burned. The bitterness lingered on my tongue. I splashed cold water over my face, rinsing away the tears I didn’t want to admit were there. I made a silent note to schedule an appointment with my gynecologist soon. I needed to make sure my body hadn’t betrayed Roman in ways he wasn’t ready for. When I pushed open the bathroom door, I was hit by him before I even saw him. His cologne—smoky, sharp, undeniably Roman—filled the air. I had almost forgotten he was here. “Get your felon ass off my bed, Roman.” My voice cracked with anger as I stepped into the room. “Else I’ll murder you myself.” He propped himself up on one elbow, a smirk painted across his face. “Felon? That’s a new one. I didn’t know I had so many nicknames.” “Would you prefer killer? Murderer? Vigilante? Assassin? Criminal? Take your pick, buddy. There's plenty to choose from.” “Fiancé.” The word rolled off his tongue smugly, like he’d won something. “Why can't I ever be rid of you?” I groaned. “Because I won't let you.” I muttered under my breath, “Assassin.”“I heard that.” “I hoped you would.” My gaze fell to the floor, and my chest tightened. My stuffed animals—eight of them—scattered across the carpet like discarded trash. Roman had flung them again, just like he always did. He hated them on the bed. Constantly said they got in his way, and he never had a problem tossing them aside without a thought. Normally, I would’ve teased him, laughed at his childishness. But tonight? Tonight, it wasn’t funny. Tonight, it felt cruel. Mean. It felt like an attack. I sank to my knees, gathering them in my arms one by one. “Don’t do that, Roman.” My voice was so small I barely recognized it. “That’s not a nice thing to do. You’re being an asshole.” “I hate those things.” He groaned from the bed. “Can’t you just burn them or something? They take up way too much space.” Tears clouded my vision so suddenly it startled me. They fell, hot and fast, splattering onto the soft fur of the toys. My shoulders shook. And then the sobs came, tearing out of me without warning, raw and broken. I clutched the stuffed animals tighter, curling around them like they were the only thing holding me to the earth.“Sav?” Roman’s voice was sharp now, alarmed. The mattress dipped as he launched off the bed and crouched beside me. “Jesus Christ, what’s going on? Did I—did I do this?” I shoved him away with trembling hands, scooting back on my knees. “Leave me alone! This is all your fault!” My words broke into jagged pieces between sobs. His mouth opened, shut. He looked at the toys in my arms, then at me, confusion and dawning horror flickering across his face. “I’m sorry, Sav.” He reached for me, hesitated when I flinched. “I didn’t know—I didn’t think—” “Don’t come close, Roman.” My voice cracked. “I didn’t know they mattered this much,” he said desperately. His hands shook where they hovered in the air, useless. “We used to laugh about it. I thought—I thought you didn’t care.” “They matter,” I whispered fiercely, wiping at my tears with the back of my sleeve. “They matter because they’re mine. Because this is my space, my bed, my home. You don’t get to throw my things around like they’re garbage. There's a reason why they're there. I don’t toss your things on the floor when I’m at your place, do I?” Something broke in him then. I saw it in the way his chest rose sharp, the way guilt hollowed his eyes. “Fuck.” He raked a hand through his hair, cursing again under his breath. “Sav… I’m so sorry. I swear I’m sorry.” This time, he didn’t just say it. He moved. Roman bent down and picked up the stuffed animals from where they’d fallen. One by one, with a care I’d never seen from him towards anything other than me, he brushed off invisible dust and set them back on the bed. He straightened the covers, arranged them neatly against the pillows as if each one deserved reverence. And he did it in silence, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, like a man begging forgiveness with his hands instead of words. Watching him made my throat ache. Made my tears fall harder, softer. He looked out of place handling something so gentle, but he did it anyway. He did it for me. And suddenly, I felt embarrassed for crying earlier like a toddler whose Barbie doll was broken. When he finally turned back to me, his voice was ragged. “Are they… Emily’s?” He asked carefully, like he was stepping on shards of glass. I shook my head. My voice trembled. “No. They’re my child’s. One for every year since I lost him or her. That’s why there are eight of them.” The silence that followed was suffocating. Roman’s face went pale, his mouth opening but nothing coming out. Then, with a harsh exhale, he muttered, “Fuck. Sav… I had no idea.”I didn’t answer. I couldn’t say anything. He scrubbed both hands over his face, then let them fall uselessly to his sides. “I’m an asshole. A fucking asshole. I should’ve known. I should’ve asked.” His voice cracked, breaking past the steel I was used to. “Will you forgive me?” I turned away, crawling onto the bed. My voice was hoarse when I whispered, “You didn’t know. There’s nothing to forgive.” Still, he followed, climbing in after me without hesitation. He pulled me against his chest, arms circling me like a cage and a shelter at once. “I made you cry. I don’t ever want to do that again.” His lips pressed against my hair, forehead, the bridge of my nose in frantic kisses, as if they could erase what he’d done. I let him hold me. His hand stroked my back, up and down, steady and soothing. And somewhere in the quiet, my tears slowed. I was exhausted, drained, raw. There were so many questions I wanted to ask Roman. So many things I wanted to know. About his father, brothers, stepmother, family, past—everything that I was curious about. But I didn't know what to do. Fear.Fear of him shutting me out. Fear of him being unexpectedly transparent and honest and actually end up revealing something I'd regret knowing. A truth that'd make me regret asking the question in the first place. But now in this calmness between us, I itched to ask that question. I wanted to find out. But I also didn't want to ruin the moment. But questions still burned at the edges of my mind. They always did. About him. About his past. About what secrets he carried. But there was one question that stood out the most. There was one question that has been on my mind ever since I saw the news of Kingston’s death yesterday. And maybe it was born out of curiosity, morbidity. Or even trauma. “Savannah,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look into my eyes. “What’s bothering you?” “Nothing,” I lied. The word was too smooth. “That’s a lie.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, then kissed my forehead again. “Spit it out.” My chest tightened. I swallowed. “How did Professor Kingston die?” I braced for him to freeze. To shut me out. To snap at me for prying. But Roman didn’t. His fingers slipped deeper into my hair, massaging my scalp, sending shivers down my spine. I relaxed against him despite the slight unease, a soft moan escaping before I could bite it back. His voice was low, even, chilling. “Castration.” My breath hitched. My entire body went cold. The word sank into me like a blade, heavy and sharp, and I couldn’t move. I couldn't think. Only one thought echoed in my mind… What the hell kind of man have I tied myself to?