Chapter 143 Under His Control Roman was still standing, one hand on the counter, his face lit by the kitchen light. He looked drained — pale beneath the bruised shadows under his eyes. I didn’t know what made me say it. Maybe the tension. Maybe the need to pull my mind away from the mess we’d just uncovered about his family. Maybe because I didn't want it to get swept away from my memory. “I need your help with something,” I said quietly. Roman’s head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing with quiet caution. “With what?” “Dean,” I said. The name came out smaller than I intended, like it didn’t want to exist in this space — between us, in this kitchen, in this fragile moment where peace felt borrowed. Roman’s body went still. Completely still. His hand on the counter clenched, knuckles whitening. “Savannah…” “I know what you’re thinking,” I cut in quickly. “But he didn’t do it, Roman. He didn’t hurt Chloe. He didn’t take her. He didn’t do all those things. He’s being framed. I know it.” Roman turned to me slowly, disbelief flickering in his eyes. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe—” “I do,” I said firmly. “I’m not asking you to help me prove he’s innocent. I'm asking you to help me prove that my hunch is right.” He stared at me like I’d spoken a language he couldn’t understand. “Sav, you don’t know what you’re asking. That man—” “That man,” I interrupted, “connived to ruin my life. I know. He made mistakes, yes, but not this. He wouldn’t touch Chloe. He loved her.” Roman’s jaw flexed, anger flashing briefly before fading into something more complicated. “He’s your ex, Savannah. Every time he comes up, chaos follows. You nearly lost your mind because of him. You can’t keep cleaning up his messes.” “This isn’t about him,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “This is about my sister. She’s missing, scared, and someone is being framed for that. If we can clear Dean, we might be able to find her too. Or find out what's going on.” Roman looked at me for a long, quiet moment, the muscle in his jaw tightening again and again like he was fighting himself. “I just don’t think helping him is a smart move right now,” he said finally. “Not with everything else happening. Not with my father, not with your mother, not with—” “Please,” I whispered. The word came out trembling. Too soft. Too desperate. He looked up then—really looked. Whatever argument he was about to make fell apart at the sight of me. His shoulders slumped slightly, his breath leaving in a quiet exhale. “Savannah…” “Please, Roman,” I said again, stepping closer. “You don’t have to trust him. Just trust me. If there’s even a small chance he’s innocent, I can’t live with myself if I don’t try.” The silence that followed felt endless. He looked down at the floor, hands braced against the counter, his head bowed. Then slowly, finally, he nodded once. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll help. Just let me know what you need me to do.” Relief hit me so hard I almost swayed. “Thank you,” I whispered. He glanced up, his eyes glassy, his skin pale. And that’s when I noticed it—the faint flush creeping up his neck, the sheen of sweat forming along his hairline.“Roman?” I reached up to touch his forehead. The heat startled me. “You’re burning up.” “I’m fine,” he said, brushing my hand away. “No, you’re not.” I could feel panic bubbling in my throat. “You’re running a fever. Where’s the medicine cabinet? I’ll get it.” “Sav—” “Don’t argue with me,” I said, already turning toward the cabinets. I didn’t even know what I was looking for—aspirin, antibiotics, anything. “When was the last time you ate? When was the last time you rested?” “I don’t want the medicine,” he said, voice firm now. That stopped me cold. I turned to him. “You what?” He was leaning against the counter, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but there was something almost soft in his expression. “I don’t want them,” he repeated. “Then what do you want, Roman?” I asked, exasperation laced with worry. He looked at me then, really looked, and said quietly, “I just want something to eat. And then I want you to hold me tonight. I want to sleep beside you, Savannah.” My heart skipped a beat. I stared at him, stunned, caught off guard by the simplicity of the request—by the quiet vulnerability in it. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t ask for words. Just warmth. I swallowed hard, nodding slowly. “Okay,” I whispered. “Food first.” I turned back to the stove, lighting the burner again. My hands trembled a little as I stirred the pot I’d left earlier. The silence between us wasn’t heavy anymore, just… full. He sat behind me, watching quietly, the faint sound of his breathing grounding me more than the rhythmic bubbling of the pot. When I set the bowl before him, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up the spoon and started eating — slow, deliberate bites, as though each one cost him effort. I watched him from across the table, the fever making his cheeks slightly flushed. After a while, he set the spoon down, his voice soft. “That was good.” “Do you want more?” He shook his head. “I’ll go brush.” I nodded. “Okay.”He stood, steadying himself against the table for a second before heading out. The sound of running water from the bathroom filled the quiet house. I cleaned up absentmindedly, stacking dishes in the sink, wiping the counter even though it was already spotless. When he came back, his hair was damp, the tiredness still etched into his face but softened now. He didn’t say a word — just took my hand and led me down the hallway. The bedroom felt different tonight. Warmer. Like it remembered what peace used to feel like. The bed was neatly made, it almost looked untouched since our fight. I hesitated at the edge, but Roman tugged me gently toward it. We slipped under the covers, facing each other. Then, wordlessly, he pulled me close. His head rested against my chest, his arm around my waist, fingers curled possessively against my hip. I felt his heartbeat against my ribs, steady but a little weak. My hand found its way to his hair again, tracing slow, soothing patterns through the dark strands. We didn’t talk for a while. It was just breathing—his, mine—weaving together in quiet sync. Then, softly, he broke the silence. “I wish you’d met my mother.”I looked down at him. “You’ve never really talked about her before.” He smiled faintly, his eyes distant. “She was kind. Very beautiful. When she was alive, I used to tell everyone that she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She was the kind of person who made you feel like home existed in people, not places. You would have liked her.” The thought made me smile. “And she would have liked me?” He lifted his head slightly, enough to meet my eyes. “She would’ve loved you.” Something warm unfurled in my chest—a small ache, but a good one. “That’s sweet,” I murmured. Roman’s gaze softened. “She deserved to meet you.” I brushed a hand over his temple, my thumb tracing the faint lines of exhaustion there. “Did Dahlia ever meet her?” I asked quietly. I was curious to know if his late wife was his childhood sweetheart or something. I wanted to know if they grew up together. Or if they met at high society events. I was also curious to find out how Cassandra fit into all this. Most probably, he'd dated Cassandra before marrying Dahlia, right? He hesitated. “No.” “Why not?” He exhaled slowly, laying his head back down. “Because by the time I met Dahlia, my mother was already gone.” Oh. That explains it. How sad. Losing one important person only to fall in love, then get betrayed, then finally lose someone important. All over again. “But my father… he met her.” That made me pause. “Your father?” That's true. It'd slipped my mind that he most definitely met her. He nodded slightly, eyes closed. “He approved of her. Said she was perfect for the family.” Something in my stomach shifted — a small, instinctive twist. I didn’t know why that sounded wrong in my ears, but it did. “And what did Dahlia think of him?” I asked, carefully. He hesitated again, then sighed. “She wasn’t too fond of him. Said he made her nervous. Sometimes she’d avoid meals if he was around. She’d have breakfast or dinner in our room just to avoid sitting at the same table with him.” He shook his head. “Just the usual reaction people have when they meet him.” My hand stopped moving in his hair but Roman didn’t notice. He kept talking, voice soft, fading with tiredness. But my mind was already racing. Avoiding meals. Nervous around him. Pregnant. The pieces started to move. It was all coming together. “Roman,” I said slowly, “where did you and Dahlia live after you got married?” He hummed lightly, eyes half closed. “At the manor. My father insisted. Said family should stay close during trying times.” My breath caught. “The Blackwood Manor?” “Mhm.” I froze. The pieces clicked. One after another. His mother—pregnant late in life. Died during childbirth. Dahlia—pregnant. Died too. Both under Reginald Blackwood’s roof. Both under his control. And Emily… Emily only survived because he didn’t know. He hadn’t known that his son had gotten my sister pregnant. He hadn’t known the child existed until it was too late to do anything about it.My throat felt dry. I could barely breathe. There was no curse. It wasn’t something supernatural destroying the Blackwoods. It was him. Reginald Blackwood. The great General. The perfect widower. The man the world adored. He wasn’t cursed. He was cursing his own blood. I looked down at Roman, fast asleep now against my chest, completely unaware of what I’d just uncovered. His fevered skin pressed against me, burning hot. I held him tighter, not because he needed comfort, but because I needed to keep myself from shaking. Because now, I finally understood. The Blackwoods weren't cursed. It was one man. Reginald Blackwood. Just a man —a father— who decided that no one in his bloodline deserved to live long enough to replace him.