Chapter 180 Good For You, Roman Reese The moment I walked into the house, the first thing I feared was that I’d find Elizabeth sprawled out on the couch again, glued to those disgusting movies she apparently finds entertaining. But the living room was empty. There was no flickering screen. No soft gasp. No awkward scrambling to hide what she was thought I'd take from her—the fucking remote. Just silence. I exhaled, a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It's ridiculous, honestly—how my mind keeps drifting to her. The nerdy girl with the big eyes and that stubborn voice. The one who looks like she has no business watching gore, and yet—there she was, burned into my memory. Oh great. Now I'm getting distracted. I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to shake it off and head upstairs, when I heard it. A clatter. The sound of metal hitting tile. A spoon? A fork? A whisk? Something slipping from a hand. Followed by a frustrated, low curse. “Fuck.” I didn’t think—I just moved. Maybe out of curiosity… yes. But also the hunch. The stupid, relentless thought that it could be her again. Elizabeth. Maybe she's craving a midnight snack. But when I reached the kitchen doorway—it wasn’t Elizabeth. It was Roman. My brother stood in the center of the kitchen like he’d just lost a war. His hands were planted on his hips, shoulders tense, jaw ticking. The overhead light carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look older—or maybe just really exhausted. The counter was a mess. Flour. Sugar. Bowls. Eggs. Something that looked suspiciously like batter but also like a crime scene all together. I blinked. “What… the hell is going on? And why are you cooking at one in the morning?” He looked up sharply, irritation evident. “Not cooking, Reese.” He muttered. “Baking.” I stared in surprise. Roman? Baking? At one in the morning? I did the math quickly. “Savannah’s only a few weeks gone. It can’t be a craving emergency. Nobody wants cake that badly at—” I checked my phone, “—1:14 AM.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sav’s birthday is today.”Oh. He swallowed, eyes flicking back to the counter. “I wanted to bake her a cake myself. You know—something that actually means something. Not just grabbing one from a bakery. I want something intimate. And I'm certain she'd appreciate that more.” He said, still assessing the counter like a crime scene. I stared at him for a moment. This man. My brother. It was almost laughable—how devoted he was now. How soft. How obsessed. The same man who had once forgotten Dahlia’s birthday entirely because he'd been swamped with work and I had to buy her a cake because she wouldn't stop crying. The same man who, while married to her, treated affection like a chore while she died everyday waiting for him to be a little more loving. But with Savannah? Here my brother was, forsaking sleep to bake a cake for his beloved while she slept. How romantic. How poetic. How very… Romeo of him. He would even tear out his own lungs if she asked. I almost laughed. Not mockingly—just… at the irony. Dahlia had died never knowing this version of the man she gave her whole life to existed. The version that was capable of devotion. Of love. Of showing more than just a little affection. That version was reserved for Savannah. Of course he remembered her birthday. Of course he cared. Of course she got this version of him. The version who tries. The version who stays awake. The version who gives a damn. It makes me sad that the gentle soul I knew didn’t get this side of him. Not even close. And she was his wife. His first wife. By some cruel twist of fate, she died before she got to be loved like she deserved. Before he learned how to hold, how to soften, how to show. Lucky Savannah. Truly. She has him wrapped so tightly around her finger he can’t even breathe without her say-so. And I can’t decide whether that makes me angry or relieved. I pushed off the doorway. “What’s the recipe supposed to be?” I asked, stepping farther inside. He hesitated. “I… don’t know. I’m…experimenting. I want to give her the best.” I glanced at the bowl and immediately saw the issue. “Roman, that’s enough sugar to kill a horse.” I said dryly, moving closer. “Are you planning to give her diabetes for her birthday?” He actually laughed. Not the sarcastic, irritated exhale I was used to. A real laugh. A warm, unexpected laughter. “My girl likes sweet things.” He said, defensively, though his mouth twitched with pride. I couldn’t help it—I smiled. The reaction was automatic. Uncontrolled. And for the first time in… what? Years? He didn’t look disgusted by my existence. “Need help?” I asked, expecting the usual reaction. I expected him to grunt. To glare. To tell me to leave. But he didn't. Instead, he nodded. “I’d really appreciate that.” I blinked. That was… new. Roman wasn't fighting me. He wasn't asking me to leave. He wasn't offended by my existence. Truly, Savannah has changed him. I pushed up the sleeves of my shirt and went to wash my hands. I washed it five times to be sure they were truly clean. Roman’s gaze flicked toward the sink, then away, confusion settling. “I was with Penny earlier.” I said, answering the unspoken question he’d never voice. He nodded once. Then awkwardly cleared his throat. “Oh.” He turned to me again. “Thank you for doing that. I know it's not going to be easy.” I smiled. “No problem at all. Nothing I can't handle.” I took over, rolling my shoulders and assessing the ingredients. He assisted—if you could call wide-eyed staring assisting—watching every movement like a kid watching a magician. That alone almost made me laugh. “You sift flour like this,” I said, demonstrating, “not like you’re trying to bury a body beneath it.” He huffed, half-annoyed, half-amused. “And less sugar. Please. Savannah doesn’t need to enter a coma.” He shook his head. “Sav’s got a sweet tooth. You don’t even know. She—” He laughed again. The memory clearly fond. I froze—not externally—but something inside me did. Roman was laughing with me. Laughing at something I said. Not out of obligation. Not out of bitterness. Just… laughing. “You’re laughing,” I pointed out, almost startled. “What?” He blinked. “Don’t I laugh?” “Not at anything I say.” The words slipped out carefully. “I can’t remember the last time you looked at me without hate. Not after Dahlia died.” The air changed instantly. The laughter vanished like it had never existed. His jaw tightened. “Stop.” He looked away. “I’ve moved past Dahlia. I don’t want to talk about her. Not when I’m about to have a child with the woman who means everything to me.” I should’ve left it there. I should have enjoyed the feeling of having a brother again. But I didn’t. And honestly? I get upset when I think about Dahlia and how a perfect flower was crushed, only because she dared to bloom in Blackwood Manor. “Did you really love her?” I asked softly. “Did you feel this way about her?” His eyes closed for a moment. Then he opened them, fists folded. “I loved her with everything I had.” The answer came without hesitation. “I loved Dahlia more than she ever knew.” And maybe he did love her. But love isn’t something that matters if the other person can’t feel it. And I had a feeling that my brother knew that. “And yet,” I murmured, “you failed to show her. You failed to make her feel seen. You slept beside her every night, and she still felt alone. She slept next to you, Roman,” I poked my finger in his chest, “a husband who couldn't tell when his wife was happy or sad.” He turned to me completely, his expression darkening. “And that’s your excuse? That’s how you twist it to make yourself feel like a hero? You think she crawled into your arms because she was lonely and you were being a good fucking Samaritan by taking her to your bed?” His voice cut like glass. Accusation. Anger. Old, festering pain. Everything resembled pain. “You seduced her, Reese. You took advantage of her vulnerability. Because that’s what you do. You take. You consume. Without remorse. Because you’re a Blackwood.” I snarled. “You actually believe that bullshit? You believe the lies father fed you? The same lies he crafted to rip us apart so you would never stand beside me? I never touched your wife. Not once. And deep down, brother, you fucking know it.” Roman’s eyes burned. “Am I supposed to believe that,” he snapped, “when she lit up every time you walked into a room? When she smiled at your name? When I saw—” He stopped. My breath stalled. I needed him to finish that sentence. “When you saw what, Roman?” Silence. “Say it.” I pushed. “Say what you were going to say. Get it off your chest. Go on!” Something cracked in him. “I don’t want to do this.” He muttered. “I’m done with the past. I’m happy now. I’m in love. I'm spending the rest of my life with the person who makes me the happiest. I don’t need to keep digging up ghosts in new places.” But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even know why. Maybe I wanted him to say one thing. To admit one truth. “She was lonely.” I hissed. “She needed someone. And I was there. Not because I wanted her—but because I was the only person you left her with.” “And I never asked you to entertain her,” he shot back. “Don’t rewrite history, Reese. Admit what you did.” “I didn’t touch her. Not once. Not ever. Not in the way you think. She was my only friend. She was the only one in that house who saw me. I was there because you weren’t.” “You’re trying to make yourself feel better about betraying me,” he said, voice low and shaking with fury. “And you’re trying to make yourself feel better about losing her,” I shot back. “You’d rather cling to that lie than accept that maybe your negligence—your absence—played a part in her death.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped. “I would never put Dahlia in harm’s way. She was surrounded by more people than I can count, and somehow you all let her drive. A pregnant woman who had a phobia for driving—behind the wheel—alone.” His chest heaved. “Don’t stand there and preach righteousness. You're to blame as well! So spare me your sanctimonious bullshit, Reese. We might be brothers, but that doesn't mean that I'd willingly share my wife with you. You betrayed my trust, brother.” We stood there, chest to chest, kitchen drowning in silence and old ghosts. He took a deep breath. “I'm not that person anymore, Reese. Move on. I know I have. Dahlia is dead. And I am in love with Savannah now. I'm going to marry her. She's going to bear my children. Let go, Reese.” My chest burned. My voice dropped. “Good for you, Roman. Be in love. Be happy. Just hope to God that Savannah doesn’t end up planning to divorce you one day and you never see it coming.” The second the words left my mouth, my blood ran cold. Fuck. Roman froze. Then slowly he turned to me. “What did you just say?” The kitchen went silent. Even the refrigerator seemed to stop humming. And I realized—I had just opened a door that would never close again.