Chapter 4 - The Price of a Scuff
The words hung in the air like poison gas.
*Mrs. Sadi Vance.*
Trevor’s brain refused to process the sentence. It rejected it entirely, spitting it out like spoiled meat. *No. That’s impossible.* This was Sadi. Sadi, who used to cry over past-due electric bills. Sadi, who used to patch her work aprons with thread stolen from hotel sewing kits. Sadi, whom he had left behind in a decaying apartment with an empty bank account and an unpaid eviction notice.
"No," Trevor blurted out, a panicked, hysterical laugh bubbling up in his chest. "No, no, that’s... that’s a joke. You're lying. Sadi? Married to *you*? She's a nobody! She was a waitress at a twenty-four-hour diner three years ago!"
The two security operatives flanking the entrance took half a step forward. Their hands vanished beneath their suit jackets.
Roman didn't flinch. He raised a single finger, and the men instantly froze in place, returning to stone.
"A waitress," Roman said, tasting the word. He stepped closer to Trevor.
Trevor tried to hold his ground, trying desperately to summon the corporate arrogance that usually served him so well in boardrooms, but his spine turned to water. He instinctively retreated until the small of his back slammed hard against a glass display tower holding four-thousand-dollar Swiss chronographs. The glass rattled precariously.
"Trevor," Vanessa whimpered from the far corner of the store. She was clutching her designer handbag against her chest like a shield, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. "Trevor, please... let's just go. Please, God, let's just leave..."
"Nobody leaves," Roman said.
He didn't turn around to look at her, but Vanessa choked back a sob and instantly pressed her back against the wall, paralyzed with terror.
Roman looked down at Trevor’s shoes. He tilted his head, studying the polished navy leather, the pointed Italian toe.
"Sterling Financial," Roman murmured softly. "You work for Marcus Sterling, don't you? His nephew?"
Trevor’s throat constricted. "I... yes. I’m a senior associate. My uncle—"
"Your uncle is an insect who begs for my scraps at the port authority terminals," Roman said, cutting him off without an ounce of anger. It was simply an objective statement of fact. "Marcus owes me forty-two million dollars on an unsecured line of credit that matures at midnight tonight."
Trevor’s face drained of the last drops of blood. His knees literally buckled, catching on the edge of the glass display case behind him.
"You see, Trevor," Roman continued, taking another slow, measured step, "the world is very small. And men like you always make the exact same mistake. You think that because a person is quiet, they are weak. You think that because someone doesn't scream, they don't have teeth."
Roman turned his gaze back toward the store manager. "Julian."
"Y-yes, Mr. Vance!" Julian squeaked, dropping entirely to his knees on the marble floor, his hands clasped together as if in prayer. "Please, Mr. Vance, I didn't know! If I had known she was Mrs. Vance, I would have cleared the entire floor for her! I would have—"
"Shut up," Roman said.
Julian snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked.
"Pull the footage," Roman ordered. "Every angle of this boutique from the last fifteen minutes. Transfer it to Dante's phone. If a single second is missing, I will have your operating license revoked before the mall closes, and you will spend the rest of your life managing a dumpster behind an interstate truck stop. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!" Julian scrambled on his hands and knees behind the cash register, desperately typing on the terminal with shaking, sweaty fingers.
Roman turned his attention back to Trevor.
The young man was trembling now. The aggressive, slick posture had vanished completely. The oversized gold watch on his wrist rattled against the glass counter behind him as his arm shook uncontrollably.
"Look... Mr. Vance," Trevor choked out, his voice cracking like an adolescent’s. "It was... it was a misunderstanding. Sadi and I... we have history. We used to date. I just... I saw her, and I was surprised, and my foot slipped. I swear to God, my foot just slipped!"
Sadi walked forward slowly, stopping just behind Roman’s shoulder. She looked at Trevor. She didn't look angry. She didn't look vengeful. She looked at him with the quiet, devastating pity one might give to a squashed bug on a windshield.
"Your foot didn't slip, Trevor," Sadi said. "You kicked me because you thought nobody was looking. You kicked me because you wanted to remind me that you could hurt me and get away with it. Just like you did three years ago."
Trevor looked at her, his eyes pleading, desperate, wild. "Sadi, please. Tell him! Tell him we were just having an argument! We loved each other once, Sadi! Remember? Remember the apartment on Fourth Street? Remember the plans we made?"
"I remember the sticky note on the counter," Sadi said, her voice dropping lower, cutting deep into Trevor’s exposed panic. "I remember you taking the six hundred dollars out of the ceramic jar. The money I saved working eighty hours a week so you could pay your bar exam prep fees. I remember sleeping on an air mattress that went flat in the middle of winter because I couldn't afford the heat after you left."
Roman’s head tilted slightly. His gray eyes shifted toward Sadi, then back to Trevor.
"Six hundred dollars?" Roman asked.
The boutique seemed to shrink. The air became so thin that Trevor gasped for breath, his chest heaving inside his tight suit jacket.
May you like
"Trevor," Roman said, his voice dropping into a deadly, rhythmic whisper. "Do you have any idea what six hundred dollars is worth when it belongs to my wife?"
***
