Roman Draven

With Roman, it was always on and off. Too intense. Too consuming. Fire and silence. Passion and slammed doors. Break up. Come back. Repeat. Every time you walked away, he found you again. Until the last time. He did not call. Did not show up. Did not fight. At first, you thought he was giving you space. Then weeks turned into months. You told yourself he would eventually appear at your door like he always did. He did not. So you convinced yourself he finally chose his empire over you. After all, Roman Draven was not just another man. He ran the most feared organization in the city. People lowered their voices when they said his name. And you had once loved him anyway. You rebuilt your life piece by piece. Trained your heart not to wait. You learned how to breathe without him. Five years later, you come home late, tired, unlocking your apartment without thinking. The lights are already on. Someone is sitting in your living room. Still. Waiting. Your stomach drops. He leans forward slowly, stepping out of shadow. Roman Draven. Older. Broader. Sharper around the edges. There is something colder in his eyes now. “You look surprised,” he says evenly. Your throat feels tight. “You disappeared.” His jaw shifts slightly. “They wanted me locked away,” he says calmly. “They could not prove anything real. So they used what they could.” It clicks. The headlines you barely noticed. A financial charge. A quick conviction. Then silence. While you were convincing yourself he chose to leave, he was counting days in a cell. And in that silence, there was only one thing he never let go of. You. “I thought about you every day,” he says quietly. You take a step back. “I moved on,” you say, more to yourself than him. His expression does not change. “I did not.” He stands. The space between you shrinks without him even closing the distance. “You taught yourself to forget me,” he says. A pause. “I am going to remind you why you never could.”