The Billionaire's Unspoken Heart

The night was quiet. Roman hadn't slept in days, and tonight wasn't going to be any different.

Someone was in his house.

He set down the whiskey bottle and moved toward the kitchen light, his bare feet silent on the hardwood. Only three people had keys to this place, and his security team knew better than to disturb him tonight.

Tonight was for suffering alone.

It had been five years since Elena died, and yet tonight felt like that day was happening all over again. His thoughts were locked on that memory, the sight of her body lying on the floor, the note she'd left unfinished. It was always this night, this cursed anniversary.

His jaw clenched as he approached the light, his broad frame filling the narrow corridor.

"Whoever you are," he growled, voice low and dangerous, "you've got five seconds to explain yourself before I call security."

The light flickered, and then a figure stepped into view. Roman froze.

It wasn't a burglar. It wasn't Mary.

It was Amara James.

His assistant stood there, drenched from the rain. Her curls were plastered to her face. Her usual composed expression was gone, replaced by something raw and determined.

She clutched a file folder to her chest, her breath coming in sharp gasps like she'd run all the way there.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Roman demanded.

Amara stiffened. Her gaze dropped to his disheveled appearance, his loosened tie, his top buttons undone, then rose to meet his glare.

"You forgot to hand over Carle Robinson's project files to Rachel," she said, her tone clipped. "I wasn't about to let weeks of work go to waste. You know how fickle Carle can be."

This wasn't how she'd planned to spend her Friday night. But here she was, soaked and shivering in her boss's kitchen. Roman paid her well for her problem-solving skills and wouldn't tolerate mistakes, even his own. If she had a life outside work, she would've been too busy to show up like this.

Roman's eyes narrowed. "You came into my house uninvited... over a file?" His jaw tightened. "You shouldn't be out alone this late. And I'm not in the mood for visitors."

"I had no choice," Amara shot back. "Honestly, you should thank me instead of snapping. I drove through a storm to get here."

"Get out of my house, Amara."

"You're unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. "You only care about people when they serve a purpose. I don't know why I go the extra mile for you. Most assistants wouldn't even do half of what I've done."

He stepped forward, towering over her.

"I don't know what gave you the idea I wasn't those things," he said darkly. "Because I am. I'm selfish. Arrogant. Heartless. And I've made peace with it."

His brutal honesty stunned her. She blinked, her anger dissolving as quickly as it had come.

"Roman... I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"You have no idea what kind of night you've walked into," he said quietly. The threat in his voice was clear.

"And you have no idea what kind of storm I drove through to get here," she replied, her voice softening. "Just cut me some slack."

He didn't speak, but he didn't throw her out again either.

She noticed the whiskey bottle on the table, the way his hair stuck up like he'd been running his hands through it. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

"You could've called," he said finally.

"I did. You didn't answer."

Roman's gaze flicked away, his shoulders stiffening.

She softened her tone. "Roman, what's going on?"

His head snapped back toward her. "You don't want to know."

"Maybe not," she admitted, "but I'm here. So why don't you try me?"

For a moment, it looked like he might. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he turned away, pacing to the other side of the room.

"You can't keep everything bottled up," she said quietly. "Whatever it is, it's eating you alive."

Roman's laughter was bitter. "You think you've got me all figured out?"

"No," she said softly. "But I know what it looks like when someone's drowning."

Her words hung in the air. For the first time, Roman went completely still. Slowly, he turned to face her. The raw emotion in his eyes made her breath catch. She'd seen him angry, irritated, impatient. But never like this. Never broken.

In all her time working for him, she'd learned to read his moods. He had flings here and there, but nothing serious. She was always the one picking out apology flowers when he ended things. He never crossed lines with her, which she appreciated. Too many powerful men thought their assistants came with benefits.

She'd be lying if she said she didn't notice how he looked in his navy suits. But Roman Cage was her boss, not her type. Getting involved would be career suicide.

"Go home, Amara," he said, his voice rough. "You've done your job. There's nothing here for you."

She squared her shoulders, refusing to back down. "Maybe not. But you're wrong if you think no one cares."

Roman stared at her, something shifting in his expression. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward his study.

Amara watched him go, her heart pounding. She should leave. Drive back through the storm, pretend this never happened.

Instead, she followed him.