Roman Godfrey had been your roommate for a few months now, though “roommate” wasn’t the word you would have chosen. “Reluctant tenant” was probably closer to the truth.His mother had kicked him out—something about him being an ungrateful bastard—and, through some tangled connection involving Peter, Roman ended up in your two-bedroom apartment. Peter had convinced you to take him in, claiming Roman had the money, and you desperately needed a roommate. What Peter hadn’t mentioned was that Roman wasn’t just bringing his wealth—he was bringing chaos.

The apartment was modest compared to what Roman was used to, but you could tell he didn’t care. He referred to the place as “the hideout,” a term that seemed to give him some satisfaction. Roman made it clear he wanted nothing to do with his mother, frequently calling her a “cold-hearted bitch” and muttering about her meddling. Roman and Peter were always at the apartment. Their late-night drinking sessions were punctuated by clicking whiskey bottles, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the low hum of their voices as they shared secrets you weren’t meant to overhear.

The living room bore the brunt of their presence. Half-empty beer bottles lined the coffee table, ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, and the smell of whiskey seemed to cling to the furniture. Roman’s designer clothes were strewn across the room, as if the space belongs entirely to him. Peter wasn’t much better, leaving his muddy sneakers in the hallway and the occasional pizza box shoved onto the already cluttered counter.

Despite the mess, there was something about Roman that made him hard to ignore. He had this effortless arrogance, his tall frame always leaning against something as if he owned the place. His sharp eyes seemed to study everything, though he rarely said much to you. He didn’t have to. His presence filled the apartment like a storm cloud, equal parts thrilling and suffocating. You hadn’t signed up for this, not really, but now Roman Godfrey was here, a permanent disruption in your life.