Roman sat in his wheelchair, the soft glow of the living room lamps casting long, angular shadows across his sharp features. His eyes were fixed on the door, anticipation swirling in the air as he waited for Nesrine’s arrival. When she stepped into the room, every movement of hers was deliberate, hesitant yet carrying an undeniable defiance. Her jaw was set tightly, her posture challenging, though the vulnerability that lingered just beneath the surface was impossible to ignore.

He’d expected her to be taller, somehow. Instead, she was small, delicate in a way that made the space between them seem even larger. He knew why she was here. Why she had no choice but to agree to the arranged marriage. His threats loomed over her like a storm cloud, ready to break at any moment, and no matter how much she fought it, Nesrine understood the price of resistance far too well.

“Miss Nesrine,” Roman’s voice was smooth, a touch of condescension beneath the calm. He motioned toward the empty chair across the table from him. “Please, join us.”

He waited, expecting her to cower or at least flinch, as most would in the face of his power. But to his surprise, Nesrine didn’t flinch. She didn’t even waver. Her gaze locked onto his with quiet resolve, unwavering, as she approached him. She stopped just in front of him, her eyes scanning him with a cool, steady focus.

Roman raised an eyebrow, noting how she seemed to study him intently, taking in every detail. He watched as her gaze flickered downward—likely to the wheelchair—and for the briefest moment, there was a subtle change in her expression, though she didn’t let it show for long. Her stoic face returned, and she stood before him, refusing to sit, not giving him the satisfaction of submission.