Page 11 of The Agreement

She was there.

“No,” he eventually said, offering nothing more.

The way her mouth opened to say something else had Roman rolling his gaze toward the window at his left. She kept trying to get him to talk—he didn’t have shit to say.

“You’re just ... doing whatever with whoever, whenever, then?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re lucky. You do what you want and go wherever you like. Free.”

Her tone had dipped from sadness to almost dreamy. It made Roman’s throat tight—people always assumed that his life was easy. He walked on water while they drowned. He imagined what a life like that would look like.

“What makes you think I’m free?” he mumbled under his breath.

She still heard him loud and clear.

“You are Demyan Avdonin’s son.”

“And?”

“Come on, don’t play stupid. Dima wouldn't shut up about you—the Prince of New York, he said. He tried to laugh it off, said you were just a spoiled brat with too much control who hasn’t grown up yet, but—”

Roman’s gaze cut to her, the fire burning bright enough to stop her words instantly. “What else?”

Her throat bobbed. “I—”

“What else? He must have said something else—you said it, not me. So, what else?”

“Nothing.”

Roman didn’t believe that for a second. He was, however, fine with letting her drop the conversation if she was finally going to shut up. Fuck Dima. That piece of shit wouldn’t last a month in New York with Roman to contend with on the streets. Better men than him had already tried.

And failed.

Anastasia fiddled with the sleeves of her dress, silent in her thoughts and unaware that Roman had turned his gaze back on her. He could have said a lot about her assumptions regarding his life—it was just easier for someone to see him from an outside perspective and judge or believe what they wanted.

But ...

Fuck.

His shoulders ached sometimes. From the expectations he knew his people kept hanging around his neck like a noose, and the responsibility of his position. He worried more often than not that he was an embarrassment for the men who shared his last name, and he wondered if his mother wished she had raised him differently.

God knew ...

Claire tried.

With him, she tried really hard.

His half-sister, Vera, was perfect in every way, and he was at the other end of that rainbow. She certainly hadn’t put their parents through the kind of shit he had over the years.

Still was, honestly.

The burden of not having turned out quite the way his parents pictured his life—or so he believed—kept Roman in a state of constant limbo. Numb because he was who he was, and he liked that person, but also just distant enough from the people who loved him that he hoped it hurt them less to see him this way. He never swung too much one way or the other; he stayed right in the middle, unwilling to figure out how to fix it.

Or if he wanted to.

When his family looked at him, did they see their legacy in ruin—was that all they saw?