“You liked him,” he said one Sunday over coffee, like he was commenting on weather.
I stared at him.
“Dad.”
He looked older than I had ever seen him. Not weak. Just honest.
“I know what I did put you in the middle of.”
The anger I had kept polished and hidden rose again, but it no longer had the shape of accusation. It had the shape of grief.
“Then why did you let it happen?”
He shut his eyes briefly. “Because I believed the truth would get us both killed.”
That changed the room.
I set down my cup.
“What truth?”
His hands tightened once on the table edge. “Not yet.”
I wanted to scream. Instead I stood, walked to the window, and said, “You don’t get many more not yets from me.”
He didn’t answer.
A week later, I saw Roman again.
The party was at the Waldorf, black tie, late August, one of those charity events where half the room came for the cause and the other half came to be seen caring about it. I was there for work, wearing a black dress that looked like armor and pretending I had forgotten how to be afraid.
Then I looked across the ballroom and found him.
Roman stood near the bar in a dark suit, one hand in his pocket, speaking to two city officials who were trying very hard to seem relaxed. He looked exactly as I remembered and completely different.
Colder.
As if someone had taken a blade to every softer edge I had uncovered.
He felt me looking.
His head turned.
For a second the whole ballroom disappeared.
