him with a final metal click.

Norah stood there for several seconds, listening for the world to punish her.

Nothing happened.

No shouting.

No crash.

No immediate disaster.

Only the kitchen vent humming and Roman Gallagher beside her, quiet as smoke.

She looked down at the envelope.

One corner had ripped nearly to the middle.

The blue letters she had written were smeared from David’s damp hand.

“Count it,” Roman said.

“I know what was in it.”

“Count it anyway.”

She did, because this time the instruction made sense.

The bills came to the exact amount she had saved, minus nothing.

David had taken it to control her, not spend it.

Somehow that made her feel sicker.

When she finished, Roman was watching the back door.

“He may come back,” Norah said.

“He may try.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It was not meant to be.” He looked at her.

“It was meant to be accurate.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

It was small and exhausted, but real.

Roman’s mouth curved again, softer this time, though nothing about him became safe.

Norah tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of her apron.

“I should get back to the bar.”

“You should finish your shift and let Marco drive you home.”

“No.”

Roman tilted his head.

“I’m not getting into a car with one of your men.”

“Reasonable,” he said again.

“Then Eli can call you a cab from the house account and wait until you are inside it.”

Norah searched his face for the trap.

“Why?”

“Because an employee had a disturbance at closing.”

“That’s all?”

“That is enough.”

She wanted to believe there was more under it.

She wanted not to.

Men like Roman did not become stories by being simple.

They walked back toward the VIP lounge.

At the doorway, Norah stopped.

The bourbon still sat on the table, untouched except for the one sip he had taken.

The ledger lay closed.

The gold pen rested beside it, exactly where it had rolled after her mistake.

Roman noticed her looking.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I have been called worse things in this room.”

Norah’s cheeks warmed despite everything.

“I really am sorry.”

“For calling me baby?”

“For doing it where your terrifying employees could hear.”

Marco made a sound from behind them and turned it into a cough.

Roman’s smirk returned at full strength.

“So the issue was the audience.”

“The issue was my sleep deprivation.”

“And the boyfriend.”

“Ex,” Norah said.

The word surprised her.

It felt too clean for something so messy.

But once spoken, it stayed.

Roman looked at her for a long second.

“Good.”

This time, it was a compliment.

Norah picked up her rag from the service bar because she needed something ordinary in her hand.

“Your bourbon’s getting watery.”

“Then replace it.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“You’re asking me to serve you another drink after all that?”

“I am asking my server to finish the service she began.”

There it was again: the line.

Not savior.

Not boyfriend.

Not hero.

Customer.

Boss.

Employee.

A room with rules she could see.

Norah took the glass.

“Neat bourbon.

No nickname.”

Roman leaned back into the booth, gray eyes catching the low light.

“Shame,” he said.

She should have been offended.