Roman's face drained of color as he stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the swarm of press. Microphones stretched toward him, voices overlapping, sharp and relentless. Behind him, Lena frowned, her brows pulling together as she tried to make sense of it.
"Mr. Whitehall, does your wife know where you are right now?" one reporter called out.
The question snapped something in him. Roman swallowed hard and stepped back immediately, slamming the door shut. The noise cut off the chaos outside, but not the echo of it in his head. He leaned against the door, chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes squeezing shut.
But never where the press can see it. No public dates. No photos. No accidental sightings.
His hand came up to his temples, pressing hard as if he could stop the spiral. The faint scent of Lena's perfume clung to him, sharp now, suffocating.
"This is going to be a disaster," he muttered, his voice low, strained.
