THURSDAY
7:36 A.M. — ROMAN'S APARTMENT
ROMAN'S POV
Roman Vale-Croft had survived boardrooms, international negotiations, and dinners with Adrian Croft.
None of those experiences had prepared him for making an omelet.
He stood in his kitchen, staring at the frying pan.
The omelet stared back.
Well.
Technically, it didn't stare.
But Roman felt judged.
"You're supposed to fold," he informed it.
The omelet remained stubbornly flat.
Roman picked up the spatula.
Attempted to slide it beneath the eggs.
And watched the entire thing break into three pieces.
He sighed.
"Excellent."
His phone buzzed.
A message from Elena.
Good morning. Did you eat breakfast?
Roman looked at the pan.
Define eat.
Her response arrived almost immediately.
Roman.
He smiled.
I'm cooking.
Should I be concerned?
Only if you're emotionally attached to omelets.
Three dots appeared.
Then:
What happened?
Roman took a photograph.
Sent it.
A moment later, his phone rang.
He answered.
