Chapter 18: By Whom?

“Trust me, she can’t pay for all of this!” Hubert barked at the manager, still thrashing against the iron grip of the suited man who held him pinned. His face was red, his voice loud, but his bravado looked weaker with every second he stayed trapped.

The manager hurried forward, pale with worry. “I’m so sorry about him, miss—he’s new here and clearly doesn’t know his place.”

Roxanne’s expression didn’t shift. Her interest in the store had already withered away. “That’s fine,” she said coolly. “I’ll find another place.”

“Miss, please—we can—” the manager tried to salvage the moment, but Roxanne had already turned on her heel, leaving no room for negotiation.

One of the black-suited men scooped up the bag of books and stationery Roxanne had chosen earlier. He didn’t bother asking her again; he knew she no longer cared to stay.

Pulling out his phone, he made a brief call, and by the time Roxanne stepped outside, the Maybach was already sliding into place at the curb, its polished surface gleaming under the city light.

She slipped into the backseat, shutting the door firmly. Only then did the bodyguard release Hubert. The young man staggered, clutching his arm, before meeting the guard’s gaze.

“The second time won’t be this easy,” the man said quietly, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet, a promise more than a threat. His eyes lingered, sharp and merciless, before he turned away.

Hubert followed his gaze and froze. The Maybach. Not just any Mercedes, but that Mercedes. He had spent enough late nights scrolling through car forums and price tags to know: that's not an ordinary luxury sedan. That's a statement of untouchable wealth. A car that costs more than an entire teacher's salary back home in a Texas suburb.

His mouth went dry. “W-why is she… why is she getting into a Maybach?” he stammered, more to himself than anyone else.

The Roxanne he remembered, the sweet farm girl with a braid down her back, who lived on bread and jam, whose eyes lit up when someone shared chips or a piece of fruit, was gone. That girl had been warm, soft, and eager to please. The girl stepping into the Maybach was cold, untouchable, and already cloaked in a world he couldn’t begin to touch.

“That’s Miss Roxanne Romanov,” the suited man finally said, his words clipped and final, before he walked off to the waiting black SUV parked nearby.

The manager, who had been standing frozen staring at the doorway, felt his stomach twist. His jaw nearly dropped when the name sank in. Romanov. The entire block, the stores, the offices, and the very building they stood in belonged to them. And now he had allowed an employee to insult one of their own.

A cold sweat broke across the manager’s skin. Trouble hadn’t just brushed past his store; it had walked straight through his front doors, and now it was leaving in a Maybach. He swallowed hard, his jaw tight, then turned on Hubert with a look that could cut glass.

“You’re fired.” His voice cracked like a whip.

Hubert’s head snapped around. “What? No! You can’t—come on, it’s hard enough just to land a job here!” His face flushed, his words stumbled over desperation.

The manager didn’t flinch. “You’re fired. Do you understand me? If the owner herself heard about this little stunt, she’d have tossed you out faster than I just did.” He exhaled through his nose, his tone as cold as stone. “Your salary up until today will be transferred to your account, proportionally.”

“No, wait—sir! Please! I need this job!” Hubert’s voice cracked, his bravado crumbling into panic. He reached forward like he could grab the words out of the air before they settled.

And then, almost as if grasping for a lifeline, he blurted, “That girl—she was my friend back in Texas! I don’t rightly know what’s goin’ on, but firin’ me over her? That just ain’t right. She ain’t worth this.” His Texas drawl slipped out, raw and unpolished, as if his panic had ripped the accent straight from his throat.

The manager leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “That girl,” he said, pausing long enough for Hubert to see the weight behind his words, “is enough to make you disappear from this world.” His eyes narrowed. “She’s a Romanov.”

Hubert’s face drained of color, his mouth opening but no sound coming out. The manager straightened, already done with the boy. With a sharp gesture, he summoned security. “Get him out of my store.”

\-

The Penthouse—at night

Alexandra returned home and already heard the report of what had happened to Roxanne. The moment she stepped through the door, she handed her coat to the waiting maid. “Is she home?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with concern.

“Yes, ma’am. She’s in her room,” the maid replied softly, folding the coat neatly over her arm.

“Has she eaten?” Alexandra pressed, already suspecting the answer.

The maid shook her head. “No, ma’am. She refused everything we offered.”

Alexandra exhaled, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Then bring me the chocolate mint ice cream; usually teenagers like her would love it, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The maid nodded quickly.

“Is Brandon home yet?” Alexandra asked, glancing toward the staircase.

“No, ma’am. He hasn’t returned.”

“Alright,” Alexandra murmured, her tone softening. “Just get the ice cream quickly.” At once, one of the younger maids darted off toward the kitchen, her slippers whispering across the polished floor as she hurried to prepare the treat.

Alexandra didn’t bother to knock. She pushed the door open like she always did and stepped into the room. The room itself is dark, with no lamp or overhead light turned on inside, only the pale glow of the city spilling through the tall windows and painting silver lines across the floor.

Roxanne sat curled on the wide sill, her knees drawn up, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt, her bare legs stretched against the glass. Her gaze was fixed on the glittering skyline below. Without turning, she said flatly, “What if I was naked when you barged in?”

“I’d strip too,” Alexandra replied without hesitation, her voice carrying a faint amusement. “So we’d be even.”

A scoff broke from Roxanne, sharp but tired. “You’re impossible.”

Unbothered, Alexandra crossed the room and lowered herself beside her. The closeness isn’t just habit anymore; it's an instinct, a pull she couldn’t fight. Something about Roxanne, fragile in one moment, stubborn in the next, awakened a protectiveness in her that bordered on possession.

Her eyes caught the way Roxanne kept rubbing at her wrist, restless and almost unconscious. Alexandra reached out, gently taking her hand before the girl could pull it back. Her thumb brushed over faint discoloration, a bruise just starting to surface beneath pale skin.

“That friend of yours did this?” Alexandra’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. Hearing it made Roxanne sure that everything that happened to her was all reported to Alexandra.