I Hate It Here
Chapter 276: I Hate It Here
Savannah
I already expected Roman to be irritable and fussy.
That part didn’t scare me. I’d prepared myself for it long before he even woke up. I’d prepared myself for it the same way you brace yourself before stepping into cold water—knowing the shock was coming, yet telling yourself you could handle it.
Roman Blackwood was not a man built for patience, for restraint, or for being told what he could and could not do. He gave orders. He dominated conversations. He bent people and systems to his will simply by existing in them.
He was used to commanding rooms, not being confined to one. Used to people moving at his pace, not the other way around.
Now, suddenly, the world was telling him no.
No sudden movements.
No stress.
No anger.
No control.
Roman Blackwood wasn’t built for any of that.
And the way his jaw tightened every time a doctor spoke told me exactly how well that was going.
He grumbled the entire way from the medical wing to the bedroom, muttering curses under his breath like a storm cloud barely holding itself together. His irritation had started earlier—the exact moment the doctor suggested transporting him in a wheelchair.
The word ‘wheelchair’ hadn’t even fully left the man’s mouth before Roman lost his mind.
He’d snapped. No—he’d exploded. And it was ugly, loud and unfiltered.
He’d lost his temper completely, his voice echoing down the halls as he tore into the doctor with a fury that made every nurse freeze in place. Reese and I had rushed in immediately, apologizing profusely, but the doctor had only sighed and waved us off.
“Perfectly normal,” he’d said calmly. “Post-coma agitation. Mood instability. Aggression.”
Normal.
Nothing about Roman Blackwood not having control felt normal to me.
I knew he could be sharp when frustrated. I’d seen him tear into staff at work, watched executives shrink under his gaze. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t impatience.
This was fear dressed up as rage.
After the outburst, Roman had refused the wheelchair outright. Absolutely refused. No compromise. No discussion. Either he walked on his own, or he didn’t move at all.
And so he walked. Slowly.
Through the long halls of the manor, past rooms that felt heavy with history and secrets I still didn’t fully understand. Through endless corridors, down the stairs, across to the other wing—the other side of the manor to where his bedroom was.
What struck me most was that he didn’t hesitate once.
Despite waking from a coma. Despite the pain. Despite the weakness he clearly hated acknowledging—Roman knew exactly where he was going. His steps were measured, controlled, almost eerily familiar, as if his body remembered the path even when his mind had been somewhere else entirely.
Finally, he stopped in front of a tall, ornate door and without looking back at me, he twisted the handle and pushed it open. I stepped inside first.
Roman stayed behind. He looked like someone standing at the edge of a memory they weren’t ready to relive.
The room was massive and intimidating in the way only Roman’s spaces ever were. Deep red walls accented with gold detailing. Heavy furniture carved with intricate designs. And a large bed positioned perfectly at the center of the room, dominating the space. The windows were shut. The curtains drawn tight.
The air felt… sealed. Like a tomb. As if Count Dracula himself had resided here.
“God,” Roman muttered behind me, his voice low. “I hate it here.”
I turned.
He stood just inside the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t even really looking at the room as a whole. His gaze jumped from place to place—the walls, the ceiling, the bed—never lingering too long, like he didn’t trust what he might remember if he did.
It struck me then that this wasn’t just a room. It was a graveyard of memories for him. Bitter memories.
I took a few steps farther inside, my feet sinking into the thick carpet. A strange sensation crept over me—subtle but unmistakable. It was like the room was watching me. Measuring me. Like the room itself was rejecting me.
Almost like I didn’t belong here.
The feeling was sharp enough that I paused, forcing myself to breathe through it. I wasn’t about to let a room intimidate me.
I turned back to Roman.
“Roman?” I said gently, extending my hand toward him. “Come.”
He hesitated. Just for a second. Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted one foot and stepped forward.
His hand closed around mine, warm and firm despite the tremor running faintly through it.
“I haven’t been in here in a long time,” he said quietly. “Never thought I would be in it again.”
Something twisted painfully in my chest at the way he said it—not dramatic, not angry. Just honest.
I nodded, squeezing his hand once before turning to shut the door behind us. I wanted privacy. I wanted the rest of the manor—the staff, the doctors, the expectations—locked outside.
That’s when I saw it.
The massive picture frame mounted on the wall behind the door.
My breath left me in a sharp, startled gasp.
The woman in the photograph had blonde curly hair and very delicate features, her beauty was soft and effortless. For half a second, my mind betrayed me and supplied the wrong name.
Penelope.
But I knew instantly that it wasn’t her.
I knew because this woman wasn’t posed. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to be anything other than what she was. And most importantly, she didn’t seem like she had a stick up her ass. This wasn’t Penny.
This was Dahlia.
She wore a white wedding dress—elegant and timeless, the kind you never forget once you’ve seen it. Her hair was pinned up in a classy updo putting her slender neck on display. In her hands was a bouquet of white roses.
Roman stood beside her in a black suit, his hair a little longer than it was now, his expression open and unmistakably happy.
And they were kissing in what looked like a church.
This wasn’t just a photograph. This was their wedding.
My hand slipped from Roman’s as if the contact itself burned me.
I stumbled back a step, my heart slamming violently against my ribs. The room tilted, suddenly too tight, too heavy, too full of something I hadn’t been prepared to face.
He turned immediately. “What—” Then he followed my gaze. The shift in him was instant.
Roman went completely still.
The air changed immediately. Thickened. Pressed down on my chest until breathing felt like effort. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once beneath his skin. His eyes didn’t soften. Didn’t flinch. But something dark passed through them.
I stared at the photograph, my thoughts spiraling, colliding into one another.
Why is it here? Why is it still up? Why didn’t I know about this?
I swallowed hard.
“You… kept it?” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt pathetic the moment they left my mouth.
Roman didn’t respond. He just stared at the picture intensely, his hands folded by his sides.
The silence stretched, brittle and sharp.
I took another step back, my skin prickling with awareness. This room wasn’t just his. It belonged to someone else too.
My pulse pounded.
The picture loomed behind the door. Unignorable. Almost like a presence that demanded acknowledgment.
I felt it then—the shift. The invisible line snapping tight between us.
Roman’s gaze slid to me. Not angry. Not defensive, but alert. As if he sensed it too.
The room held its breath.
And I knew—without a single word being spoken—that things were about to become heated.
“Who the fuck left that up there?!”