From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 106

**Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**

**Chapter 106**

**Chapter 69; Reese**

In an instant, the flicker of pity I had felt for Chloe dissipated, vanishing like mist under the sun. What was I even thinking? She was not worthy of my sympathy, nor anyone else’s for that matter. She never had been.

With a sudden burst of resolve, I yanked my wrist free from her grasp, the sharpness of her nails grazing my skin as I pulled away. I leaned in closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of my breath mingling with the weight of my words.

“Good,” I whispered, my voice low and cutting like a knife. “Now you understand not to cross me. And don’t you dare try to sink your claws into me again, Chloe.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief, her lips parting as if she couldn’t fathom that I had spoken to her in such a manner. For once, she was left speechless, devoid of her usual quick-witted retorts. I didn’t linger to see if she would muster a comeback. Straightening my posture, I pivoted sharply on my heel and strode away, leaving her frozen in place like a mannequin abandoned in a store window, unwanted and overlooked.

As I walked away, I glanced back at Roman, who remained oblivious to the scene I had just orchestrated. He was hunched over, furiously tapping away on his phone, his brow furrowed, shoulders taut. He was so engrossed that it seemed as if the world around him could crumble into chaos, yet he would remain locked in the glow of that screen, detached from everything else.

A sharp, cold sensation pierced through my chest, unsettling me. An ugly thought clawed its way to the forefront of my mind, gnawing at the fragile edges of my composure. Was he involved with someone else? Could it be that he had someone special while I was merely the girl keeping his bed warm until we returned to Philly?

No. I shook my head vigorously, attempting to banish the storm of doubt swirling within me. No, Roman wouldn’t do that to me. He was my best friend, my rock. Besides, he didn’t believe in relationships. He had flings—casual, fleeting connections that never lasted long enough to cast a shadow. This was different. It had to be different.

Yet, the thought clung stubbornly, burrowing deeper, leaving a sting that refused to fade.

I forced a cool demeanor, reaching for a cherry resting on the table, and asked nonchalantly, “Who are you texting?”

His head snapped up immediately, not out of surprise—he was never caught off guard—but with a tension that twisted my stomach into knots. His features were chiseled, sharp lines carved into his face, his mouth set in a firm line that radiated anger.

I could sense his anger, palpable and simmering just beneath the surface.

But it wasn’t directed at me, I realized. His fingers hovered hesitantly over the phone, then he glanced down at the device, then back at me, and did something that caught me completely off guard.

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