From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 163

**Chapter 101: You Killed A Man**

“What the hell, Roman?!”

The words erupted from my lips before the office door had even fully closed behind me. My voice ricocheted off the stark walls, a jagged echo that felt far too loud for the gravity of the moment, but I was too consumed by disbelief to temper my reaction. “What the absolute hell!”

My mind raced in a chaotic whirl. Oh god. No, no, no. This cannot be real. Shit! This is not happening.

He sauntered in behind me as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell that shattered my entire world, as though we were merely enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, and that infuriatingly serene smile was plastered across his face.

With an air of nonchalance, he shrugged his shoulders. “What did I do now?”

I spun around to face him, my body trembling with a rage that felt volcanic, my blood boiling as if it might ignite and consume me right there on the polished floor. The bag of ice cream he held seemed ludicrous now, an absurd contrast to the invisible blood staining his hands. Here was a man, a murderer, casually clutching a tub of vanilla ice cream. When he placed it on his desk with that same casualness, something inside me snapped.

In a moment of pure instinct, my purse flew from my grasp, aimed squarely at his head, fueled by all the fury I could muster. He tilted his chin just in time, allowing my purse to whip past him and crash against the bookshelf, sending lipsticks and receipts scattering across the floor like confetti. His smirk was a blinding light, narrowing my vision to a tunnel of rage.

“My father was an army general,” he said smoothly, as if reciting a mantra. “You’ll have to try harder than a flying purse, my love.”

I charged at him, nails poised like weapons, a scream clawing its way out of my throat. “Smug bastard!” I hissed, my body moving before my brain could catch up, a banshee unleashed. My hand arched through the air, desperate to slap him, to claw at his face, to wipe that infuriating calm off his expression.

He needed to understand that his reckless decision had not only altered Kingston’s fate; it had irrevocably changed ours as well.

But in a flash, his hand shot up, catching my wrist with the precision of lightning. His grip was unyielding, a steel vice. “Not a fucking chance, Savannah,” he snapped, his voice sharp and commanding.

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