Chapter 164: Same door
⚠️ DO NOT OPEN THIS Chapter IT’S SAME AS LAST ONE.
I’m repeating the Chapter because I’m also a student. If there are students here, you definitely know how it feels to be busy reading and writing at the same time. I’m squeezing out time to write, so if I’m unable to release another Chapter, please bear with me.
But I’m working on it please.
THANK YOU.
The door on Roman’s side clicked softly as the valet stepped forward, bowing with instinctive respect before pulling it open. The hush of the crowd outside deepened.
For a moment, only the warm hum of the luxury engine lingered in the night air.
Then, slowly, the world seemed to tilt as the first polished step emerged.
Roman’s shoes touched the ground first—black leather, immaculate, burnished until they reflected the glittering floodlights and camera flashes like a sheet of glass.
The gloss was not the ordinary polish of a common shoe, but the kind that declared wealth, time, and careful preparation.
Each line of stitching was precise, elegant, a craftsman’s pride under his measured stride.
The next sight that slipped into view was his hand.
A broad palm, veins sculpted faintly beneath pale skin, fingers long and strong, with nails trimmed to perfection.
The wrist was crowned by the faint shimmer of cufflinks, their silver surface catching light like quicksilver.
And then he appeared fully. Roman Thompson, the eldest grandson of the Thompson family, stepped into the light.
The murmurs began immediately, a ripple of awe through the gathered paparazzi like the first stirrings of wind before a storm.
"God," someone whispered breathlessly.
"It’s him—the heir himself."
"Look at that face."
Cameras snapped furiously, shutters clicking like rain on a glass roof.
The men straightened to capture every angle, the women’s eyes widened with something between admiration and disbelief.
His tuxedo—black, hand-tailored, sharp at the shoulders, a silk bow resting perfectly at his throat—sat on his body like it had been stitched for no one else.
The white shirt beneath was pressed into crisp lines, gleaming under the floodlights, untouched by a single crease.
His presence radiated authority and elegance, but there was something more—a chilling calmness that dared anyone to mistake him for a man who cared about appearances alone.
And then he moved. Not toward the grand staircase, not toward the entrance lined with velvet ropes and expectant flashes. Instead, his steps carried him around the car.
The valet, halfway to opening the other door, faltered and stepped back quickly, bowing again in deference.
Roman’s stride was slow, deliberate, as though every inch of ground belonged to him.
Each step was measured, elegant, and controlled, and yet there was a natural grace in his movements—a rhythm that made silence swell heavier among the onlookers.
Gasps fluttered through the crowd like startled birds.
"Wait—what’s he doing?" someone whispered.
"Not the valet... Roman himself—he’s going to open the door?"
Cameras snapped harder, flashes igniting the night in bursts of silver and white. The murmurs turned to a chorus of questions and anticipation.
Who could be inside the car? Who warranted Roman’s personal gesture, his attention, his hand?
The crowd tightened around the red carpet, shoulders bumping, breath hitching.
Every reporter positioned their lenses, their fingers tensing on the shutter buttons. Their pupils dilated, their hearts beating quicker.
Even the guards at the entrance, broad-shouldered and rigid, exchanged sharp glances with one another.
The world felt suspended, pulled taut on the string of one question.
Who?
Roman’s hand reached for the handle. His fingers curled around the gleaming chrome, slow, deliberate.
In the brief pause before he pulled, the night seemed to hold its breath.
And then the door opened
The chrome handle gave a soft click as Roman eased the door open.
A hush swept across the crowd like a tide retreating from the shore, leaving silence in its wake.
The murmurs, the clicking cameras, even the rustle of fabric and shuffling feet seemed to pause.
And then, like moonlight breaking through heavy clouds, a hand appeared.
Slender, delicate, pale as milk yet glowing faintly under the golden wash of floodlights.
The fingers trembled slightly before settling into Roman’s waiting palm.
His hand engulfed hers with care, strong but gentle, grounding her as though the world might tip her away if he let go.
Gasps scattered among the paparazzi.
"A woman?" one voice cracked, trembling.
"Roman’s with someone—no... he’s bringing someone out himself?" another whispered sharply, already raising the camera higher.
The door widened further, and the crowd leaned forward as though gravity itself demanded they witness what was unfolding.
Julie stepped out.
The night seemed to catch her silhouette first—the curve of her gown as it spilled out of the car like a golden waterfall, shimmering as though liquid sunlight had been spun into silk.
Each movement released another cascade of glimmers, the fabric alive with reflections of the floodlights.
Her heels, delicate and high, caught the red carpet with the quiet grace of someone unused to such grandeur yet borne upon it with natural poise.
Her hair was gathered elegantly, strands escaping just enough to soften the perfection, glistening under the bulbs as though kissed by starlight.
Earrings dangled faintly from her ears, small gemstones that sparked when the flashes caught them.
The neckline of her gown curved modestly, but the design hugged her frame with precision, shaping her presence into something neither loud nor gaudy but unforgettable.
The cameras went wild.
Click-click-click. The staccato rhythm of shutters turned into thunder.
Light exploded in bursts across the carpet. Some reporters whispered breathlessly into recorders, others barked to assistants standing behind them.
But all eyes stayed locked on one thing: Roman’s hand resting over Julie’s, his thumb brushing ever so slightly against her knuckles as if assuring her—I’m here. Don’t be afraid.
Julie’s face carried the faintest blush.
Her lashes trembled, lowering for a moment, as if the sea of flashes overwhelmed her.
But when her eyes lifted again, they were luminous.
There was a quiet bravery there, a determination that cut through her nerves.
She tilted her chin, not arrogantly, but like a woman daring to stand beside a storm.
Roman leaned slightly, his voice too low for anyone else but her.
His lips curved faintly, just enough for her to see.
"It seems tomorrow’s headlines will be interesting," he murmured.
Julie almost laughed, a small sound caught in her throat, but instead she tightened her grip on his hand.
Her gown shimmered with each step as he led her forward, guiding her gently but firmly away from the car.
The reporters hadn’t moved an inch from their spots, yet their whispers grew louder, tumbling over one another:
"It’s her—from the video!"
"The girl from Thompson University—he’s brought her here?"
"Roman Thompson... defending her back then... this explains everything."
"He’s in love. It’s obvious."
The last line fell into Roman’s ears, sharp and clear.
A dangerous smile, barely there, ghosted across his lips, enough to send a ripple of unease through the photographers nearest to him.
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t need to.
Roman’s hand was firm around hers, his stride measured, unhurried, as if daring the world to question.
With every step, Julie followed, her golden gown glittering like fire against the blood-red carpet.
And for the first time that night, the story wasn’t just about the Thompson heir—it was about the woman beside him.
The red carpet stretched before them like a royal path, velvet underfoot, laid out not for a prince and princess but for something far rarer—a man who never bowed to spectacle, now walking it with a woman at his side.
Cameras lit the path like lightning strikes.
Every angle was claimed, every second captured.
Yet even through the chaos, the couple’s presence carried a gravity that no lens could diminish.
Roman’s tuxedo, black as night yet gleaming under the lights, molded perfectly to his form.
The fabric shifted with his steps, crisp lines cutting through the glow like shadows that refused to bend.
His bow tie gleamed faintly gold, echoing the shimmer of Julie’s gown as though the two were crafted in secret harmony.
Beside him, Julie lifted her gown slightly, revealing golden heels that winked under the lights like fragments of sunlight.
Each step was careful, poised, but not without weight.
Her gown’s skirt trailed behind, shimmering in waves, catching the eyes of even the most jaded photographers who had seen royalty before but rarely such an effortless balance of elegance and humility.
Their hands remained intertwined, the contrast stark—his, broad and commanding; hers, slender and luminous against his darker frame.
But together, the gesture spoke louder than words: this is not a woman escorted for formality—this is a woman claimed, chosen, defended.
"Roman Thompson... with her..."
"It’s official—he’s making it public."
"I can’t believe it—he never brings anyone. Never."
The voices swirled like wind through tall grass, but Roman did not falter.
His face remained calm, his posture commanding, his eyes forward as though the flashes were nothing more than stars beneath his feet.
Julie’s heart, however, pounded. She felt the weight of every gaze, every whispered question.
Yet when she glanced at Roman, at the steadiness in his stride, the calm strength in his grip, her breath eased.
For a moment, the world melted away.
The mansion loomed ahead, regal and commanding, bathed in gold from the chandeliers spilling light through its arched windows.
Marble pillars rose like guardians at the grand entrance, and between them, two guards in tailored black suits stood like statues, their physiques sculpted by years of discipline.
The guards exchanged a subtle nod as the couple approached, but even their trained composure cracked slightly at the sight of Roman walking hand in hand with Julie.
It wasn’t just a woman he brought—it was a declaration.
Julie’s gown brushed the last stretch of the carpet, its stones glittering like constellations pulled down to earth.
Roman’s polished shoes caught the same light, shining darkly, sharp as mirrors.
Together, their presence was undeniable, commanding, unforgettable.
As the final shutters clicked, one truth hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet undeniable:
This wasn’t just an entrance.
It was the beginning of a storm.