He was a monster, and she knew it. But he was the first person in years who looked at her as something other than a glorified typist.
She knew he was using her. She knew he was a narcissist who collected people like rare coins. But the cold rage she’d swallowed for years—the late nights rewriting Román’s lies, the casual hand on her lower back that lingered a second too long, the way her ideas were always “rephrased” as his—it finally had a target. ariadna money heist
When Arturo Román sneered at her from the floor, calling her a “traitor’s whore,” Ariadna didn’t flinch. She knelt beside Berlin, placed a hand on his chest, and looked Román dead in the eye. The rebellion felt electric. He was a monster, and she knew it