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Roman Roy never imagined that his life post-Waystar Royco would involve so much skiing. Yet here he was, perched on the balcony of Lukas Mattson’s sprawling chalet in the Swiss Alps, holding a glass of champagne and feeling as a bizarre version of Patricia Gucci.
The title of "trophy wife" didn’t sit well with Roman. Not because it was inaccurate—he had no problem with the trophy part; after all, he was a prize. It was the "wife" bit that kind of irritated him. The dynamic between him and Mattson was...complicated, to put it lightly. Equal parts transactional, chaotic, and borderline affectionate, it was the kind of relationship that could only thrive in the exclusive air of billionaires who didn’t know what to do with themselves after achieving everything they thought they wanted.
Roman’s days were a strange mix of decadence and boredom. Mornings involved overpriced espressos and even more overpriced therapy sessions, where he tried—and mostly failed—to unpack his endless stream of daddy issues. Afternoons were for shadowing Mattson’s business calls, pretending to care about whatever new tech disruption was on the horizon while quietly mocking the creepy parade of executives desperate for Mattson’s approval.
“You know,” Roman would quip, “you’re like the Pied Piper, except instead of rats, it’s a bunch of Ivy League assholes.”
Mattson would smirk, his icy blue eyes glinting with amusement. “And yet here you are, following me around like a lost puppy.” He said with his usual aura of superiority.
Evenings were when things got surreal. Lavish dinners with billionaires and artists who insisted they weren’t billionaires. Wild parties where Roman often found himself as the accidental center of attention, cracking jokes that toed the line between hilarity and outright insult. And then there were the quieter moments, when the world felt smaller, and it was just Roman and Lukas, sprawled out on some designer couch, arguing over whether Roy’s favorite trashy reality shows were secretly high art.
The tabloids had a field day with their dynamic. Roman’s biting sarcasm and Mattson’s Nordic stoicism made for endless speculation. Were they a couple? Business partners? Enemies? The answer depended on the day, sometimes the hour.
In truth, Roman wasn’t entirely sure what they were. But he knew one thing: life with Mattson was never boring. It was an endless game of one-upmanship, a test of wit and will. And while Roman would never admit it, he kind of liked being the wild card in Mattson’s meticulously curated life.
Still, there were moments when Roman wondered what it all meant. He’d stare out at the mountains, feeling both untouchable and completely untied. He’d think about his siblings, about Kendall’s grim determination and Shiv’s sharp pragmatism. He'd think about what the hell is Connor planning for his political career. He’d think about Logan, the ghost who loomed over everything. The thought of what his father would think and say about his new lifestyle, if he would be completely against it or be dissapointed.
And then Mattson would saunter in, casually dropping some absurd idea about buying an island or starting a space program, and Roman would snap back to reality. “You’re insane,” he’d say, grinning despite himself.
“That’s why you’re here,” Mattson would reply, his tone equal parts teasing and sincere.
Maybe he was right. Maybe Roman Roy—the perpetual screw-up, the youngest sibling who could never quite measure up—had finally found his place in the world. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned, but then again, nothing in Roman’s life ever was.
The first time the Roy siblings found out about Roman’s relationship with Mattson, it was during a rare reunion in New York. Kendall had called for a "keep the family together after the old man’s death" (like Roman called this meetings), which was code for an awkward, passive-aggressive lunch. Shiv showed up late, looking harried but effortlessly chic, and Connor arrived with Willa in tow, clearly more interested in the restaurant’s wine list than the conversation.
Roman sauntered in last, as usual, his arrival accompanied by a palpable air of mischief. He dropped into his seat, casually tossing his phone on the table. The screen lit up briefly, revealing a notification from Mattson, something about a private jet and a weekend in Ibiza.
Kendall noticed it first. “Wait, hold up,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Since when are you hanging out with Mattson?"
Shiv’s head snapped up. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re not working for him.”
Roman smirked, enjoying the attention. “Working? No. But let’s just say I’m...keeping him company.”
There was a beat of silence before Connor, ever the oblivious optimist, chimed in. “Oh, so you’re consulting? That’s great, Rome.”
“Not consulting, Con,” Roman said, leaning back in his chair. “More like...fucking.”
Kendall choked on his water. Shiv stared at Roman like he’d just declared himself the rightful heir to the British throne.
“You’re dating Lukas Mattson?” Shiv asked, incredulous.
“Define ‘dating,’” Roman replied, a sly grin spreading across his face. “But yeah, sure, let’s go with that.”
“Oh my God,” Shiv groaned, burying her face in her hands. “This is a fucking disaster.”
“Why?” Roman shot back. “Because I’m happy? Or because you didn’t think of it first?”
Kendall leaned forward, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “Roman, this is Mattson we’re talking about. The guy’s a fucking maniac.”
“Takes one to know one,” Roman quipped.
“Seriously, though,” Kendall continued, ignoring the jab. “What are you even doing with him?”
Roman’s grin faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe I just like being around someone who doesn’t expect me to screw up every five seconds.”
For once, the table fell silent after seeing a vulnerable and sentimental little brother that they had never seen. Even Shiv seemed at a loss for words. It was Connor who broke the tension, raising his glass in a toast. “Well, here’s to Roman. Always full of surprises.”
Roman clinked his glass against Connor’s, a crooked smile on his face. Because for all their disbelief, all their judgment, it felt good to finally have his family attention. Even if it was for all the wrong reasons.