The car didn't move.
That was the first thing I noticed. The engine was running, the interior was pristine leather and expensive cologne, but we weren't going anywhere.
We were parked. Waiting.
Ewan Roman sat across from me, his presence filling the space like pressure before a storm. He looked at me the way a surgeon might examine a tumor before deciding whether to excise it or let it kill the patient.
I'd seen powerful men before. My father moved in circles where money talked and influence whispered. But Ewan Roman was different. He didn't need to speak to command a room. He simply existed, and everything else bent around him.
The silence stretched.
I forced myself to breathe normally, to keep my hands still in my lap, to not fidget or break eye contact. The survival instincts I'd honed since childhood were screaming at me to be careful, to play this exactly right.
Finally, he spoke.
"Are you really carrying my son's child?"
