Four

Naomi’s Pov

A sleek black car idling in front of a modest diner looks like a predator parked outside a sheep pen.

That is the exact thought that went through my head yesterday when I noticed a strange sedan following me three blocks down from the market, its dark windows tinted so heavily I couldn't see the driver. And when the surrogacy agency called me two hours later to report that an unknown hacker had breached their server and downloaded my personal home address, Roman Kingsley's terrifying warning suddenly stopped sounding like a billionaire's control trip. It started sounding like a death sentence.

So here I am, stepping out of a town car and looking up at a towering stone fortress that people apparently call a home.

The Kingsley mansion looks like something straight out of a gothic horror movie or a billionaire fairy tale. Massive iron gates swing open automatically as we approach, and a long, winding driveway leads up to a towering white mansion surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and stone fountains. It is gorgeous, massive, and entirely overwhelming. Every single window has heavy security glass, and black-suited guards stand near every door like statues carved out of ice.

I pull the straps of my canvas backpack tightly over my shoulders, keeping my chin held high. I told Roman explicitly in the car on the way here: “I am only doing this because someone is hunting me, Mr. Kingsley. Do not for one second think you own me, or that I am bowing down to your rules.”

He had simply kept his eyes fixed forward, his jaw tight, giving me a sharp nod that didn't promise anything good.

Inside, the house is so quiet it feels like a museum. The floors are made of cold, shiny marble that echoes with every step I take, and the walls are lined with expensive paintings and dark wooden panels. But beneath all the luxury, the atmosphere is freezing cold. Nobody is laughing. Nobody is whispering happily. Everyone here moves like they are walking on thin glass. It is obvious that Ethan's death has not brought this family together in grief; it has turned them into an armed camp.

"Your room is down this hall, Miss Ellis," a housekeeper says softly, her voice timid as she leads me toward a massive guest suite with a king-sized bed and velvet curtains.

"Thank you," I tell her, offering a small, kind smile. She looks startled, as if no one in this house has ever thanked her before.

Before I can even unpack my single bag of clothes, a sharp tap sounds at my open doorway. I turn around and see an older woman standing there. She is wearing a stiff emerald-green dress that costs more than my diner makes in a month, with her silver hair pulled back into a severe, perfect bun. Her cold, sharp eyes sweep over me from head to toe, lingering on my plus-size frame with an expression that feels suspiciously like quiet disgust.

"You must be the surrogate," the woman says, her voice smooth and chillingly polite. She steps right into the room without waiting for an invitation. "I am Victoria Kingsley, Ethan's aunt. We need to have a little talk."

My spine stiffens instantly. I cross my arms over my chest, glaring right back at her. "I'm unpacking, Mrs. Kingsley. If this is about the pregnancy, I think your lawyer and Roman already gave me all the legal notices."

"Legal notices are just paper, my dear," Victoria says, walking slowly around the room like a cat circling a mouse. She stops just a few feet away from me, her eyes narrowing. "That child you are carrying is the sole remaining bloodline of the Kingsley family now that Ethan is gone. I want to know everything about your medical history, your family background, and any chronic conditions you might have hiding in your bloodline. We cannot afford any mistakes with an heir of this magnitude."

Her words hit me like a splash of freezing water. She isn't talking about a baby; she is talking about property, a prize bull, a corporate asset.

"My health is fine," I say, my voice dropping an octave as anger flares hot in my chest. "And if you want to talk about my medical history, you can talk to my doctor, not interrogate me in my own bedroom like a criminal!"

Victoria's lips thin into a hard, angry line. "You forget your place, girl. You are merely an employee—"

"I am not an employee!" I snap, stepping right up to her, refusing to let her intimidate me. "I am the mother of this child, and I will not be spoken to like—"

"Aunt Victoria."

The deep, commanding voice cuts through the bedroom air like a whip. We both turn toward the doorway. Roman is standing there in his shirtsleeves, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his dark eyes flashing with dangerous lightning. He looks between his aunt and me, his expression tightening into stone.

"Leave us," Roman tells Victoria, his voice dangerously low.

Victoria looks like she wants to argue, but one glance at Roman's icy glare makes her think twice. She straightens her dress, gives me one final look of pure disdain, and turns on her heel, marching out of the room without another word.

The heavy silence rushes back in, thick and suffocating.

Roman runs a hand over his face, sighing heavily as he leans against the doorframe. "I apologize for her. She is... protective of the family name in the worst possible ways."

"She looks at me like I'm an incubator on two legs," I fire back, my chest still heaving from the fight. "Is that what everyone in this house is going to do? Treat me like a walking vessel for your family estate?"

"No," Roman says sharply, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the room. He pulls a small, neatly printed paper out of his inside jacket pocket and sets it down on the glass bedside table.

"Which brings us to this. Here is your daily schedule. Breakfast at eight, restricted movement around the east wing, and you are not permitted to leave the mansion grounds without my direct authorization and a full security detail."

I stare at the paper like it is covered in poison. Then I look up at him, a bitter, furious laugh escaping my lips.

"Are you out of your absolute mind?" I demand, pointing a finger at the schedule. "A schedule? Restricted movement? You think you can lock me up in this gilded cage like a prisoner just because you printed out some stupid piece of paper?"

"It is not a prison, Naomi, it is protection!" Roman barks back, his voice finally rising as his calm facade cracks. He steps closer to me, towering over me with sheer frustration written all over his face. "You have no idea how dangerous my family can be, or what people will do to get their hands on a Kingsley heir! I am trying to keep you alive!"

The air between us feels electric, hot, and heavy with tension. My heart is pounding a million miles an hour against my ribs, not just from anger, but from the terrifying reality of how close he is standing to me. I tilt my head back, looking straight into his dark, troubled eyes, refusing to back down an inch.

"Then why did you bring me here?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with emotion.