Three

Roman’s Pov

My phone buzzes relentlessly against my thigh, a vibrating brick of bad news, panicked stock market reports, and sycophantic text messages from board members pretending to care that my brother is gone.

Ethan is dead. That is what the local authorities say. They say his private plane nosedived into a dense, foggy mountain ridge three nights ago, leaving behind a smoking crater of twisted metal and zero survivors.

I stare out the tinted window of my town car as it cuts through the dreary streets of the city, watching the gray rain smear down the glass. I refuse to cry, and I refuse to believe it. Ethan was reckless, yes, and he spent half his life running away from the heavy shadow of our family name. But he wasn't stupid.

Too many things about this crash do not add up. The flight plan was changed at the last minute. The transponder went dark ten minutes before impact. And the worst part? Before I can even properly grieve or dig into the mess of his sudden disappearance, his high-priced corporate lawyer drops a massive, ticking bomb right in my lap.

There is a surrogate. A woman carrying Ethan's child.

The idea makes my skin crawl with suspicion. Ethan never mentioned a surrogate to me. He never talked about wanting a family, let alone going behind my back to hire an agency. My fingers grip the gold-plated handle of my walking cane so tightly my palm aches. Someone wanted an heir tied to the Kingsley name, or worse, someone orchestrated this whole thing as part of a larger, much darker game.

The car pulls over to the curb with a soft crunch of gravel. I look up through the rain-streaked window at a tired, faded old building with a sign that reads *Ellis Diner*. Above it sits a small, cramped apartment with peeling white paint. This is where she lives.

My driver steps out into the downpour and holds a massive black umbrella over my head as I step onto the sidewalk. The damp air hits my lungs, heavy and smelling of cheap diner grease and wet asphalt. I adjust my heavy wool overcoat, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache. I am used to dealing with board members, politicians, and ruthless competitors who fold the second I walk into a room. I expect this surrogate to be just another terrified girl who will burst into tears, take a fat check, and sign away whatever rights she has left.

I bang my fist heavily against the wooden apartment door. It rattles in its frame.

A moment later, the lock clicks, and the door swings open.

I open my mouth to deliver a cold, scripted corporate demand, but the words die instantly in my throat.

She is nothing like what I pictured. She isn't wearing designer loungewear or trembling with polite deference. She is a plus-size woman with rich, dark hair pulled back into a messy clip, wearing an oversized knit sweater and old jeans.

Her deep brown eyes aren't watery with fear; they are blazing with pure, unadulterated fury. She looks at my expensive suit, my towering height, and the bodyguards standing behind me in the rain, and instead of backing away, she plants her hands firmly on her hips.

"If you are from the bank," she snaps before I can even breathe, "let me save you the trouble. We are working on the money. You can take your little final notices and shove them—"

"I am not from the bank, Miss Ellis," I interrupt, my deep voice cutting through the cramped hallway like a shard of ice.

She stops dead, her eyes narrowing as she looks me up and down. A flicker of recognition crosses her face, likely from seeing my cold, aristocratic face plastered across financial magazines.

"Roman Kingsley," she whispers, her voice dropping an octave, though the anger doesn't fade an inch. "The billionaire older brother. Well, this just keeps getting better and better."

She tries to close the door right in my face, but I smoothly place my hand against the wooden edge, stopping it cold. My bodyguards tense up behind me, but I wave a single finger to keep them back.

"Do not test me, Miss Ellis," I say coldly, stepping uninvited past her into the cramped living room. It smells like cinnamon tea and old paper. "We need to talk about the contract. About the child you are currently carrying."

She spins around, her chest heaving as she glares at me. "You have got to be kidding me. Ethan is dead. The news has been broadcasting it all morning. Your brother is gone! I assumed the whole stupid surrogacy agreement was cancelled the second his plane went down."

"Assumptions are dangerous, Miss Ellis," I reply smoothly, walking over to her small kitchen window and looking out at the rainy street below. "My brother may be gone, but the legal reality remains. That child in your womb is tied directly to the Kingsley estate. That means it belongs to our family now."

The second the words leave my mouth, I realize I made a mistake.

Naomi’s face flushes a bright, furious red. She storms right up to me, stopping just inches away. Even though she has to look up to meet my eyes, she radiates so much raw power that I actually take a half-step back out of sheer surprise.

"Did you just say it belongs to your family?" she demands, her voice shaking with righteous rage, poking a sharp finger right against my chest. "Let me make something crystal clear to you, Mr. Kingsley! I am not a piece of property! I am not a incubator that you can just buy off the shelf and repossess when things go wrong! That baby is growing inside *my* body, and I will not let you or your arrogant family treat me like I am nothing!"

I am completely stunned. Nobody speaks to me this way. Board members cower. Competitors sweat. But this ordinary diner owner stands in her living room and yells at a billionaire like I am a misbehaving child.

A strange, unfamiliar heat flares up in my chest—a mix of deep irritation and a weird, magnetic curiosity. Her defiance is intoxicating.

"You think this is about ownership?" I say, narrowing my eyes as I look down at her, dropping my voice to a low, dangerous growl. "Listen to me very carefully, Naomi. My brother’s plane crash was not an accident. Someone tampered with that aircraft. And within forty-eight hours of his death, an unknown IP address tried to hack into the medical agency's database to steal your personal file."

Naomi stops cold. The angry fire in her eyes flickers, replaced by a sudden, chilling shadow of fear. She swallows hard, her mouth opening slightly.

"What... what are you talking about?" she whispers.

"I am saying that whoever killed my brother already knows about this pregnancy," I say bluntly, stepping closer so only she can hear. "Which means your life is in danger, and so is the child's. You are packing your bags right now. You are moving into my guarded mansion tonight whether you like it or not."

"I am not going anywhere with you!" she fires back instantly, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. "I don't care how rich you are, and I don't care about your enemies! I am staying right here!"

I stare at her stubborn, beautiful face, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. Getting her cooperation is going to be an absolute nightmare. But as I turn and walk toward the door, I know one thing for certain: I am not leaving her unprotected.