The hotel lobby feels like it's closing in on me.
I'm sitting on one of those ridiculously expensive couches that's more for show than comfort, hands clasped in my lap, trying not to look like I'm about to bolt. Which I am. Absolutely am.
This was a terrible idea.
What am I even doing here? Caspian Thorne doesn't want to hear from me. He made that clear when he sent me home three weeks ago with a goodbye that felt permanent. Final. Like closing a door and locking it behind him.
And now I'm about to show up and blow that door off its hinges with news that'll change everything.
I should leave. Should stand up right now, walk out of this lobby, and handle this on my own like I've handled everything else in my life. I'm good at alone. Comfortable with it, even.
But my legs won't move.
Because despite the panic and the fear and the voice in my head screaming that this is a mistake, there's something deeper pulling me here. Some instinct that says he needs to know. That this baby—our baby, God, that sounds so strange—deserves a father who has the choice to be present.
Even if he chooses not to be.
My phone buzzes. Rhea again, checking in because she's the world's best friend and can smell a crisis from three miles away.
You sure you're okay? You've been weird lately.
I type back: Just dealing with some stuff. Promise I'm fine.
The lie tastes bitter even in text form.
The lobby is busy around me. Business travelers checking in. A family with two kids arguing over who gets to push the elevator button. Normal people living normal lives while I'm sitting here pregnant with a billionaire's baby after one impossible night.
How is this my life?
I'm about to give up—about to stand and leave and forget this whole insane plan—when the energy in the room shifts.
It's subtle at first. A ripple of awareness. Conversations don't stop exactly, but they quiet. People glance toward the entrance. Even the kids stop arguing.
And then I see why.
Caspian Thorne walks through the lobby doors like he owns the building.
Which, I realize with a jolt, he probably does.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my rent for six months. Hair perfectly styled. Face that could've been carved from marble by someone who understood that beauty could also be dangerous. Moving with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you're the most powerful person in any room you enter.
But it's not the suit or the looks or even the obvious wealth.
It's the presence.
He commands attention without asking for it. Makes the air feel charged just by existing in it. And everyone—everyone—knows instinctively that this is someone who matters. Someone who could change your life with a word or destroy it just as easily.
My heart forgets how to beat properly.
He's scanning the lobby, and I know he's looking for me even before his eyes find mine.
When they do, he stops.
Just stops mid-stride, and the look on his face—
God.
It's hunger and possession and relief and anger all tangled together into something so intense I feel it like a physical touch across the space between us.
Three weeks. It's been three weeks since I saw him last, since he told me I deserved better than his world, since he sent me away while keeping security on my building like he couldn't quite let go.
And now he's here.
Walking toward me with purpose and determination and something that looks almost like desperation under all that control.
I stand because my body does it automatically, drawn to him like gravity, and suddenly he's right there in front of me and I can't breathe.
"You left." His voice is quiet. Almost too quiet. But there's an edge to it—sharp and accusing and hurt in a way that doesn't match the controlled expression on his face.
It takes me a second to find my voice. "You told me to."
"I told you that you deserved better." He takes a step closer, and now we're definitely in each other's space, close enough that I can smell that cedar and darkness that I've been dreaming about for three weeks. "I didn't tell you to disappear."
"What was I supposed to do? You said we wouldn't see each other again."
"And you believed me?" Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or disbelief. "Sloane, I had security watching your building. Had updates on you every single day. Where you went, who you saw, whether you were safe. Did you really think I was done with you?"
The confession steals my breath. "You were watching me?"
"Protecting you." He corrects like there's a difference. Like stalking and safety are just two sides of the same coin. "The situation with Veil and your ex—I needed to make sure you were safe."
"You could've called. Texted. Something."
"And said what?" His jaw tightens. "Come back to me even though I have nothing good to offer? Let me drag you into my world where people get used as leverage and enemies come after everything I care about? I was trying to do the right thing."
"By having me followed?"
"By keeping you safe while staying the hell away from you." He runs a hand through his hair, and it's the first crack I've seen in his composure. "Which was working fine until you showed up here asking for me."
Right. He doesn't know yet. Doesn't know why I'm here or what I need to tell him or how everything's about to change.
The panic rises again, sharp and overwhelming.
"I need to talk to you." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "It's important."
His eyes search mine, and I watch as the anger fades into something else. Concern, maybe. "Are you hurt? Did someone threaten you? Because if Veil or your ex—"
"No. Nothing like that. I just—" I glance around at the busy lobby, at all the people definitely trying not to stare at us while absolutely staring at us. "Can we go somewhere private?"
Something shifts in his expression. Hardens with determination.
"Yes." He holds out his hand. "Come with me."
I should ask where. Should maintain some independence and not just follow him blindly.
But when I look at his hand—strong and steady and offering something I don't have a name for—I take it.
His fingers close around mine, warm and certain, and I feel that touch everywhere. Like a circuit completing. Like coming home to a place I didn't know I'd been missing.
"I've been looking for you for three weeks," he says quietly, leading me toward the private elevators at the back of the lobby. "Going crazy trying to respect your space while every instinct told me to show up at your apartment and—"
"And what?"
He looks at me, and the intensity in those storm-gray eyes makes my knees weak.
"Claim what's mine."
The words should make me angry. Should trigger every independent, feminist bone in my body to push back against being claimed like property.
But they don't.
Because the way he says it—possessive and protective and almost vulnerable—makes it sound less like ownership and more like devotion.
We reach the elevators. He swipes a key card and the doors open immediately.
"Where are we going?" I ask as we step inside.
"Somewhere we can talk without an audience." The doors close, sealing us in together, and the air feels charged. Heavy with everything we're not saying. "Somewhere I can find out what's important enough to bring you back to me."
The elevator rises, and my heart rises with it, climbing toward a moment I can't take back.
Because once I tell him, everything changes.
Once I say the words, there's no going back to before. No pretending this was just one night that didn't matter.
His hand is still holding mine, thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that's probably unconscious but feels deliberate. Claiming.
"Sloane." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a warning. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it."
I want to believe him.
Want to trust that a man I barely know can somehow make everything okay when my entire world is tilting sideways.
But all I can do is hold his hand and watch the numbers climb higher.
Toward whatever comes next.