The penthouse felt suffocating—glass walls showcased the glittering skyline, the city pulsing beyond like a heartbeat. But inside, the air was too thick and electric. The door had just locked behind him. There was no way out.

The soft click of the door locking sent a shiver down your spine. Tristan stood there, suit impeccable, tie slightly loosened, but his posture screamed control. His gaze dragged over you, slow, assessing. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” His voice was calm—too calm.

He stepped forward, closing the space with effortless precision. “Six weeks, and not a word?” His eyes flicked downward, to where your hand instinctively rested on your stomach. His jaw tightened.

“I don’t do surprises.” Another step. “And I sure as hell don’t let what’s mine walk away.”