“Mr. Vance, your two o’clock is waiting.”

The assistant’s voice buzzed through the intercom, cool, professional, and efficient, just the way Roman liked everything in his life to be. He stood in the floor-to-ceiling window of his corner office, Manhattan’s steel skyline laid out before him like a kingdom. He didn't turn to respond. He didn't need to.

“Send them in,” he said, his tone clipped.

Behind him, the double glass doors swung open. Leather shoes met polished marble as the legal team filed in, three of them, all dressed in tailored black and navy, clutching folders and tablets like holy scripture. At the front was Cassandra Wynn, the sharpest attorney on his payroll. He paid her a disgustingly large retainer to keep him two steps ahead of anyone who might try to touch his empire.

She didn’t believe in small talk. She sat down before he did.

“Mr Vance,” she greeted with a nod. “Let’s begin.”

He turned, finally, and made his way to the conference table, his navy suit cutting a clean silhouette against the glass backdrop of the city. He didn’t sit right away, choosing instead to pour himself a drink from the crystal decanter. Just one finger of scotch. Mid-afternoon was too early for indulgence. But today had already strayed off course.

That detour. That bakery. That boy.

Leila.

He took the seat at the head of the table and rested the glass on a leather coaster.

“What’s the update?”

Cassandra tapped her tablet, and the screen on the far wall flickered to life.

“Three things. First, your father’s estate proceedings are stalling. The courts are demanding more clarity on your intended plans for the DeLancey property.”

Roman didn’t flinch, but his jaw twitched. “It’s mine. They know that.”

“Technically, yes. But your father’s will included a clause allowing for a secondary hearing if any of the trustees contest your ownership—”

“Which they won’t.”

Cassandra raised a brow. “You’ve made enemies, Mr Vance. Some of them wear suits better than you do.”

Roman’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I hope they brought war shoes.”

Cassandra didn’t smile. She tapped again.

“Second, the Vance-Gold merger. Their board is nervous. They want reassurances. You’ve been… off the radar the past few weeks.”

Roman’s mind flickered, back to the bakery, the smell of cinnamon, Leila’s flushed cheeks, the exact pitch of her voice when she said his name.

He pushed the thought away.

“I’ve been handling matters. Personal ones.”

“Right.” Cassandra nodded, though her tone held a trace of curiosity. “We’ll need you in L.A. next week to finalize the acquisition. Their CEO is threatening to walk.”

“He won’t.”

“Mr Vance—”

“I said, he won’t.”

Silence pressed around the room. Cassandra exchanged a glance with the younger associate beside her, but said nothing more.

Roman took a slow sip of scotch.

“And the third?”

Cassandra took a breath. “It’s about the bakery.”

That got his full attention. The glass paused halfway to his lips.

“What bakery?”

“The one in—” she swiped to bring up the name, clearly not used to dealing with such small-scale cases, “Hart & Hearth.”

Roman leaned back in his chair. His expression unreadable.

“What about it?”

“One of our local contacts flagged a public records update. The property taxes are overdue. The building is owned under the Hart family name, but there’s no LLC. It’s not incorporated. That makes it vulnerable.”

Roman was silent.

Cassandra went on. “From what we gather, it’s a family business. No business bank account, no limited liability protection, no insurance on the equipment. It’s not a matter of if something goes wrong, it’s when.”

Still, Roman said nothing.

The third lawyer, a junior associate named Bradley, jumped in, flipping his legal pad. “Technically, Mr. Vance, it would be very easy to acquire. You could file an offer to purchase under a shell company, assuming the current owners are willing. If not, well… there are ways. Eminent domain filings, zoning challenges, even safety code violations.”

Roman stared at the screen.

A photograph of the bakery filled it. Taken by some local, probably. The sign crooked, the ivy in bloom, the brick soft with age. A place that had no business surviving in a world like his.

“You’re suggesting I buy it.”

“I’m saying you could. If you wanted to.”

Cassandra leaned forward. “Mr Vance, may I speak plainly?”

“You always do.”

“This... interest, whatever it is in that bakery, in that town, is off-brand for you. You don’t invest emotionally. You don’t make detours. And you sure as hell don’t hover over women you meet by accident.”

Roman’s expression darkened. “I’m not hovering.”

“You’re considering purchasing her entire world.”

He looked away.

“Is it about the woman? Or the building?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Cassandra studied him carefully. “Then don’t decide in the dark. We can run a background on the Harts. Financials. Family ties. Any skeletons. If she’s got a weakness—”

“No.”

The word cut through the air like a blade.

The room froze.

“I don’t want surveillance. I don’t want background checks. Not on her. Not on her family.”

Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Roman, this isn’t you. You taught me to lead with facts, not feelings.”

“I’m not leading with anything. I’m watching.”

“Watching what?”

“To see if the smell fades,” he said quietly, then drained the rest of his drink.

No one dared to ask what he meant.

Cassandra cleared her throat and changed the subject.

“We’ve got contracts to review for next week’s trip. Shall we—”

But Roman wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was already drifting back to cinnamon and warm bread. To brown eyes that saw too much. To a voice that didn’t tremble under pressure.

To Leila.

The rest of the legal team filtered out with murmured goodbyes, papers tucked under arms, minds already shifting to their next high-profile clients. The glass door hissed shut behind them, sealing the boardroom in a cool hush.

“Cassandra,” Roman said, voice quiet but firm.

She had just reached the door, her tablet hugged to her chest.

She paused, turned. “Yes?”

“Stay a moment. There’s something else I want to ask, off the record.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she nodded and stepped back inside. “Sure. Should I close the door?”

“Yeah.” He moved toward the windows again, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stared at the skyline. His reflection ghosted in the glass, expensive suit, tightly drawn jaw, eyes that didn’t match the calm of his stance.

Cassandra shut the door gently and came to stand by one of the sleek leather chairs, her eyes never leaving him. “What’s this about?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Roman began, choosing his words with care, “about hypotheticals.”

She blinked. “That sounds like something you usually hate.”

He gave a humorless smile. “I do. But indulge me for a minute.”

She sat, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Go on.”

He turned from the window and looked at her fully. “Let’s say… a man had a child out there. One he didn’t know about. Or at least, he wasn’t sure.”

Cassandra’s expression didn’t change, but she straightened slightly. “Go on.”

“He’s recently… encountered the child. The mother is being tight-lipped. There’s no confession, no denial. Just silence. And it’s eating at him.”

Cassandra’s brows knit. “So, he wants to know if the child is his?”

“Right.”

“And the mother won’t agree to a DNA test?”

“She hasn’t been asked,” Roman said. “Let’s say this man, he’s not ready to ask. Because asking makes it real. And if it’s not real… it’ll destroy him to have hoped.”

He didn’t realize how fast his heart was beating until the silence fell.

Cassandra leaned back, lips pursed. “Okay. So, hypothetically… this man wants to know if there’s a legal way to get a DNA test done without the mother’s consent?”

“Or knowledge,” Roman said quietly.

“Roman,” Cassandra said, and this time her tone lost all professional polish.

His name, not Mr. Vance.

He didn’t answer. He just looked out the window again.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said carefully. “But I’ve worked with you a long time. You’re not someone who spins hypotheticals for fun. This isn’t a game of chess. You’re protecting yourself from something.”

He turned toward her, jaw tight.

She continued, “Legally, a paternity test without the mother’s knowledge is complicated. If the child is underage, parental consent is required. There are exceptions, but courts don’t love going behind a parent’s back. It’s not impossible, but it’s messy. And if it’s challenged, it won’t hold much weight in court.”

“So there’s no clean way.”

“There’s no clean way,” she echoed. “But Roman…”

She hesitated, then leaned forward.

“This isn’t about hypotheticals, is it?”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. The boardroom was too quiet.

Cassandra’s voice dropped. “Is the child here? In this city?”

His gaze faltered for the first time. That was all the answer she needed.

“Jesus,” she muttered, almost to herself. “You think he’s yours.”

“I don’t know anything,” Roman said, and there was a rare crack in his composure. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. And it’s driving me out of my fucking mind.”

Cassandra sat back, her brows drawn tight with something that looked a lot like concern, personal concern. “You want me to look into it?”

He paused. “I want… options. Quiet ones. Legal ones. I’m not going to rip apart anyone’s life. But if there’s a path, I want to know.”

“Roman.” Her voice was gentler now. “If this boy is yours, you’ll have more to deal with than paperwork and swabs. There’s the mother, the story, the past. Are you ready for that?”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t know.”

A long silence fell between them.

Cassandra stood. “I’ll do some digging. Quietly. But this, whatever this is, you’ll have to face it eventually.”

Roman gave a small nod, and she moved toward the door. Just before leaving, she paused and looked over her shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I think you’d be a good father. Even if you don’t know it yet.”

He looked up, surprised.

Then she was gone.

The room felt too big again. Too quiet. Roman sat down slowly, the leather creaking beneath him, and stared at the door she’d walked through.

A boy. A maybe.

A what if.

And suddenly, the skyline outside looked less like victory… and more like the edge of something terrifyingly real.