"I didn't touch her," Reese spat, releasing me instantly.

I gasped, my lungs burning as if I’d been underwater. I forced myself to stand tall, though my knees were trembling. What did he mean by again?

"The scene told a different story, Reese," the young woman beside the General said, her voice sharp and melodic. "Still reaching for things that belong to your brother?"

Reese bared his teeth at her. "Don't interfere," he hissed.

"Silence!" The General’s word cracked like thunder. The room stilled. Even the air seemed to stop moving. He turned his gaze fully back to me. "Step forward, young girl."

Every nerve screamed to run, but his eyes were a trap. I stepped forward, feeling like a specimen under a microscope.

"You're Savannah Hart," he murmured. "The one my son is so desperate to marry?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine, sir," I replied, swallowing my sarcasm.

He studied me with surgical precision. "So it's true. Tell me... how far along are you?"

The question was a bomb. "I beg your pardon? Who do you think you are?"

The guards moved instantly, hands flying to holsters. Steel gleamed. But I was too angry to be afraid. I lifted my chin, glaring at the man who had invaded my morning. He raised a casual hand, and the guards froze.

"You are not pregnant?" he asked.

"No, I am not! It’s rude to ask, and it's even ruder to break into someone’s home like this," I pointed a finger at him. "Roman doesn't even want you here. You should leave."

The silence that followed was agonizing. The woman gasped; Reese looked like he was watching a car crash. I realized I’d just insulted a man who commanded empires.

But instead of fury, a slow, amused lift of his brow was my only answer. "Do you know who I am, Miss Hart?"

"I don't care," I folded my arms. "Your son handled me like a criminal on your orders. I want an apology."

Reese leaned in, whispering frantically. "Tone it down! He's not just anyone. He’s commanded armies before you were born."

I snapped at Reese, "Come close again and you'll get a punch, not an apology."

When I turned back, the General was smiling. It was a small, crooked thing. "You're right, Miss Hart. That was rude. I apologize for my son’s lack of manners." He leaned in. "Do you accept?"

I squared my shoulders. "Fine. I accept."

He passed his cane to the woman and stretched out a hand. "Reginald Blackwood. Roman’s father."

And then it clicked. I’d seen this face on TV, in history books, shaking hands with world leaders. General Reginald Blackwood. Former head of the army. Former President. I was shaking hands with a god of war.