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Emma adjusted her simple black dress in the rearview mirror of her old sedan. The estate loomed ahead, a sprawling fortress of stone and glass nestled among ancient oaks on the outskirts of Crestwood. She had driven the thirty-minute route that morning with Ryan asleep in the back seat, a mix of hope and apprehension churning in her gut.

The salary promised financial security for Ryan's growing needs. The isolation made her uneasy.

She parked in the circular driveway and smoothed her hair. The air carried the crisp scent of pine and distant rain. Before she could knock, a butler opened the massive oak door. He was tall and impeccably dressed, his expression neutral but observant.

"Ms. Lopez? Mr. Wilson is expecting you. Follow me."

The name sent a jolt through her, but she pushed it aside. Wilson was a common name.

He led her through a grand foyer with marble floors that echoed her footsteps. Paintings of stern ancestors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow her. The house felt more like a fortress than a home, with high ceilings and shadows in every corner.

They entered a sunlit study. Bookshelves reached to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound volumes. A man stood with his back to her, gazing out a floor-to-ceiling window at the manicured grounds. His frame filled a tailored charcoal suit, and dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.

Something about his posture stirred a distant memory, a flicker of recognition that made her breathing quicken.

"Ms. Lopez," the butler announced before withdrawing.

The man turned.

Emma's world tilted. James Wilson. The same intense brown eyes, the same strong jaw now clean-shaven. The air left her lungs in a rush, and her heart hammered against her ribs.

He was the father of her child. The man from that reckless night six years ago.

His expression shifted from polite interest to shock. Recognition dawned in his eyes, followed by a storm of emotions she could not fully read. Anger. Betrayal. His gaze raked over her, as if confirming the impossible.

"Emma." His voice was low and controlled, but tension vibrated beneath it like a plucked string.

She forced herself to stand straight, though her knees weakened. Her body betrayed her with a flush of heat, memories of his touch flooding back unbidden. She had searched for him once. Now he stood before her, the mysterious CEO whose estate she had come to for a job.

"Mr. Wilson." She kept her tone professional, though her voice wavered slightly. "I am here for the private chef position."

He stepped closer, closing the distance until she could smell his familiar cologne, sandalwood and something wild. Her stomach twisted. "You," he said, his eyes narrowing. "The woman who vanished without a trace."

She swallowed hard. "That was a long time ago. I did not expect to see you here."

His laugh was bitter, lacking humor. "Did not expect? Or hoped not to?" He moved even nearer, his presence overwhelming. Her breath came shorter, her skin tingling as if anticipating his touch.

"I left a note," she said, meeting his gaze. "With my number."

"A fake number." His voice hardened. "I tried calling. It led nowhere."

Her mind raced. The smudged digit, her haste in the panic of the hospital call. "It was real. I must have written it wrong. My grandmother had a stroke that night. I had to leave."

He studied her, doubt flickering in his eyes. "Convenient."

Anger sparked in her chest, overriding the fear. "Convenient? I sat by her hospital bed for weeks. I discovered I was pregnant alone. I raised our son without you because I could not find you."

The words hung between them. His face paled. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

"Our son?"

She had not meant to reveal it so soon, but the truth spilled out. "Ryan. He is six. He has your eyes. Strange things happen around him. That is why I need this job. For stability."

James staggered back a step, as if struck. His hand gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white. Emotions warred on his face: disbelief, wonder, fury. "A son. And you kept him from me?"

"I did not know how to reach you." Her voice rose. "You were a ghost. The hotel had no information. I tried searching for you, but do you know how many James Wilsons run companies? Your secretaries would not even confirm you existed without an appointment."

He paced, his movements agitated. The room felt smaller, the air charged. She sensed the power in him, the alpha presence that had drawn her in years ago. Her body responded against her will, a shiver racing down her spine.

"Prove it," he demanded, stopping inches from her. Heat radiated from him, making her acutely aware of their proximity.

She pulled out her phone and showed him a photo of Ryan. The resemblance was undeniable: the dark hair, the intense gaze, the shape of his face. James stared, his breath catching. A softness crept into his eyes, vulnerable and raw.

"He is mine." It was not a question. He reached out, as if to touch the screen, then pulled back. His hand trembled slightly before he clenched it into a fist. "You will start immediately. But we have much to discuss."

The door opened behind her. A man in an expensive suit entered, his smile polished and professional. "Everything settled?"

"Henry Martin," James said, his tone clipped. "Ms. Lopez, this is my business associate. He handles certain arrangements."

Henry's eyes flickered to her, something calculating in his gaze. "Welcome, Ms. Lopez. I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction here."

James's expression hardened. "Yes. Ms. Lopez accepts the position."

Emma nodded, though unease settled in her gut like a stone. This was no ordinary job. James knew the truth now, and the way he looked at her promised complications she could not escape.

As she left the study, his voice followed her. "Emma. This changes everything."

She glanced back, her heart pounding. He watched her with possessive intensity, his eyes tracking her every movement. She had come for a job, but she had unlocked a door to a past that refused to stay buried.

That afternoon, as she unpacked in the guest quarters, a text from an unknown number arrived: Welcome to the family.

She deleted it, but the words lingered in her mind like a threat.

What had she stepped into?