Roman Collahan had never been to this part of Manhattan and was hoping he'd never have to again after today. The neighborhood was quiet, not serene, not charming-just quiet in such a way it felt too still for New York. The buildings were old but cared for, lined up like tired soldiers waiting for the bottom to fall out. Roman's polished shoes clicked sharply against the pavement, out of place among the chipped sidewalks and fading stair rails. Everything about this place grated on him.
He double-checked the address. It was the right one. Dammit.
He muttered under his breath, "This is ridiculous."
His father, the billionaire with more secrets than warmth, had apparently dedicated years of his life to whoever was behind that shabby, blue door with peeling paint. It looked like a single kick would knock it right off its hinges. Roman's frustration climbed through him, fire rising up his throat. He wasn't sure what he expected, but not this.
If this was the woman who stole his father's time, then she had to have stolen his standards too.
He tightened his jaw, raised a fist, and knocked. Hard.
The door opened almost immediately, as though someone had been standing just behind it. A woman appeared-young, jarringly so. Red hair fell past her shoulders in a bright wave, the kind of color that made her seem to have been sculpted to stand out. Her blue eyes were sharp, immediately irritated by the sight of him. She looked nothing like the mistress he'd imagined. Not old. Not elegant. Not seductive. Just… furious.
"Yes?" she snapped.
Roman blinked once, recalibrating. She couldn't be more than her early twenties. His father's mistress? It was almost laughable. Almost.
"Where is your mother?" he asked without formality at all.
Her brows knitted. "Excuse me?"
"Your mother," he said without mincing words. "Harry Collahan's… companion. I need to speak with her."
There was a long pause-just seconds, heavy enough to thicken the air between them. Then her expression hardened into something glacial.
"I don't have a mother," she said flatly.
Roman snorted, completely unimpressed. "Look, I'm not here to play games. I want to speak to the woman who lived here with my father."
"I told you," she bit back, eyes flashing like sparks striking metal. "I do not have a mother. And no one lived here with your father. Now, if you don't mind—"
"I do mind," Roman cut in, his body inching slightly forward. "Because it reads that Harry Collahan spent years here. With someone. Someone who apparently has control over the fate of my family's inheritance. So if you want to drop the act, now would be a great time."
Her mouth fell open, but then she snapped it shut with visible annoyance. "Are you insane? Why would I hide someone from you when I don't even know who you are?"
"I'm Roman Collahan," he said sharply. "Harry's son."
Something in her eyes shifted; not recognition of guilt, but a flicker of surprise-the name meant something to her, even if he didn't. She breathed in slowly, steadying herself. "Oh," she said. "Well, that explains the rudeness.
Roman's irritation sharpened. "I didn't come here to be insulted. Just tell me where she is."
"And I didn't invite you here," she returned. "You came onto my door step, accused me of hiding someone I don't even know and now you're demanding answers I don't have."
Roman studied her face. Too young. Too defensive. Too offended. He'd expected a guilty woman with shifty eyes and false sweetness. But this woman-this girl-met him head-on without flinching.
"So then explain," Roman said, folding his arms. "Why did you react when I said my father's name?"
Her lips parted, then tightened. "Because he helped me," she snapped. "Because he was kind to me. Because he deserved better than a son who shows up yelling at strangers."
Roman's jaw clamped at the insult. "You don't know anything about me."
"And you don't know anything about him," she shot back.
That landed like a slap. His temper spiked.
"Don't pretend you knew him more than his own family," Roman growled. "You don't get to speak about him like that."
She moved closer to him, her intensity matching his. "What I know is he cared about people without asking for anything in return. And you? You show up acting like I owe you something."
"You owe me answers," Roman said. "If you were the woman he—
"I was not his mistress!" she snapped, voice rising. "Do you hear yourself? I'm twenty-three! What exactly are you accusing me of?"
Roman paused. The age startled him—but not enough to stop the anger twisting inside him. "The will says what it says."
"The will is wrong," she persisted. "And if you weren't too busy insulting me, you'd realize that."
His eyes narrowed. "So you're saying the will is a mistake.
"I'm saying you're a jerk," she corrected sharply.
The argument spiralled, the sound of their voices like knives against shields. For every snap from Roman, she snapped harder; for every insult he threw, she returned with something sharper. She was fire, pure and bright, and he was fuel without meaning to be. They argued until the air between them felt hot enough to burn.
She finally heaved the door shut, hiding half her body behind it. "Get off my porch."
"Gladly," Roman muttered, "this was a waste of time."
"Yes," she said coldly. "And don't come back unless you learn manners."
Turning, he started down the steps, irritation vibrating through every muscle. He should have felt satisfied—he'd confronted her, demanded answers, thrown his accusations. Yet something felt wrong, like a thread he couldn't see had been tugged loose.
She didn't look guilty.
Not in the least.
Roman stopped halfway down the sidewalk. His hand curled into a fist. He didn't trust her, not for a second. But if she wasn't lying-if she truly wasn't who he thought-then the situation was far more complicated than an affair. He exhaled strongly, the tension bubbling just beneath his skin. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd get the truth out of her. One way or another.