Allyson's POV
Michael's eyes turned to ice. "What the hell are you doing in Allyson's room?"
Snow barely flinched, her composure maddeningly intact. "I could ask you the same thing, Michael. What brings you to your son's ex-girlfriend's room while she's wearing nothing but a towel?"
The temperature in the room plummeted as Michael's rage erupted. "You have some fucking audacity questioning me in my own house."
"I wasn't trying to—" she started, raising her hands in mock innocence.
"You never are," he snarled. "But somehow you always manage to, don't you?"
Snow drew a measured breath, her voice deliberately calm. "Michael, I'm not here to start anything. I simply asked the staff where Allyson's room was located. I thought perhaps we could have a conversation, woman to woman. Nothing more."
"You have zero right to ask about Allyson's whereabouts," Michael's voice was lethal. "And you damn sure don't get to approach her. You don't know the first thing about her."
"I was only—"
