I didn’t blink. I simply folded my hands neatly in my lap and crossed my ankles. “I assure you, Julian, I’m perfectly comfortable.”

He stepped closer to my chair, invading my space. He leaned down, dropping his voice to a low, intimate frequency meant only for my ears. “Whatever wild stories she’s been whispering to you, Eleanor, you need to understand that grief makes pregnant women incredibly dramatic.

Hormones distort reality.”

I tilted my head, feigning polite confusion. “Grief?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his breath hot against the side of my face. “Grief for the fairytale life she imagined she’d have. Before she decided to become… difficult.”

The word hung in the frigid air. Difficult. It was his final warning—a promise of the violence that awaited her in the delivery room if I didn’t back off.