Ethan stopped dead in his tracks. His shoulders went rigid.
The alcohol had stripped away his usual restraint, and those two words—"my house"—felt like a jagged knife twisting into an old, infected wound. It brought back the agonizing reality of his mother's early death, his father's swift remarriage, and the slow, parasitic takeover of everything that was supposed to be his.
He slowly turned around. The hazy, drunken fog in his eyes vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp, freezing glare that cut straight through Romina.
The sheer intensity of his stare made her heart skip a beat. But, banking on her status as the lady of the house and assuming Ethan was currently out of favor, she pushed forward. "What are you looking at?"
"Did I say something wrong? Go look in a mirror. You look exactly like the junkies you arrest!"
A dark, raspy chuckle rumbled in Ethan's chest.
It was a laugh dripping with self-deprecation and utter contempt for the woman in front of him.
He knew he looked like garbage. He had failed the one person he wanted to protect.
But that didn't give this gold-digger the right to trample on his pride, let alone lay claim to his mother's legacy.
"Your house?"
He repeated, his voice low but carrying the weight of a sledgehammer. He closed the distance between them, his tall frame entirely shadowing her on the couch. "Romina, you've lived here so long you've actually started believing your own lies. Did you forget whose name is on the deed?"
Intimidated by his sheer physical presence, Romina shrank back but tried to keep her volume up. "W-what are you doing? Back off!"
Ethan didn't stop until he was towering right over her.
"I think you've gotten entirely too comfortable. You've forgotten your place."
His voice was a lethal whisper. "My father bought this estate. My father built the company. My last name is Jenkins. I am the bloodline."
It was a brutal reminder that her luxurious lifestyle was bankrolled entirely by his family, and that she and her son were nothing but freeloading guests.

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