My office. Now.
My stomach drops. Does he know? Did someone tell him?
I pull up to the main house and kill the engine.
The ranch is already busy—prospects mucking stalls, hands working horses in the round pen, the usual morning activity.
Dakota's on the porch as I climb the steps, leaning against the railing with a cup of coffee.
"Morning, Shadow," she says, her eyes curious. "Dad's looking for you."
"Yeah. Got the message."
She studies me for a moment. "Everything okay?"
"Fine." I keep my expression neutral. "Just club business."
She doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "Good luck."
I head inside, my boots heavy on the hardwood.
The main house is familiar territory—I've been here hundreds of times for Sunday dinners, club meetings, and ranch business.
But today it feels different.
Today I'm walking in as the man who's been sleeping with Phantom's daughter.
His office is at the end of the hall, door closed.
I knock twice.
"Come in."
I push the door open and step inside.
Phantom's office is exactly what you'd expect from a man who runs both a massive ranch and an MC.
The big oak desk is covered in paperwork, everything from cattle records to club finances.
The walls are lined with photos: Grace, Shiver, and Dakota at various ages, the ranch through the decades, Phantom's grandfather who founded the original club.
A shotgun is mounted above the door. A reminder.
Phantom himself sits behind the desk, looking every inch the Prez.
At fifty-something, he's still a force—broad-shouldered, hard-faced, the kind of man who commands respect just by existing.
He's also Grace's father.
The man I've been lying to for days.
"Close the door," Phantom says. "Sit."
I obey, settling into the chair across from his desk.
My enforcer training kicks in—neutral expression, steady breathing, calm.
Like I'm here for routine business and not about to navigate a minefield.
