Three hours before I was supposed to marry Dylan Carter

Dylan lay on the oil-stained concrete of the parking garage, groaning and clutching his fractured jaw. Blood leaked between his dirty fingers, staining the hem of his rumpled trench coat.

Julian didn't look at Dylan again. He stepped over him as if he were nothing more than a discarded garbage bag, immediately turning to face me. His hands gently grasped my upper arms, checking me with urgent, silent precision.

“Did he touch you?” Julian demanded, his voice thick with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs.

“No,” I whispered, steadying myself against his chest. “You got here in time.”

Julian pulled me against him for a brief, fierce second. His heartbeat was rapid, hammering against his ribs beneath the heavy wool of his overcoat. For all his corporate ruthlessness and ice-cold demeanor, in that single moment, Julian Vance looked like a man who had nearly lost everything he cared about.

He looked over my shoulder at Miller. “Call the precinct captain. Have this piece of trash arrested for criminal stalking, assault, and violation of the emergency restraining order we filed yesterday.”

“Understood, sir,” Miller replied, pulling out his radio and stepping toward Dylan, who was trying to crawl toward the exit ramp.

Julian guided me to his car, opening the door and helping me inside before sliding into the seat beside me. He didn't speak until the Maybach had cleared the underground security gates and merged into the midtown traffic.

“Were you at the clinic for what I think you were?” Julian asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the tinted window ahead.

I looked at him. The tension in his jaw was palpable.

I reached into my inner pocket, pulled out the thermal ultrasound photograph, and placed it gently on the center console between us.

Julian’s gaze dropped to the small black-and-white image.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. For a man who managed ten billion dollars in assets and broke hostile takeovers with a single signature, he looked entirely humbled by that tiny bean-shaped silhouette.

“Eight weeks,” I said softly. “The heartbeat is strong.”

Julian’s hand moved slowly toward the photograph. His long, calloused fingers hesitated above the paper, as if he were afraid his touch might smudge the ink. Slowly, reverently, he picked it up.

“He said he’ll use the baby,” Julian murmured, his voice hardening into granite. “He thinks he can use a paternity claim to force settlement terms on the trust fund. He thinks a child gives him leverage.”

“He will never touch this baby, Julian,” I said, every maternal instinct in my body flaring into white-hot fire. “I will burn every dollar I own before Dylan Carter ever lays a finger on my child.”

Julian turned his head to look directly into my eyes. The darkness in his gaze had cleared, replaced by a resolve that took my breath away.

“You won't have to burn a single cent, Ava,” Julian said. “Because legally, financially, and physically, Dylan Carter will cease to exist in this child’s world.”

“How?” I asked. “Under New York law, if he establishes paternity through genetic testing, he can drag me into family court for eighteen years. He will use our child as a weapon to bleed me dry and keep himself relevant.”

Julian leaned closer, his voice dropping to a warm, steady murmur. “Not if the court determines he is an unfit guardian before the child is even born. And certainly not if you aren't fighting him alone.”

“Julian...”

“Ava, listen to me,” Julian said, his eyes searching mine with an honesty that was almost overwhelming. “When your grandfather was dying in the hospital three years ago, he called me into his room. He told me he was worried about you. Not because you weren't smart—you’re the most brilliant woman I’ve ever known—but because your heart was too pure for the wolves in our industry. He made me swear that if the day ever came where someone tried to tear down what he built for you, I would step in.”

My throat tightened. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. “My grandfather asked you that?”

“Yes,” Julian whispered. “And I made him a promise. But I need you to know something, Ava. What I did at the St. Regis, what I’m doing now—it’s not just because of a promise I made to an old man. It’s because I’ve been in love with you since the summer you were eighteen, turning pages of your architectural sketches by the lake.”

The silence inside the car was absolute.

My breath hitched. The world outside the tinted windows—the skyscrapers, the yellow cabs, the rushing crowds—seemed to blur into background noise.

“Julian,” I breathed.

“I’m not telling you this to pressure you,” Julian said quickly, a rare vulnerability flashing across his aristocratic features. “You’ve just survived a horrific betrayal. You’re carrying a child, and you need time to heal. I don't expect anything from you, Ava. But I want you to know where I stand. I will stand between you and Dylan Carter. I will stand between you and every snake in this city. If you let me, I will be the father this baby deserves, and the partner who never asks you to shrink yourself.”

I looked at him—at the man who had arrived like an archangel when my world shattered at the altar; the man who held my family’s legacy in his hands and didn't steal a single thread of it; the man who looked at an unborn child that wasn't his with nothing but reverence and fierce protection.

I reached out and placed my hand over his.

His fingers closed around mine, warm, steady, and unbreakable.

“Tomorrow is the emergency shareholder meeting for Reynolds Architecture,” I said softly. “Dylan’s allies on the board are trying to push through a forced buyout using the old pre-merger clauses.”

Julian smiled—a cold, beautiful, predatory smile.