She walked back into my ballroom like she didn’t leave me bleeding out in a hospital bed five years ago.
I believed the lie. I thought she took the money and vanished. Now she’s here—commanding my crew, owning every inch of my mother’s million-dollar gala with that steel spine and those rough, callused hands—pretending the fire between us never burned us both alive.
Then I see him.
Four years old. Green eyes that match mine exactly. My son.
She hid him from me.
The woman I never stopped craving just became the only thing standing between me and everything I lost. Only this time, I’m not going to give her up.
I’ll kneel in the Brooklyn dirt for her. I’ll tear my name apart. I’ll prove I’m the father—and the man—she never thought I could be.
But first?
She’s going to watch me say hi to my son.
