Five months pregnant and nearly broke, I was standing in a grocery store with just $17 in my bank account when my wealthy ex-fiancé waved hundred-dollar bills in my face and humiliated me in front of strangers. His new fiancée laughed at my pregnant belly while someone nearby started recording. I was desperately trying not to cry when three men in black suits entered the store, followed by Chicago's most feared mafia boss. **And when he walked straight toward me, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me in front of everyone, my ex-fiancé's face went completely white.**

"M-Moretti," Nathan stammered, his polished country-club bravado evaporating into thin, pathetic vapor. "Mr. Moretti. I... there’s been a mistake. We didn't know—she didn't say—"

Adrian didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The quiet menace vibrating from his frame was heavier than any shout. He glanced down at the three hundred-dollar bills lying on the linoleum floor between my boots, then looked back up at Nathan with eyes that held the warmth of a glacier.

"You dropped your garbage," Adrian said softly.

Vanessa clung to Nathan’s arm, her artificial tan suddenly looking gray under the harsh fluorescent tubes. She tried to pull him backward, whispering frantically, but Nathan seemed paralyzed.

"I was just... offering some assistance," Nathan squeaked, his voice cracking like an adolescent's. "An old acquaintance. An act of charity."

"Charity?" Adrian took a single step forward. The two suited men who had entered behind him immediately boxed the aisle, sealing off Nathan’s escape route. The teenager with the box cutter had vanished behind a stack of canned tomatoes, while the woman filming kept her phone raised, hands trembling visibly.

"My wife does not require your charity, Mr. Vance," Adrian said, pronouncing Nathan’s last name like an incurable disease. "Nor does my child."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. His child? What was he playing at?

Adrian didn't give Nathan time to process the lie. With an agonizingly slow, calculated motion, Adrian reached into his own coat. Nathan flinched, visibly terrified that a weapon was coming out. Instead, Adrian produced a platinum clip holding a thick stack of thousand-dollar denominations. He peeled off five bills and tossed them casually into Nathan’s chest. The paper fluttered and slapped against Nathan’s expensive wool coat before scattering onto the floor.

"Pick them up," Adrian ordered.

"What?" Nathan whispered, humiliated.

"Pick them up," Adrian repeated, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Take your scrap paper, take your woman, and leave this store. If your eyes ever land on Claire again, I will ensure that Vance Logistics loses every shipping contract between here and Montreal by sunrise tomorrow."

Nathan didn't hesitate. Shaking, sweating through his designer collar, the heir to one of Chicago’s premier freight companies dropped to his knees on the dirty grocery store floor, scrambling to gather the bills like a beggar in an alley. Vanessa buried her face in her hands, practically running toward the automatic doors. As soon as Nathan stuffed the cash into his pockets, he scrambled backward on all fours before finding his feet and bolting.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Adrian turned back toward me. His towering frame completely shielded me from the stares of the remaining shoppers and the woman with the phone. Without a word, he reached down and took the basket from my white-knuckled fingers, handing it to one of his men behind him.

"Pay for these," Adrian told the guard without looking back. "And clear the store."

"Wait," I choked out, finding my voice at last. "Adrian, what are you doing? What was that?"

He looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my pale face, the dark circles under my eyes, and the faded winter coat that barely zipped over my five-month bump. A flicker of something dark and unreadable crossed his eyes—not pity, but a cold, burning possessiveness.

"You're freezing, Claire," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle compared to the steel he’d just used on Nathan. He reached out and zipped my coat up to my chin with steady hands. "Come. The car is outside."

"I can't go anywhere with you," I whispered, stepping back until my spine hit the refrigerated dairy shelving. "I haven't seen you in seven months. Not since... not since that night at the Drake."

That night. The charity gala where everything had unraveled. The night I caught Nathan in a VIP suite with Vanessa, the night I walked out into the rain with a broken heart and ended up drinking single-malt scotch at the corner table with the most dangerous man in the state of Illinois. A man who had looked at me like I was the only breathing thing in a room full of mannequins. One reckless, electric, unforgettable night in a penthouse suite—followed by a frantic morning where I fled before sunrise, terrified of who he was.

Three weeks later, the two pink lines had appeared on the plastic stick.

Adrian stepped into my space, eliminating the distance I had tried to create. He didn't touch me roughly, but his hand came to rest lightly, deliberately, over the curve of my belly. The warmth of his leather glove penetrated straight through my sweater.

"You ran from me," Adrian whispered, leaning down so his words brushed against my ear, hidden from the world. "You spent five months starving in a rundown studio in Pilsen while carrying my flesh and blood. Did you honestly believe my men wouldn't find you?"