"My husband knew our unborn son was in distress, but when his lieutenant begged him to come home, he looked at his mistress and said, “Not yet.”

Lucian didn't wait for his driver to pull the Maybach around; he threw open the cabin door, sprinted through the pouring rain into a waiting town car, and ordered the driver to floor it toward Manhattan.

The entire drive across the George Washington Bridge felt like moving through slow-motion nightmare fuel. His chest burned with a terrifying mixture of adrenaline, panic, and a cold, creeping dread that he had permanently broken something that could never be repaired.

When the car finally pulled up outside the luxury high-rise on Central Park West, Lucian didn't use the underground parking garage. He burst through the front lobby doors, ignored the startled doorman, and shoved his key card into the private elevator, punching the penthouse floor button with frantic jabs.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open directly into the foyer.

“Serena!” Lucian shouted, his deep voice echoing off the high marble ceilings. “Serena, I’m here! I got your messages—the flight was delayed—where is my son?”

Silence answered him.

No sound of the television playing softly in the den. No footsteps padding across the hardwood floors. No smell of ginger tea or baby powder hanging in the air.

He dropped his leather duffel bag on the floor and rushed down the hallway toward the master bedroom.

Empty. The king-size bed was stripped bare, the mattress exposed and naked, showing only a white linen mattress pad.

He spun around and sprinted toward the nursery down the hall.

He threw the double doors open.

The room was immaculate, decorated in soothing shades of cream and forest green, complete with a handcrafted oak crib and a mobile of painted stars turning slowly in the draft.

And sitting right in the center of the pristine white shelf, untouched and unopened, was the silver music box he had shipped from Europe.

Next to it sat a single, plain white envelope with his name written across the front in Serena's precise, elegant cursive handwriting: Lucian.

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He crossed the room in two strides, tore the envelope open, and pulled out a single sheet of heavy cardstock.

Lucian,

When you read this, you are standing in an empty room, wondering where the life you took for granted went. You told your lieutenant ‘not yet’ while our son fought to take his first breath without you in the room. You chose a port agreement and a woman whose family name could buy you another stepping stone, proving that to you, even your own flesh and blood is just another transaction on a balance sheet.

I spent seven years building your empire from the ground up because I believed we were partners sharing a future. I learned too late that you only view people as tools to be used until they no longer serve your immediate ambition.

Do not look for us. Do not call my sister. And do not bother coming to Mercy General—Marcus Chen already transferred my hospital records and discharged us to a secure location hours ago.

You wanted an empire, Lucian. Enjoy ruling over it all by yourself.

— Serena

Lucian let the paper slip from his trembling fingers, fluttering down like a dead leaf to land softly on the nursery rug.

He fell to his knees in the middle of the empty room, his hands gripping his hair as the terrifying, suffocating reality finally crashed down around him.