My billionaire ex-husband called me from his wedding just to hear me cry—he had no idea I had given birth to his daughter two hours earlier.

Spring came early to New York that year.

By April, the trees along Prospect Park were bursting with light pink cherry blossoms, and the cold wind that had swept over the East River in winter had softened into a gentle, warm breeze.

I stood on the brownstone terrace, holding three-month-old Eleanor against my shoulder. She was growing rapidly, her dark eyes becoming more expressive every day, her small laugh echoing through the house like silver bells.

The legal fallout from Grant's arrest had been swift and absolute.

Kingsley Enterprises had entered bankruptcy liquidation. The Brooklyn waterfront properties—the very land Grant had stolen from my father's estate—had been seized by the city and returned to a public trust, managed by a committee that I had been asked to lead.

Sienna Vale had taken a plea deal, receiving probation and a heavy fine in exchange for her full cooperation with the federal prosecutors. She had left New York permanently, her reputation in social circles ruined beyond repair.

As for Grant, his trial had been waived in favor of a guilty plea. He was currently serving a fourteen-year sentence at Fort Dix Federal Correctional Institution. He had tried three times to file petitions for parental rights, but every single motion had been summarily dismissed by the family court based on his criminal conviction and his prior legal declarations denying paternity.

A soft footstep sounded on the stone terrace behind me.

Dominic walked out, wearing a charcoal grey sweater and dark trousers. He held two mugs of warm coffee, handing one to me as he stood by the wrought-iron railing.

"You look peaceful," he said, looking down at me with a soft smile.

"I am," I said, taking a sip of the coffee. "For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of tomorrow."

He looked down at Eleanor, who reached out a tiny, chubby fist toward his dark sweater. Dominic smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up his sharp features—and let her grab his little finger.

"The paperwork for the Brooklyn Trust came through this morning," Dominic said. "The city officially named the new park after your father. The Judge Arthur Vance Memorial Park."

I felt a sudden lump form in my throat. "Arthur Vance Park... he would have loved that."

"He would have been proud of you," Dominic said softly. "You built something beautiful out of the ruins."

I looked up at him, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the quiet, powerful bond that had grown between us over the past nine months.

"Dominic," I said quietly.

"Yes?"

"What happens now?"

He lowered his hand, his thumb gently stroking the back of my baby's soft head, before his eyes moved up to meet mine.

"Now," Dominic said, his voice dropping into that deep, reassuring baritone that had become my sanctuary, "you live your life. You raise your daughter. And if you ever need someone to stand between you and the world..."