Her husband knew their unborn son was in distress—yet when his lieutenant begged him to come home, Lucian looked at his mistress and whispered, “Not yet.”

The rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Milan high-rise sounded like gravel hitting glass. Inside, the suite was warm, smelling of vintage Barolo and expensive tuberose perfume.

Lucian Vance stood by the fireplace, unbuttoning his French cuffs. Across the room, curled on the velvet sofa in his silk robe, Bianca watched him through lowered lashes.

The heavy mahogany double doors burst open without a knock.

Lieutenant Vance, Lucian’s head of private security and the only man permitted to interrupt him without protocol, was breathing heavily. His coat dripped onto the Italian marble. In his hand, a satellite phone blinked with a frantic amber beacon.

"Sir," Vance said, his voice stripped of its usual military calm. "We have an emergency. Mercy General. Mrs. Vance’s water broke three weeks early. The local unit reports fetal distress. The baby's heart rate is decelerating."

Lucian froze, his cufflink dropping onto the polished floor with a sharp ping. His sharp gray eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, decelerating?"

"The cord is compromised, sir. Dr. Katherine is prepping an emergency C-section. Elena is with her, but she’s begging for you. You need to board the jet now."

Lucian’s hand reached instinctively toward his overcoat on the armchair. For five years, Serena had been his anchor, the gentle presence waiting in the quiet corners of his ruthless empire. The thought of his unborn heir in danger struck a chord of primal terror deep in his chest.

He took one step toward the door.

A soft, choking sob cut through the air.

Bianca stood up, her face pale, trembling violently. She staggered, catching the edge of the glass console table, sending a crystal decanter crashing to the floor. "Lucian... please..."

Lucian turned, his brow furrowing. "Bianca, sit down. Call the hotel doctor."

"Don't leave me," she whispered, tears spilling over her mascara-lined eyes. She clutched her lower stomach, sinking slowly to her knees among the shards of glass. "The palpitations... my chest. Lucian, you promised you wouldn't abandon me again after the clinic. If you walk out into that storm, I won't survive the night."

Vance stepped between them, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out like wire. "Sir, with all due respect, your wife is bleeding on an operating table in Chicago. Your son is suffocating. The Falcon 8X is fueled on the tarmac. We have a fifty-minute weather window before the airspace closes."

Lucian looked at Vance. Then he looked down at Bianca, who had crawled to his polished leather shoes, her delicate fingers wrapping around his ankle, weeping uncontrollably, whispering his name like a dying prayer.

Lucian’s jaw twitched. A strange, poisonous arrogance settled over his features—the curse of a man who believed money and influence could always buy him a second chance, that Serena would always endure, as she always had.

"Sir!" Vance’s voice cracked with raw desperation. "She needs you right now!"

Lucian pulled his foot gently from Bianca’s grasp, knelt, and lifted her into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. Without looking back at his lieutenant, he spoke in a low, muffled voice:

"Hold the flight. Give her twenty minutes to stabilize."

"Lucian, she doesn't have twenty minutes!" Vance shouted, breaking every rule of his contract.

Lucian looked over his shoulder, his eyes icy and final.