"Buy the bastards some milk," my wealthy fiancée laughed, flipping a twenty-dollar bill toward my ex-wife. I'd thrown her out of my life a year ago after believing she had cheated on me.

Panic erupted in the ballroom. High-society matrons shrieked, glasses shattered on the parquet floor, and powerful men scrambled back from their tables as armed federal officers took positions around the room.

Richard Whitmore’s face turned from red to deep, mottled purple. “What is the meaning of this?! I am Richard Whitmore! I demand to speak to the Governor!”

“The Governor signed the emergency arrest warrants thirty minutes ago, Mr. Whitmore,” the Assistant U.S. Attorney announced, stepping forward with a stack of signed legal documents. “Richard Whitmore, Tessa Whitmore, and Dr. Julian Vance... you are under federal arrest for kidnapping, conspiracy, wire fraud, obstruction of justice, and human trafficking.”

Tessa shrieked, backing away toward her father. “Rowan! What are you doing?! Tell them they’re wrong!”

I stepped straight toward her, taking my stolen son from her trembling arms before she could drop him.

Julian whimpered softly as I cradled him against my chest, his warm little forehead pressing into the notch of my tuxedo lapel. The smell of baby powder and fresh air filled my senses, and for the first time in a year, I felt my heart heal.

“You stole my child from his mother’s body, Tessa,” I said, looking down at her with pure disgust. “You paid doctors to forge death certificates. You left my wife to starve in a cabin while you wore a fifteen-carat ring on your finger.”

I reached down, grabbed her hand, and pulled the engagement ring off her finger. I tossed it onto the marble floor at her feet.

“The wedding is canceled,” I whispered.

Two female FBI agents stepped forward, grabbing Tessa by her wrists and forcing her arms behind her back. She screamed, thrashing against the handcuffs, her expensive lace dress ripping at the shoulder as she was shoved toward the floor.

“Rowan! You can’t do this to us!” Richard roared as two heavy-set Marshals forced him onto his knees, pulling his hands behind his back. “I built this city! I made you!”

“You didn't make me, Richard,” I said, looking down at the man who had thought he was a god. “You just forgot that an empire built on lies always crumbles from the inside.”

As the Whitmore family was dragged out of the ballroom in steel handcuffs in front of three hundred horrified press reporters and high-society elite, Sam Rivera stepped out from the hallway, flanked by two female officers.

Beside him walked Maren.

She was wearing a simple, elegant dark blue dress. Her dark hair fell softly over her shoulders.

She didn't look at the screaming Whitmores. She didn't look at the flashing cameras of the news media. Her eyes were fixed entirely on the baby bundle in my arms.

I walked across the ruined ballroom, stopping right in front of her.

“Maren,” I said softly.

I gently transferred our son into her arms.

Maren held Julian against her chest, her face burying into his cashmere blanket, letting out a long, shuddering sob of pure relief. Julian opened his tiny blue eyes, looking up at his mother’s face, his small fist reaching up to touch her cheek as if he had known her touch all along.