A promise.
In the middle of the wreckage of my life, with my future torn out from under me and my dignity left bleeding at the altar, this child stood beside me and chose me anyway.
I stayed kneeling there, holding the boy’s small, trembling hand, feeling the warmth of his grip against mine.
My eyes never left the empty space where Harris had stood.
I could have arrived earlier, avoided the chaos, or ignored the boy’s frantic sprint and the two men chasing him.
But I hadn’t. I had chosen to act. I had chosen to protect someone weaker, someone terrified, even if it meant walking into ruin myself.
And I didn’t regret it—not for a second—even knowing that poverty might grind me into dust long before I ever touched the Vasquez fortune. Not knowing if the world would ever bend to me, I at least knew that my conscience wouldn’t break.
Then, imperceptibly at first, the atmosphere shifted.
A ripple moved through the chapel like wind over water. Whispered gasps escaped from a few throats, subtle enough to seem accidental but sharp enough to make me glance up. Harris’s bodyguards, already halfway down the aisle after him, froze mid-step, their sharp eyes narrowing. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
I lifted my gaze.
The doors at the back of the chapel opened wider, letting in sunlight that slanted across polished wood and floral arrangements.
He entered.
And the air changed.
He was tall—easily six-three—with a presence so commanding it made the chapel feel smaller, like the walls themselves were shrinking around him.
Every step he took was precise, measured, the soft click of polished oxfords cutting through the silence like a metronome.
He moved with the ease of someone who had never had to beg the world for attention, someone who carried authority in the sway of his shoulders and the relaxed rhythm of his gait.
His charcoal-gray suit fit like a second skin, tailored with military precision, broad across the chest, tapering at the waist.
It spoke of power, wealth, and absolute control, but without arrogance—just quiet, inevitable command.
Every fold, every crease seemed deliberate, as though the fabric itself had been forged to contain his presence.
And then I saw his face.
It was devastating.
High, sculpted cheekbones caught the light, the kind that could have been carved by some merciless master sculptor and set to intimidate mortals.
Slate-gray eyes, deep and stormy, edged with silver flecks where the light hit, locked onto me for the briefest fraction of a second.
A straight, aristocratic nose, full lips that curved ever so slightly, suggesting humor or danger—sometimes both at once.
His jaw was a blade, sharp enough to cut light, softened only slightly by a hint of shadowed stubble that made him appear effortlessly dangerous, as if he didn’t care whether he terrified the world or charmed it.
He moved like someone carved from marble by Greek gods themselves and sent to walk among mortals, a creature too perfect for any ordinary world.
The room knew him before I did.
Men I recognized from my father’s circle—faces I had only ever seen at high-stakes poker tables or whispered meetings in darkened back rooms—rose slowly from their seats.
Some inclined their heads in respect, almost bowing like courtiers greeting a king. Others simply straightened, standing a little taller, eyes fixed on him with the deference born of knowing power and survival.
Harris, still frozen near the doors, looked toward him—and for the first time since I had known him, the arrogance left his face. Gone was the smug, contemptuous expression; replaced by a flicker of fear, recognition, and caution. Without a word, Harris stepped aside, moving quickly and almost apologetically, making way as if acknowledging a force he could not challenge.
