By the time my husband reached the gates, I was eight months pregnant, barefoot in freezing rain, and nearly bald because his mother had ordered my hair hacked off inside the mansion. Every person under that roof had watched in silence, but none of them knew what Roman Kane would do when he saw me.

The rain returned on a Tuesday in late October, but this time, it was not a violent storm. It was a soft, autumn drizzle that made the autumn leaves in Central Park glisten like rubies.

At 4:00 AM, my water broke.

There was no panic. No chaotic rush down dark driveways.

Within four minutes of Roman making the call, our private medical team arrived at the penthouse. Two elite obstetric nurses and Dr. Aris herself—who had agreed to handle the delivery in our custom-designed private suite at Saint Jude’s—were waiting.

The labor was long and intense, lasting fourteen hours.

Through every contraction, through every wave of agony that surged through my body, Roman was there. He didn't sit in a chair; he stood behind me, supporting my back, holding my hands, breathing with me, whispering words of fierce, unending love into my ear.

"You are the strongest woman on this earth, Bianca," he murmured, his tears wetting my shoulder as I leaned against him during a massive contraction. "Push, my love. Bring our daughter home."

At 6:18 PM, as the golden light of the setting sun broke through the autumn clouds outside the hospital window, a loud, sharp, magnificent cry filled the room.

WAAAAAH! WAAAAAH!

"She's here!" Dr. Aris announced with a broad, triumphant smile, lifting the squirming, pink newborn baby into the warm air. "A healthy, perfect baby girl!"

They placed her directly onto my chest.

She weighed seven pounds and two ounces. She had a full head of soft, dark hair—just like mine—and her tiny, wet fingers instantly reached out and curled tightly around Roman’s thumb.

Roman fell to his knees beside the bed.

The man who ruled Kane Capital, the man who had torn down a empire to avenge me, buried his face in the white hospital sheets beside our baby girl and wept aloud—deep, cleansing, joyous tears that washed away every remnant of the blood and darkness that had plagued his family for generations.

I reached out, my trembling fingers gently touching his wet cheek, then resting over our daughter’s warm back.

"What are we naming her?" Dr. Aris asked softly, holding a birth certificate clipboard near the bed.

I looked at Roman, and he looked up at me, his dark eyes filled with absolute reverence.