"I brought divorce papers to my missing wife’s hospital room—unaware the nurse’s warning about my best friend was about to change everything."

Sitting in a soft, velvet rocking chair near the window, wrapped in a thick cream wool blanket, was Sophia.

She looked fragile—her dark hair pulled back into a loose, soft braid, her face pale, the sharp contours of her cheekbones more pronounced than they had been four months ago. But her hazel eyes—those beautiful, fierce, intelligent eyes that had always seen straight through my dangerous facade—were wide awake.

Her right hand rested flat against a small, round bump beneath her wool blanket.

When the door opened, she flinched instinctively, her fingers tightening over her stomach, her posture going rigid with terror.

Then she saw me.

"Dom..." she whispered.

The word tore through the quiet room like a physical blade.

I stood in the doorway, six-foot-three of dark wool, broad shoulders, and iron authority, completely frozen. My sidearm felt like a lead weight in my pocket. My lungs refused to take in air.

"Sophia..." I rasped out, my voice breaking into sharp, pathetic fragments.

She didn't scream. She didn't turn away.

She let out a soft, shuddering sob, pushing the heavy wool blanket off her lap, trying to push herself up from the rocking chair with trembling hands.

I crossed the room in two strides, dropping onto both knees flat on the hardwood floor before her chair, my broad hands reaching out to catch her waist, guiding her gently back down into the soft cushions.

"Don't get up, sweet girl," I wept, my forehead dropping flat against her knees, my heavy shoulders shaking violently as four months of buried grief, rage, and agonizing guilt burst out of my chest. "Don't get up... I'm sorry... God, Sophia, I'm so sorry..."

Sophia’s small, warm hands came up, her fingers burying deep into my dark hair, pulling my face up until I was forced to look into her eyes.

Tears cut clean, sparkling tracks down her pale cheeks as she cupped my jawline, her thumbs tenderly wiping away the tears streaming down my face.

"You came alone," she sobbed softly, a beautiful, radiant smile touching her trembling lips. "You read the letter."

"I read it," I swore, taking her left hand in mine, pressing my lips frantically against her knuckles, her palm, her wrist. "I read every word. Eleanor gave it to me."

"Mateo..." she whimpered, terror flickering across her hazel eyes again. "Dom, Mateo has guards in the parking lot—"

"Mateo is done, Sophia," I cut her off softly, reaching up with my right hand to gently, reverently place my broad, calloused palm over her rounded stomach.

The moment my hand touched her dress, a soft, distinct kick vibrated against my palm.

My heart stopped beating.

I stared down at my hand resting against her belly, my jaw dropping open in sheer, speech-bound wonder as another small, firm movement pressed against my fingers.

"He's twenty-eight weeks, Dom," Sophia smiled through her tears, placing her small hand flat over mine. "Dr. Aris says he has your strong kick."

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead gently against her bump, weeping like a man who had just been dragged out of an open grave into the blinding, warm light of salvation.