"My ultrasound photo dropped in front of 30 VIP guests—then the mob boss looked at me and asked: 'Is that baby mine?'"

My small event-coordination staff was paid triple their standard rates and escorted home in private executive town cars, while Damian’s chief intelligence director, Leo, posted eight broad-shouldered operators in dark suits along the private elevator landing and the building's underground garage.

Damian guided me into the master suite—a warm, firelit wing overlooking Central Park, filled with soft velvet sofas, a king-sized bed, and a roaring stone fireplace.

I sat on the velvet couch wearing a soft cashmere sweater provided by his private estate manager, holding a mug of warm chamomile tea in both hands, while Dr. Aris Vance—a distinguished private obstetrician on retainer for the Rourke family—executed a routine fetal heart rate check using a portable ultrasound monitor.

The steady, rhythmic thump... thump... thump... of our baby’s heartbeat echoed cleanly through the firelit room.

I closed my eyes, tears of pure relief spilling over my eyelashes.

"The baby’s heart rate is a perfect one-hundred-and-forty beats per minute, Miss Bennett," Dr. Vance smiled gently, wiping the clear gel from my stomach. "Maternal blood pressure is slightly elevated due to emotional stress, but both mother and child are in excellent health."

Damian stood near the floor-to-ceiling glass window, his jacket off, his dark silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, watching every second of the examination with an intense, protective focus.

Once Dr. Vance packed his equipment and stepped out into the hallway, the room fell into a quiet, peaceful stillness.

Damian walked across the Persian rug, sitting beside me on the plush velvet sofa. He didn't invade my space, but his broad shoulder rested comfortably near mine, offering a solid, unshakeable warmth.

"Claire Hollis said terrible things to you tonight, Mara," Damian spoke softly, his deep baritone carrying a rich, velvet resonance. "She made comments about your dress, your body..."

I looked down at my hands holding the tea mug, my cheeks flushing with an old, familiar shame. "I've heard comments like that my whole life, Damian. In high school, at university, in business meetings... people look at a woman who isn't a size zero and assume she has no discipline or worth."

Damian reached out his broad, warm hand, his long fingers gently, reverently taking my teacup and setting it onto the mahogany side table.

Then, his broad hands came up to frame my face, his thumbs gently wiping away my lingering tears, forcing me to look straight into his storm-gray eyes.

"Listen to me, Mara," Damian commanded softly, every word dropped into the quiet room like a heavy block of gold. "You are breathtaking. Every curve of your body, every inch of your soft skin, and every heart-beat of the child you are carrying inside you is sacred to me. Anyone who makes you feel small in this city... will answer to me."

My heart took a wild, dangerous leap against my ribs.