At my divorce hearing, the judge ruled that I would walk away with nothing. My husband wrapped his arm around his mistress, wearing the smug smile of a man who thought he had already won. “Let’s see how you and that baby survive without me,” he sneered. I lowered my head and swallowed the humiliation—until the courtroom doors burst open. A billionaire stepped inside, eyes locked on me. “Without you. My daughter and my grandchild will live like royalty.” In one second, my husband’s smile disappeared.
“June Payne,” I stated.
Harrison looked at me, a question in his eyes.
“No hyphens,” I stated, my voice firm despite my exhaustion.
“No, Jacob,” I insisted.
“The man who contributed her DNA is dead to us, he doesn’t exist, and she belongs to this family,” I declared.
“She belongs to us,” I reiterated.
Harrison nodded slowly, a profound, unshakable peace settling over his features for the first time in two decades.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
