Storm Moretti didn't even look at me when he said those words. He stood holding a glass of bourbon while his attorney slid a contract across the desk toward me.

I looked up into Storm’s dark, unwavering eyes, searching for any trace of the cold, calculating billionaire who had handed me a termination contract six years ago. All I found was a raw, aching vulnerability he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

“Protect us?” I repeated, a bitter edge slipping into my voice despite myself. “Storm, your entire life is a battlefield. Vance is just the tip of the iceberg. If we stay here, if we play house in your golden cage, Leo becomes a target every single second of every single day.”

“And if you run back to Boston?” Storm countered gently, stepping closer until the warmth of his body radiated against mine. “Vance already knows you’re here. Running won't make you invisible anymore, Juliet. The only way to keep Leo safe isn't by hiding him in the shadows... it’s by putting him behind a fortress so strong no one can ever touch him. And nobody builds a stronger fortress than a father protecting his blood.”

His words struck a chord deep within my chest. I hated how much sense he made. For six years, I had lived in constant, quiet paranoia, jumping at every shadow, wondering if today was the day someone from my past would find us. Storm was right—the illusion of safety in Boston was shattered forever.

Before I could answer, the door behind me clicked open.

Leo poked his head out into the hallway, holding his silver toy car in one hand. He looked between Storm and me, his big eyes full of childish curiosity.

“Mommy? Is the bad man gone?”

My heart melted. I knelt down, sweeping Leo into my arms and burying my face in his soft hair. “Yes, sweetie. The bad man is gone.”

Storm knelt down beside us. For a moment, he hesitated, as if afraid to touch either of us, before gently resting his large, warm hand on Leo’s small shoulder. Leo didn't pull away; instead, he tilted his head and looked up at Storm.

“Are you really my dad?” Leo asked again, the question simpler and heavier than any adult debate.

Storm swallowed hard, a rare, genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth. He reached out and gently tapped the hood of Leo’s silver toy car.

“Yes, Leo. I am,” Storm said firmly. “And I promise you... nobody is ever going to hurt you or your mommy ever again. Do you trust me?”

Leo studied Storm’s face for a long, silent moment—using that uncanny lie-detector instinct he always had. Finally, the little boy nodded. “Okay. But only if you have ice cream.”

A low, rich chuckle rumbled in Storm’s chest—a sound so warm and relaxed I had rarely heard it during our entire relationship years ago.

“Mrs. Gable,” Storm called out without turning his head.

The middle-aged assistant appeared instantly at the end of the hallway. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”

“Order every flavor of artisanal ice cream available in Boston and have it shipped via private jet within the hour. Also, contact Director Harrison at federal intelligence. Tell him I want a complete sweep of Richard Vance’s digital communications by midnight.”

“Right away, sir,” Mrs. Gable replied, her eyes darting briefly to me with a newfound, respectful nod before she hurried off.

Storm stood up and offered his hand to me. I looked down at his calloused palm—the hand that controlled billions of dollars, the hand that had held a gun to Vance’s throat just minutes ago, and the hand that now gently stroked our son’s hair.

Slowly, I placed my hand in his.