Corinna POV:
Three days later, the rain returned to Manhattan, washing the streets in a cold, unforgiving gray. I stood by the window of my Tribeca duplex, looking down at the wet pavement. Parked illegally by the curb was a low-profile black sedan.
Graham had forced his way out of Mount Sinai Hospital. He was standing directly under the streetlamp, completely exposed to the freezing downpour. He wore a dark trench coat over his hospital scrubs. His right arm was heavily bandaged, the white gauze already soaked through with rain and fresh, seeping blood.
He walked up to the glass security doors of my building. The automated system scanned his face, instantly recognizing him as a blacklisted individual. The heavy magnetic locks engaged with a loud, final click.
He didn't try to break the glass. He didn't shout. He just stood there like a ruined statue, letting the icy water beat down on his shoulders. The blood from his torn stitches dripped onto the concrete, washing away into the gutter. He tilted his head back, staring up at the warm light spilling from my top-floor windows. He was trying to use a pathetic display of suffering to drag me back into his orbit.
Half an hour passed. The quiet street was suddenly illuminated by sweeping headlights. A silver Maybach tore through the rain and glided to a stop right under the building's awning.
The driver jumped out and popped a massive black umbrella. Lucian stepped out of the backseat. He was wearing a flawless, midnight-blue tuxedo, looking like royalty stepping onto a red carpet.
Lucian spotted Graham standing in the puddle. A sharp, mocking smile touched Lucian's lips. He walked right up to Graham. I watched from above as Lucian deliberately tilted the edge of his umbrella. A steady stream of freezing rainwater ran down the metal ribs and poured directly onto Graham's bleeding, bandaged arm.
Graham's head snapped down. He glared at Lucian with the feral, desperate eyes of a starving wolf protecting a bone. He took a step forward, his chest almost touching Lucian's, warning him to back off.
Lucian let out a soft, dismissive laugh. He reached into his tuxedo pocket and pulled out a sleek black keycard. He held it up, letting it catch the street light. He leaned in close to Graham's ear. I knew exactly what Lucian was whispering. He was telling Graham that he wasn't just my business partner. He was my fiancé, and he had the absolute right to sleep in my bed tonight.
The word 'fiancé' hit Graham like a physical blow to the back of the head. His face twisted in pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward and grabbed two fistfuls of Lucian's expensive collar, shaking him violently.
Lucian didn't even raise a hand to defend himself. He just stared at Graham's bloody, pathetic state with absolute disgust, reminding him that a broken dog had no right to claim ownership.
The building's private security team swarmed out of the lobby. They grabbed Graham by his injured shoulders and violently ripped him away from Lucian.
Lucian smoothed out his collar, swiped his keycard, and walked through the sliding glass doors, leaving Graham locked out in the storm.
Graham stood there, chest heaving. The realization that he had been completely and legally replaced finally shattered his legs. His knees buckled, and he dropped down, half-kneeling in the dirty, freezing puddle.
I turned away from the window and walked down the hall to the nursery. The room was bathed in soft, warm light. Thick Persian rugs covered the floor, scattered with advanced Lego sets and wooden puzzles.
Leo was standing on a small wooden stool, his tiny hands pressed against the floor-to-ceiling glass. He was three years old, but his deep, brooding eyes were a terrifying mirror of Graham's. Yet, the absolute calm in his gaze—that was all mine.
He held a miniature brass telescope to his eye, fascinated by the tiny black dot of a man kneeling by the streetlamp far below.
I walked into the room holding a mug of warm milk. When I saw him pressed against the glass, a sharp spike of anxiety pierced my chest. I set the mug down and walked over, gently wrapping my arms around his waist to lift him off the stool. I told him it was past his bedtime.
Leo didn't resist. He just pointed a chubby finger at the window. He looked up at me and asked in his crisp, childish English, "Mommy, why is that man crying in the rain?"
I followed his finger. My eyes locked onto the miserable, bleeding figure of Graham Rios kneeling in the mud. My heart slammed against my ribs, skipping a painful beat. The physical proximity of the two of them, separated only by glass and altitude, felt like a lit fuse.
Motherly instinct violently overrode everything else. I reached out and grabbed the edge of the heavy, velvet blackout curtains. I yanked them shut with a harsh snap.
The thick fabric plunged the window into darkness, instantly severing the visual connection between father and son.
I picked up the mug of milk and handed it to Leo. I crouched down so we were eye to eye. I forced my breathing to slow, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.
Leo tilted his head, his sharp eyes studying my blank face. He took a slow sip of the warm milk.
I smoothed down his soft hair. "Stop looking. That is just a lost homeless man."
