You Treasure Her, While Ten Tycoons Spoil Me

The heavy paper of the report felt slick and cold under Joslyn Cameron's fingertips.

She traced the edge of the photograph again. Kisha Franklin, smiling softly, her hand resting on the shoulder of a small boy. He couldn't be more than five. The background was unmistakable-the sharp, modern lines of Jude's private apartment in London.

A place she had never been.

The low growl of a car engine cut through the evening quiet of the York estate. Her heart seized in her chest, a painful, stuttering beat. She shoved the report under a silk cushion on the sofa just as the heavy oak door swung open.

Jude York filled the doorway. Tall, impeccable in a custom-tailored suit, his presence sucked the air from the room. He loosened his tie with a familiar, impatient tug, his eyes sweeping past Joslyn as if struggling to place her for a fraction of a second before his expression settled into its usual unreadable mask.

Joslyn rose to her feet, the smile she tried to form feeling like a grimace. "Was your trip—"

The words died in her throat.

He wasn't alone.

Behind him stood a woman in a simple white dress, her expression timid, her hand clutching a small boy's.

Kisha Franklin and Leo.

The woman from the photograph.

Kisha's eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something that looked like triumph before she lowered her gaze. The boy, Leo, peeked out from behind her legs, his wide eyes taking in the cavernous living room.

Joslyn's vision tunneled. The room, the man she married, the woman who had haunted their marriage, the child. It was a tableau from a nightmare. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

Jude ignored her completely. He walked straight to the bar cart, the crystal decanter clinking as he poured a measure of whiskey. The sound was unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence.

He took a sip, then finally spoke, his voice flat. "Kisha and Leo will be staying here from now on."

A roaring sound filled Joslyn's ears. She forced words past the lump in her throat, her voice a raw whisper. "Jude, I need an explanation."

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his deep gray eyes finally landing on her, devoid of any emotion. "An explanation? You're looking at it."

Kisha chose that moment to let her eyes well up with tears. "Jude, maybe... maybe this was a mistake. This is too hard on Joslyn."

Jude's brow furrowed in annoyance. His tone was absolute, leaving no room for argument. "This is your home."

Each word was a physical blow. This was their home. Hers and Jude's.

She took a shaky breath, her gaze locked on him. "That boy... whose is he?"

He set the glass down with a decisive click. He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and she saw nothing but cold dismissal. "Leo is my son. I'm adopting him, legally."

The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She stumbled back, her hand landing on the arm of the sofa to steady herself.

"Adopting?" She clung to the word, a drowning woman grasping at a piece of driftwood. "So he's not... he's not yours by blood?"

A flicker of impatience crossed his face. "That's irrelevant. What matters is that he will carry the York name."

He closed the distance between them, his height and sheer presence overwhelming. He stood over her, a judge delivering a sentence. "And starting today, you will be his mother."

The air left her lungs. "You want me to be a mother to... to a bastard?"

At the word "bastard," Kisha flinched dramatically, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.

Jude's expression turned glacial. "Watch your words, Joslyn."

Her heart, which had been hammering against her ribs, seemed to stop altogether. It sank into a cold, dark pit in her stomach. This man, her husband of three years, was a complete stranger.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. The tears she'd been fighting finally burned in her eyes. "And what about me? What about our children, Jude?"

The question hit a nerve. The cold mask on his face cracked, replaced by something harder, crueler.

He leaned in close, his voice a low, venomous whisper meant only for her. For a split second, his pupils seemed to lose focus, a barely perceptible tremor in his hand. "I told you. We won't have any children between us"

She froze, a hazy memory surfacing. Three years ago, before the wedding. He'd said something like that, his tone just as flat and detached as it was now. She had dismissed it as an excuse, the words of a man not yet ready for a family.

His voice was devoid of any warmth, any humanity. "And you, Joslyn, will never have a child of mine."

The last thread of hope she hadn't even known she was holding onto snapped.

She looked into his cold, empty eyes and finally understood. For three years, she had been the sole performer in the play of their marriage.

And the show was over.