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I had forbidden Caspian Rourke from bringing that woman—the daughter of one of his men—into our lives. He agreed. Then, behind my back, he set her up in a mansion in Lincoln Park. Everyone envied me for marrying the most feared man in Chicago, for carrying the Rourke family’s twin sons. But on the night I gave birth, while I was bleeding out on the operating table from a gunshot wound, Caspian was with that woman, handling a "family emergency" she had engineered. My mother knelt in the hospital corridor, sobbing as she dialed his encrypted phone, only to be met with a dead line. Only later did I learn the daughter of his man had been his secret lover since she was eighteen. I took the twins and fled to my family's brownstone in Brooklyn. When Caspian finally came for me, I was in the middle of changing a diaper. He stood in the doorway, a vision in his bespoke suit, holding a solid-gold baby rattle. "Aurora, come home with me." He held out the rattle. "I know I was wrong." I glanced up at him and smiled. "Wrong about what?" He blinked, thrown by the question. I snatched the rattle from his hand and smashed it against the wall. It dented with a dull thud. "You should have honored your blood oath and married her. You shouldn't have used me to bear your children." ———————— 1 Caspian bent to pick up the rattle. The trash can was tipped over, spilling used diapers and wipes. One clung to the polished toe of his handmade Italian leather shoe. He didn't even flinch. "Aurora," he said, his voice low, "I know you're angry—" "I'm angry?" I lifted my younger son. He'd just finished his milk and let out a soft, milky burp against my shoulder. "What could I possibly be angry about?" Caspian straightened, his gaze sweeping across the cluttered living room. A changing table, cans of formula, and baby toys littered the floor. Genevieve visited last week. She took one look at this Brooklyn brownstone, called it a hovel, and demanded I move back to Chicago. "A
