Page 28 of Bound in Matrimony

"Mr. and Mrs. Vance," Dr. Winters interrupts from behind the screen. "You're about to meet your daughter."

Time slows, crystallizing into a perfect, suspended moment. I hear a flurry of activity, murmured technical exchanges between the surgical team, and then—a cry. Small but fierce, indignant at being removed from her comfortable dwelling, determined to be heard.

My daughter.

The sound breaks something open inside me, something I didn't know was sealed shut. A raw, unfiltered emotion too powerful to name floods through the breach.

"Knox." Seraphina's voice pulls me back, her fingers squeezing mine. "Go see her."

I hesitate, torn between my promise never to leave her side and the desperate need to see our child.

"Go," she insists. "I'm right here."

I stand on legs that feel suddenly unsteady, peering over the screen just as a nurse lifts our daughter—impossibly small, impossibly perfect—into view.

"Would you like to cut the cord, Mr. Vance?" Dr. Winters asks.

My hands, which have never trembled during billion-dollar negotiations, shake visibly as I accept the surgical scissors. With one careful snip, I sever the physical connection between Seraphina and our daughter, even as a new, unbreakable bond forms between all three of us.

They clean and wrap our child with practiced efficiency, then place her in my arms. The weight of her—so light yet so monumentally significant—nearly brings me to my knees. I staredown at her tiny face, her eyes screwed shut, her miniature fists balled in protest, and feel the last walls around my heart collapse entirely.

I return to Seraphina's side, cradling our daughter where she can see her. "She's perfect," I manage, my voice rough with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."

As I stand there, my hand still firmly gripping Seraphina's, our daughter nestled in the crook of my arm, I understand with perfect clarity that every acquisition, every victory, every empire I've built means nothing compared to these two lives now entrusted to my protection.

And I silently renew the vow I made the day I married Seraphina: Nothing and no one will ever come between me and what's mine. My family. My world. My everything.

Chapter Sixteen

Seraphina

The world comes backto me in pieces—the steady beep of monitors, the soft murmur of voices, the peculiar heaviness of my body that doesn't quite feel like my own. The surgical suite has been exchanged for a recovery room, all soft lighting and muted colors. I blink away the lingering haze of medication and surgery, my artist's eye automatically cataloging details: the pale blue of the walls, the gentle pink of the sunset filtering through half-drawn blinds, the crisp white of the sheets pulled up to my waist. And there, in the corner of the room, a tableau that stops my breath—Knox, still in surgical scrubs, cradling our newborn daughter in arms that have closed billion-dollar deals and crushed competitors without mercy. Those powerful hands, now curved with impossible gentleness around our tiny child, look as though they were created for this singular purpose.

"Knox," I whisper, my voice scratchy from exertion and the breathing tube they inserted during surgery.

He turns immediately, his attention shifting to me with the same laser focus he brings to everything that matters to him. But there's something different in his expression—a softness I've never seen before, a vulnerability so raw and unguarded it makes my chest ache.

"She's awake," he murmurs to our daughter, as if sharing a secret. "Your mother's awake."

He crosses to my bedside with careful steps, as though carrying something infinitely precious and breakable. Which, of course, he is.

"Would you like to hold her?" he asks, though it's barely a question. He already knows my answer.

I raise my arms, ignoring the pull of the IV and the distant throb of pain from my incision. Nothing could keep me from reaching for my child. Knox places her in my embrace with such tenderness, his hands lingering to ensure I have her securely before reluctantly withdrawing.

The weight of her in my arms is both heavier and lighter than I imagined—a physical presence that somehow defies physical laws, like holding a star fallen to earth. I look down at her face, studying her features with the care I'd give a priceless masterpiece. She has Knox's dark hair, a surprising amount of it plastered to her tiny head. Her eyes, when they flutter open briefly, are that newborn blue-gray that holds the promise of any color. Her nose is impossibly small, her lips a perfect rosebud.

"She's beautiful," I breathe, tracing one finger along her cheek. Her skin is softer than anything I've ever touched, softer than seems possible.

"Like her mother." Knox perches on the edge of the bed, unable to move far from either of us. "She has your chin. That stubborn little tilt."

I smile despite my exhaustion. "And your eyebrows. Look at that serious expression."

As if on cue, our daughter's face scrunches into a frown of concentration, her tiny brow furrowing exactly like her father's does when reviewing contracts.

A nurse appears, showing me how to position the baby for her first feeding. The sensation is strange, powerful, primal—this tiny being latching on, completely dependent on me for survival. Another wave of exhaustion sweeps through me, but beneath it runs a current of fierce, protective love unlike anything I've ever experienced.

"We need a name," I say softly, watching our daughter's eyelids grow heavy as she nurses. We've discussed options for months, never quite settling on one that felt right.

---