At my divorce hearing, the judge ruled that I would walk away with nothing. My husband wrapped his arm around his mistress, wearing the smug smile of a man who thought he had already won. “Let’s see how you and that baby survive without me,” he sneered. I lowered my head and swallowed the humiliation—until the courtroom doors burst open. A billionaire stepped inside, eyes locked on me. “Without you. My daughter and my grandchild will live like royalty.” In one second, my husband’s smile disappeared.

His icy blue eyes were brimming with heavy, unabashed tears.

He stopped beside the bed, looking down at the tiny bundle on my chest.

“She’s beautiful, Alice,” Harrison whispered, his deep voice cracking with emotion.

He reached out a massive, scarred finger, and my daughter stirred, reached out with a tiny, fragile hand, and wrapped her fingers tightly around his.

Harrison let out a choked breath, a tear finally spilling over his weathered cheek.

In that small grip, I saw twenty-four years of my father’s agonizing, generational grief begin to heal.

“Her name is June,” I said softly, looking up at my father and brushing a kiss against the top of my baby’s head.