Chapter 268

[ 1,133 words ]

Julian’s POV

I took one long, heavy step closer to the edge of the bed, my shadow completely engulfing her.

“I am exactly who I think I am,” I rasped, looking down at her with a cold, merciless finality that shut the air right out of her lungs. “Julian fucking Windsor. The man who owns you. Talk back to me and see what happens next p>

Katia went completely silent.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t glare. She simply stared up at me, her chest heaving, her fingers gripping the silk sheet with a white-knuckled tightness as she realized the absolute limits of her control had just been vaporized. There was no corporate armor left to protect her. There was no legal document that could save her from the physical reality of my possession.

I didn’t touch her again. I turned on my heel, walked to the foyer, and gathered my clothes from the floor. I dressed slowly, my movements deliberate and silent, the cold, quiet focus of the morning settling back over my skin.

I left her penthouse at exactly five AM.

The elevator doors slid shut behind me, isolating me in the quiet steel cabin, but the scent of her sweat and the heat of her skin were still heavy in my throat. Jude Wolfe was in my city now. He had claimed my wife in front of the world. But by the time my car hit the highway back to the estate, I knew one thing with absolute, murderous certainty.

The war had officially started. And I was going to make sure Jude Wolfe bled for every single frame of that broadcast.

The highway back to the Windsor family mansion was a blur of grey tarmac and cold morning mist.

My knuckles were white against the steering wheel, the dry, stiff blood on my palm from the shattered crystal yesterday cracking and pinching with every turn. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t care. My mind was still trapped in the dark of Katia’s penthouse, the phantom scent of her skin and the heat of our desperate collision still heavy in my throat. I had left her at five AM, slipping out before the city lights could fade into the pale, indifferent dawn.

The security gates of the Windsor family mansion opened, the massive iron bars parting to welcome me back to the fortress. I parked the car in the private garage, not bothering to take my coat, and walked inside. The massive stone hallways were smelling of old wood, beeswax, and the deep, centuries-old silence that only wealth could buy.

I walked straight down the west corridor, my boots making no sound against the thick Persian rugs, until I reached the door of Aiden’s bedroom.

I pushed the door open. The room was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the morning light. A single nightlight cast a soft, amber glow across the floor. In the center of the massive canopy bed, a small, quiet shape was curled under the heavy duvet.

Aiden.

My chest tightened with a sudden, suffocating pressure. I walked to the edge of the mattress slowly and sat down on the silk sheets. Aiden didn’t stir. His breathing was soft and incredibly light, his small face relaxed in the deep, peaceful sleep of a child who believed the world was a safe place.

I looked at him. I looked at the sharp, elegant curve of his little jaw, the slight, stubborn set of his mouth, and the way his dark hair fell over his forehead. He was soon going to be seven years old.

I got up, my chest aching with a raw, hollow grief that made my throat tight. I walked out of the room, my strides long, heading deep into the east wing—the old, abandoned section of the mansion where my childhood bedroom had been left untouched for fifteen years.

I pushed the heavy oak door open. The air inside was cool and dusty, smelling of old paper and linen. I walked straight to the mahogany chest of drawers by the window. There, sitting among a collection of old school trophies and leather-bound books, was a small, silver-framed photograph.

It was a picture of me. I was seven years old, standing on the lawns of the Windsor estate, wearing a small, structured riding jacket, looking directly at the camera, serious and unblinking.

I grabbed the silver frame, my fingers tracing the cold metal, and walked back to Aiden’s room.

I climbed onto the bed, sliding under the heavy duvet beside my son. I laid the silver frame flat on the pillow next to Aiden’s head.

I looked from the photograph to the sleeping boy.

The shock of it hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air right out of my lungs. The resemblance wasn’t just striking; it was absolute. Aiden was a carbon copy of the boy in the photograph. The same structure of the eyes, the same sharp, stubborn nose, the exact same spacing of the jawline. He was my flesh. He was my blood. He was the Windsor heir, born from the secret night in a Las Vegas that Katia still believed was nothing but a ghost story.

A single, hot tear slipped from my eye, tracing a wet path down my cheek.

I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. The grief was a physical weight in my stomach, hot and savage. I had not seen him grow. I hadn’t been there when he took his first steps, or when he spoke his first words, or when he learned to walk. I had spent years of his life running a global empire, completely blind to the fact that my son—my own, real son—was being raised by a single mother in Brooklyn while her family called her a fraud.

The rage in my chest turned to pure, unyielding concrete.

I reached out, my large, scarred hand gently stroking Aiden’s soft hair, my fingers lingering against his temple. I looked at the photograph, then at him, and I made a silent, murderous vow to the quiet room.

I will do anything.

I would tear this city apart, I would burn WEG to the ground, and I would execute every single enemy who dared to look in his direction. Aiden was never leaving the Windsor family mansion ever again. He was mine. He belonged in this house, under my name, under my protection, and there was no force on this earth strong enough to take him from me.

At exactly seven AM, the encrypted black phone on the bedside table buzzed, which made me reach out and grab it before the sound could wake the boy.

“Windsor,” I muttered, my voice a quiet, dangerous rasp.

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