Chapter 2 - THE KING’S PAUSEEzra stopped walking.
The silence that followed was so profound you could hear the distant hum of the penthouse climate control system.
Monica didn't see him approaching at first. She was too busy glaring at Lena. "Oh, good," Monica snapped, turning toward the sound of footsteps. "Mr. Cross, thank goodness. Look at this mess. This filthy brat—"
"Quiet, Monica," Ezra said.
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't boom across the lobby. It was a low, smooth baritone that cut through the room like a scalpel, carrying a dark, lethal authority that made Monica’s jaw click shut mid-sentence.
Ezra didn't look at Monica. He didn't look at Lena.
His eyes were locked entirely on Rosie.
For a fraction of a second—a microsecond that only a father who had grieved over an empty grave for half a decade could understand—Ezra’s iron composure fractured. His chest rose in a sharp, shuddering breath.
Rosie raised her head. Her dark, hollow eyes met her father's.
She didn't cry. She didn't run to him. She just held the dying mastiff tighter against her chest, a silent challenge passing between them.
You weren't there, her eyes said. I had to carry him alone.
May you like
Ezra swallowed hard, his throat working visibly as he stepped forward, ignoring the blood soaking into the front of the child's dress. He knelt down right beside her on the dirty marble floor, heedless of his expensive suit trousers.
"Rosalie," Ezra murmured, his voice cracking slightly on the name he hadn't dared to speak out loud in six months. "Where... where did you find him?"
