Concern softened his usually stern expression, something fierce flickering beneath it. Then he turned to Lena.
In a low, steady voice, he said, “Get your hands off my daughter.”
Lena froze.
Color drained from her face as she stared between us. “Your… daughter?” she whispered.
My father stepped forward, positioning himself between her and my bed—solid, unmovable.
His name is Robert Carter.
In this city, it carries weight. It opens doors and ends arguments. He is known for his business empire, his philanthropy, and his absolute refusal to tolerate cruelty. I had always kept his name separate from my own, determined to build my life independently.
Lena hadn’t known who I was.
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