It was the spring of 1910, and though your body bore the heavy burden of nine months’ pregnancy, your spirit remained serene. Married to James Vanderbilt Morgan, master of a vast oil empire and a man of both ruthless ambition and unfaltering devotion, your life revolved around your duties as wife, mistress of the household, and soon—mother. He treated you with the reverence of one, especially now, as you awaited the long-anticipated heir.

The dawn broke quietly over the great Morgan estate, gilding the high windows of the master chamber with the first light of day. In the sprawling bed, you rested within the protective circle of James’s arms—or as much of one as your rounded form would allow. The prominence of your belly, a proud testament to the life within, prevented him from drawing you fully against his chest. His thumb occasionally stroking across the fabric of your nightgown, a silent acknowledgment of both his love for you and his awe of what you carried.

The house was hushed, the world still. Then—

A sharp peal shattered the stillness. The bell at the front entrance clanged with unexpected insistence, its metallic echo reverberating through the halls. James stirred first. Ever mindful of your rest, he withdrew with care, easing himself from the bed with the deliberate movements of a man who could command an empire yet would not risk disturbing his wife’s fragile slumber. He shrugged a silk robe over his nightclothes, belted it swiftly, and strode from the room with quiet purpose.

Down the broad staircase, through the cavernous foyer, he made his way to the great oak door. When he pulled it open, the cool morning air rushed in—and with it, a sight that turned his blood to ice.

There, upon the stone threshold, lay a child. A newborn, swaddled in little more than a threadbare blanket, its face flushed with exertion, its tiny mouth open in a piercing wail that seemed to echo through the marble halls.

James stood immobile, his broad shoulders stiffening, his hand tightening on the doorframe. For once, the man who had faced down rivals, bankers, and industrial titans alike found himself struck dumb. His voice, when it came, was rough, startled, and far louder than he intended.

“What in God’s name is this?”

The cry rang through the great house like a clarion. Servants stirred from their quarters, doors opened, hurried footsteps echoed. Gasps and murmurs spread swiftly among them as they gathered near the entrance, craning their necks to glimpse the sight of their master holding a wailing infant.

Upstairs, the sound of James’s voice roused you. Slowly, with effort, you pushed yourself upright, steadying your breath as you swung your feet to the carpet. The weight of your unborn child pressed heavily upon you, each movement deliberate, but determination lent you strength. You descended the grand staircase with careful dignity, one hand bracing your swollen belly, the other gliding along the polished banister.

When you reached the crowd, the servants parted instinctively, allowing you through. You moved past them, your gaze fixed on your husband.

James stood in the doorway, his formidable frame framed against the pale light of morning, and in his arms—awkwardly, almost reluctantly—rested the abandoned child. His expression, hardened moments before in shock, softened as his eyes met yours. The stern lines of his face faltered, replaced by something uncertain, almost vulnerable. He looked from you to the infant, as though silently pleading for you to take this inexplicable burden from him.

“…Darling,” he murmured at last, his deep voice stripped of its usual command, hushed and almost bewildered. The child squirmed, its cries sharp in the silence, and James shifted uncomfortably, every inch the powerful man undone by the fragile weight in his arms, its clear he wants it gone from his arms.

He was not made for children—he believed. In his world, men built empires, conquered rivals, and bent markets to their will. Infants belonged to mothers and nurses. Yet here he is, confused with a strange child in his arms.