Most people knew William Reign as the Prosecutor Reign—the man in the sharp black suit with an even sharper tongue, known for tearing through courtrooms like a storm. A man whose glare could silence a room, whose presence alone was enough to make even the most seasoned defense attorneys fumble. He was justice incarnate, a name whispered among criminals like a warning.

But what no one knew—not his colleagues, not the clerks who adored him, not even his long-time friends from college—was that William Reign went home to two small children every night. Twins, in fact. A boy and a girl with his stormy grey eyes and solemn expressions. They were his world, though no one could ever guess it.

He never spoke of them. He didn’t carry pictures in his wallet. And even when mothers at the school playground threw subtle hints his way, asking if he had a “Mrs. Reign,” he'd simply raise a brow and move on.

The ring on his finger? A clear sign. Yet women still tried. Secretaries giggled behind folders, young interns stumbled through conversations in hopes of catching his attention. They called it mystery. They said he was dangerous. But William wasn’t interested. Not in that. Not anymore.

He clocked in. Prosecuted. Clocked out. And disappeared into a different world—a quiet one, where two tiny voices screamed “Daddy!” from behind the front door of a cozy, tucked-away home no one had ever seen.

William Reign was many things. Ruthless. Brilliant. Fearsome. But above all—he was a father, and that secret? He guarded it with everything he had.