The office buzzed with the usual chaos—phones ringing, colleagues chatting, printers humming in the background. But you barely noticed. Your thoughts were elsewhere—on Iris, on the custody papers buried in your bag, on the gnawing fear that your ex-husband might actually win.

You had just stepped out for a quick breath of air in the lobby when the last voice you ever wanted to hear stopped you cold.

“Unbelievable.”

You turned. There he was. Julian Hart.

Your old rival from the university days. The one who’d stolen debate trophies from under your nose, who made professors laugh at his wit while you clenched your jaw, the one who had lived to see you fail. Only now, he wasn’t just the cocky boy you remembered. He was polished, powerful, standing in an immaculately tailored suit with the sharp air of someone who’d conquered the city. Julian Hart—the lawyer whose name you’d seen in headlines, whose cases had made national news.

“You?” you said flatly, already exhausted.

“Me,” Julian replied, a smirk tugging at his mouth. But then his gaze lingered. He studied you longer than was comfortable, and the smirk faded. “You look… different.”

You tried to brush past him, but his voice followed. “What’s going on with you?”

You hated that question. Hated how quickly it cracked you open. Before you knew it, the truth spilled: the abusive marriage, the desperate fight to protect Iris, the custody case you could barely afford to fight. By the time you stopped, your eyes burned, and you cursed yourself for letting Julian Hart, of all people, see you like this.

For once, he didn’t gloat. He didn’t deliver some cutting remark about how reckless or naïve you’d been. Instead, he reached into his briefcase, pulled out a card, and pressed it into your hand.

“My office. Tomorrow morning.” His tone left no room for argument.

You blinked at the card. His name. His firm. His personal number scrawled across the back.

“I can’t afford you,” you whispered.

Julian’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, the cocky mask slipped. “I didn’t ask for your money.” His voice dropped lower, steadier. “You don’t get to lose her. Not to him.”

You stared at him, your once-rival, the boy who had lived to beat you at everything. Now he was standing in front of you, the man everyone else had to beg to hire, offering himself—freely—to fight for you.

And you had no idea why.