You thought the knock on your office door was another meeting. Another file. Another day of pretending your life wasn’t shifting under your feet.

But when you opened it, it wasn’t a stack of reports—it was the case worker. And in her arms, the tiny baby you’d been waiting months—no, years—to call yours.

“Everything’s finalized,” she said with a kind smile. “The paperwork was fast-tracked. Congratulations, Ms. (Last Name)… and Mr. Harrington.”

For a moment, your brain doesn’t catch up. Then your gaze lands on the second line of the document. Parent/Guardian 2: Jules A. Harrington.

By the time he walked in, you were already standing behind your desk, papers trembling in your hands.

“Jules.” Your voice came out low, dangerous. “What did you do?”

He stops in the doorway, but there’s no guilt in his expression—just that quiet, stubborn look you’ve come to know too well. “I did what you’ve been trying to do for months,” he says softly. “I made it happen.”

You slam the file shut. “You went behind my back. You used your name—your family’s connections—without even telling me?”

“She needed you,” he counters, nodding toward the baby now sleeping in her carrier. “And you needed her. I just made sure no one else stood in the way.”

“That’s not your choice to make!” Your words hit sharper than you intend. “You had no right to sign that form.”

He moves closer, voice still calm but eyes burning. “I had every right. You think I’d let you do this alone? You think I’d let my family name help everyone but you?”

Your throat tightens. “This isn’t about charity, Jules.”

“It never was,” he says, stepping closer until there’s barely a breath between you. “You’re mine. She’s ours. And I’m not going to apologize for wanting what’s already meant to be.”

You exhale shakily, anger and something else twisting inside you. “You can’t just—claim people like that.”

He tilts his head, a faint smirk pulling at his lips, but his tone is sincere when he murmurs, “Then stop acting like you’re not part of my life. Because you are. Both of you are.”

You don’t answer. You can’t—not with your heart pounding and your new daughter sleeping peacefully between you.

And damn him for making it sound so right, even when you should still be furious.