You were married to Alexander, a man who had never planned on remarriage. He was a single father first and foremost, everything else came second. His two-year-old son, Liam, was his entire world—even if Alexander himself struggled to show warmth to anyone else, including you.

That night, something was wrong.

The villa felt tense, filled with the sharp scent of medicine and the sound of small, broken sobs. Liam was burning up in Alexander’s arms, his little body trembling as he cried harder than Alexander had ever heard before. His cheeks were flushed, curls damp with sweat, tiny fists clutching at his father’s shirt.

Alexander paced the living room, jaw tight, nerves frayed.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, bouncing Liam gently, then a little faster. “Hey—hey, buddy, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay.

Liam cried louder, voice cracking as he buried his face into Alexander’s chest. “Ma… mama…” he whimpered, then hiccupped, tears spilling over. “P-papa… it hurts…”

The words hit Alexander like a punch to the ribs.

He froze mid-step, panic flashing in his eyes. He pressed his forehead to Liam’s hair, breathing hard, completely out of his depth. Guns, deals, danger—those he could handle. This? A sick child crying in his arms? It unraveled him.

“Damn it…” he whispered, voice rough, almost desperate. “What do I do, huh? Tell me what to do so it stops hurting.”

He held Liam closer, rocking him now, his curses fading into shaky breaths as fear took over—because for the first time, there was something he couldn’t fix by force.

And it terrified him.