Chapter 2 - The Broken Vow
"Julian, what is the meaning of this foolishness?!" Eleanor Vance’s shrill voice cut through the stunned cathedral. She marched down the aisle, her silk gown rustling angrily. "Pay the child’s family off and let us get on with the ceremony! Victoria is waiting!"
Victoria strode over, her face pale with humiliation and anger. "Julian! Look at me! This is a scam! Some gold-digger is trying to ruin our wedding day with a sob story! Tell security to kick them out into the street right now!"
Julian slowly stood up. He didn't look at Victoria. He didn't look at his mother. He looked down at the little girl, who was shrinking back in fear, clutching the baby tighter to her chest.
"What is your name, sweetheart?" Julian asked gently, ignoring the frantic murmurs of three hundred wealthy onlookers.
"Lily," the girl whispered. "And this is Leo."
Lily and Leo. Julian felt a tear escape his eye, hot and fast against his skin. Clara had always talked about naming a daughter Lily, after her grandmother.
"Julian!" Victoria barked, grabbing his arm forcefully. "You drop that gutter trash’s hands right now, or this wedding is over! My father will destroy your board of directors by morning!"
Julian turned his head slowly. He looked at Victoria—at the anger, the entitlement, the complete lack of empathy for a weeping child and a helpless infant. He looked at his mother, whose face was twisted in cold, calculating disgust.
He realized in that single, crystal-clear moment that he had almost traded his soul for an empire.
Julian reached down, gently took the sleeping baby into one arm, and used his other hand to scoop Lily up into his chest. She instantly buried her face in the crook of his neck, her small arms wrapping around his collar as if he were her only anchor in a storm.
He reached into his pocket, pulled off his diamond wedding band, and handed it directly to Victoria’s father, who was standing in the front row gaping at him.
"The wedding is canceled," Julian said, his voice flat, resolute, and echoing through the grand hall.
"Julian, no!" Eleanor screamed, stepping forward. "You will destroy this family!"
"You destroyed this family seven years ago, Mother," Julian replied softly, his eyes cold as ice. "And I am going to find out how."
Without another word, Julian turned his back on the altar, his mother, his bride, and his fortune. Carrying his children, he walked down the center aisle of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, ignoring the flashing camera lights of the media and the thunderous gasps of high society.
When he reached the street, cold autumn rain had begun to fall. His private driver, Marcus—a loyal former military veteran who had served Julian for a decade—hurried forward, holding an umbrella open.
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"Sir?" Marcus asked, his eyes wide as he saw the children.
"Get us to the penthouse, Marcus," Julian commanded, sliding into the leather back seat of the SUV and shielding the babies with his tuxedo jacket. "And call my private security chief. Clara is in danger. We have two hours before whoever took her realizes the kids got away."
