Episode 1

How many hours had it been? Three? Four? Maybe more. Time had lost all meaning for Lorenzo Collins as he stood motionless outside the cold, sterile doors of the operating room. Each tick of the clock felt like a thunderclap, echoing through the hollow silence around him. The man once hailed as unshakable—the Duke of Westminster, a name that commanded nations—now looked like a ghost of himself. His usual air of authority had crumbled under the weight of fear.

He was no longer the ruler of boardrooms or the master of a thousand men. Right now, he was just a brother. A helpless, desperate brother praying for a miracle.

The hospital had gone into lockdown the moment Ella was brought in. No outsiders allowed. Only Collins men stationed at every entrance, their presence a silent threat to anyone who dared disturb the peace. Outside, the rain lashed against the windows like a fury that mirrored his own. The sky hung heavy and grey, mourning with him.

Lorenzo sat hunched in one of the faded chairs, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. Beside him stood Ryan—his most trusted man, his right hand, his shadow in all things. But tonight, even Ryan was a stranger to this version of his lord. He had seen Lorenzo ruthless, furious, calculated—but never like this. Never broken.

The Collins were a name etched into the very fabric of the UK’s nobility. Untouchable. Feared. Revered. But now, as Lorenzo trembled in silence, it was clear even gods could bleed.

Ella. The Lady of Westminster. His sister. His pride. Lying somewhere behind those doors between life and death.

Rage burned hot in Ryan’s chest. It clawed at his insides, a growing storm with only one name to blame: the Sullivans. He clenched his fists, jaw tight, his loyalty warring with his instincts. If Lorenzo weren’t drowning in fear and grief, Ryan would’ve already demanded action. Blood. Retribution. But even that wasn’t the only reason for his silence.

The Sullivans weren’t just any enemy. They were royalty—the ruling family of Russia. Powerful. Untouchable. That was the price of peace. The reason Ella had married Liam Sullivan in the first place.

But peace had come at a cost. And now that cost was being paid in blood.

On the other side of the city,

Liam’s hands gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline. The engine roared beneath him as he sped through the rain-slicked streets, his foot heavy on the accelerator. The wipers thrashed uselessly against the storm, but the blur in his eyes wasn’t just from the weather—it was from the tears he hadn’t realized were falling.

His breath came fast, shallow. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, too loud, too fast, like it was trying to escape. Behind him, three black cars followed closely—his men, his protection—but right now, he felt utterly exposed. Naked. Terrified.

He couldn’t shake Tyrone’s voice in his head. “Her highness’s been in an accident.”

That was all it took to shatter his world.

He should’ve been there. He should’ve protected her. But he’d been in a damn meeting, talking business while the woman he was supposed to keep safe was bleeding somewhere on a cold operating table.

The rain blurred the lights around him, but the guilt blurred everything else.

His knuckles were white on the wheel.

God… Ella.

For the first time in his life, he was afraid. Not the fear of losing a deal. Not the fear of war. But the fear of losing her.

That’s when it hit him.

He was in love with her.

Not for diplomacy. Not for appearances. He loved her. Fiercely. Desperately. And he might have been the reason she was lying in that hospital right now.

And worse- he might be the reason their child was dying.

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