Byron snapped out of his shock. He jumped back a full foot, trying to put physical distance between himself and the tiny girl pointing at him.

He waved both hands frantically in the air. "No way! Old man, don't listen to her! I can't even keep a cactus alive!"

Byron's chest heaved with panic. "I go to sleep at three in the morning! My apartment is full of empty bottles! She will starve to death if she lives with me!"

Alton saw his opening. He sneered, his chest puffing out again. "At least you know you are useless. Father, this is a circus."

Alton marched toward Cordelia. He dropped his fake smile and reached out with a large, aggressive hand, aiming to grab her wrist.

"You are coming with me. I will hire the strictest etiquette tutors to beat some sense into you," Alton snapped.

Before Alton's fingers could graze her skin, Cordelia moved.

She darted forward like a frightened rabbit. She threw herself at Byron. Her small arms wrapped tightly around Byron's thigh, her fingers gripping the expensive fabric of his tailored trousers. She pressed her entire body against his leg.

Byron froze. His muscles locked up. He looked down at the mop of yellow hair attached to his leg. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, terrified to touch her, terrified to push her away.

Cordelia buried her face deep into the fabric of his trousers, completely hiding her dry eyes. Her shoulders began to shake violently.

"I won't go!" Cordelia screamed. Her voice cracked, tearing through the room with raw, agonizing terror. "I don't want to go with him! He will kill me! Uncle Byron, save me!"

She did not shed a single tear, but with her face completely concealed, the sheer panic vibrating in her vocal cords stabbed into the eardrums of everyone in the room.

Alton's hand hovered in the empty air. His face flushed a dark, ugly purple. He felt the eyes of the servants burning into his back. His dignity was being shredded.

Glenwood watched the girl tremble. His disgust for his eldest son reached a boiling point. The old man slammed his cane into the floor again.

"Enough, Alton!" Glenwood barked. "You have disgraced yourself enough for one day."

Alton ground his teeth together. The muscles in his jaw popped. Desperate to save face, he forced his mouth into a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Cordelia," Alton said, his voice dripping with fake warmth. "I am your biological father. Blood is thicker than water. I was just upset. Come home, and Daddy will buy you new dresses."

Cordelia peeked out from behind Byron's leg. Her eyes were dry and lethal.

"You don't even know my favorite color," Cordelia said, her voice trembling perfectly. "You just want to turn me into a mute puppet so your fake daughter can have everything!"

The words acted like a scalpel, slicing Alton's fake mask right off his face.

Alton's eyes bulged. He lost his mind. "You ungrateful brat!" he spat.

Byron looked down at the tiny girl clinging to his leg. He felt the heat of her small body against his skin. He felt the violent tremors shaking her frame.

A strange, heavy sensation expanded in Byron's chest. The protective instinct he had buried under years of alcohol and parties suddenly clawed its way to the surface.

Byron slowly lifted his head. The lazy, playboy smirk vanished from his face. His blue eyes turned into shards of ice as he glared at his older brother.

"Did you hear her, Alton?" Byron's voice was dangerously low. "She would rather live with a degenerate loser than spend another second with you."

Byron reached down. He hooked his large hand under Cordelia's arm and lifted her off the floor in one smooth motion. He tucked her against his side, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. The hold was awkward, but fiercely possessive.

"I'm taking the kid," Byron announced. He lifted his chin, challenging anyone to stop him.

Alton shook with rage. He pointed a finger at Byron's face. "You will regret this! If you take that burden, I will make sure you never see another dime from the trust fund!"

Byron let out a harsh laugh. He raised his free hand and flipped his brother the middle finger.

"Keep your money," Byron sneered. "I keep the kid."

Glenwood watched the two brothers. A faint, calculating gleam flickered in the old man's eyes. He struck his cane on the floor one last time, sealing the deal.

Glenwood did not waste time. He ordered Leland to draft the Guardian Reassignment papers immediately, cutting off any chance for Alton to retaliate.

Byron stood over the mahogany desk. He gripped the expensive fountain pen. The metal nib hovered over the dotted line. He swallowed hard, feeling like he was signing away his soul. He pressed down and scrawled his signature.

The second the ink dried, Byron turned around. He grabbed the strap of Cordelia's faded canvas backpack with one hand and marched toward the front door.

Cordelia jogged slightly to keep up with his long strides. As she crossed the threshold of the estate, she did not look back. She did not spare a single glance for the two biological parents staring daggers into her back.

They reached the driveway. A blindingly silver Aston Martin sports car sat idling, its engine purring like a caged beast.

Byron popped open the passenger door. He looked at the high chassis of the car, then looked down at Cordelia's short legs. He let out a heavy sigh.

He bent at the waist, grabbed Cordelia under her armpits, and hoisted her up like a sack of potatoes. He dumped her onto the pristine white leather seat.

The Aston Martin tore out of the Long Island estate. It merged onto the highway, speeding toward Manhattan.

Heavy metal rock music blasted from the car's speakers, vibrating the floorboards.

Cordelia felt the bass pounding against her ribs. She frowned. She did not complain. She simply reached out her small hand and twisted the volume dial all the way to the left.

The music cut off. The sudden silence in the cabin was deafening.

Byron glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His eyebrow twitched. Surprisingly, he did not reach out to turn the music back on. He kept his hands on the steering wheel.

Thirty minutes later, the sports car descended into the private underground garage of a luxury high-rise in Tribeca.

They stepped into the private elevator. Byron scanned his fingerprint. The elevator shot up to the penthouse level. The metal doors slid open with a soft ping.

The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows was a breathtaking panorama of the New York skyline. But the interior of the apartment was a disaster zone.

Empty whiskey bottles and crushed pizza boxes littered the expensive Persian rug. Draped casually over the back of a white leather sofa was a piece of black lace lingerie.

Martha, the middle-aged housekeeper, walked out of the kitchen holding a vacuum cleaner. She saw Byron. Then she saw the seven-year-old girl standing behind him.

Martha froze. The vacuum hose slipped from her hand and hit the floor.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick," Martha stammered, her eyes darting wildly between the two of them. "Who is..."

Byron ran a hand through his messy blond hair, looking exhausted. He tossed the canvas bag onto an armchair. "My niece, Cordelia. She lives here now."

Martha gasped. She lunged toward the sofa, snatched the black lace underwear, and shoved it into her apron pocket. Her face flushed bright red.

Byron pointed down the hallway. "Clean out the guest room. Get her a bed or something."

Having issued his orders, Byron checked his Rolex. He let out a breath, walked straight to the crystal bar cart, and reached for a half-empty bottle of Macallan. He needed a drink.

Cordelia stood in the middle of the chaotic living room. She looked like a tiny nun dropped into a casino.

She did not look scared. She slowly turned her head, scanning the apartment with the cold, calculating eyes of an auditor.

In her past life, Byron's reckless lifestyle had made him an easy target. Denzel Jefferson had exploited his drinking, stolen his tech company's core code, and driven Byron to jump off a building.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. She had chosen this man. She would not let him die again. The rehabilitation program started now.

Cordelia walked over to the bar cart. She stood on her tiptoes. She reached out her small hand and clamped her fingers over the neck of the whiskey bottle just as Byron was about to pour.

Byron looked down at the tiny hand. He frowned. "What are you doing? Underage drinking is illegal."

Cordelia tilted her head back. Her blue eyes were crystal clear and hard as diamonds. "Dad. Drinking is bad for your liver."

"Dad?"

The word hit Byron like a taser. His hand jerked. A splash of expensive amber liquid spilled over the rim of the glass and pooled on the marble counter.

Cordelia blinked her large, innocent eyes. "Grandpa said you are my guardian. A guardian is a Dad."

While Byron's brain completely short-circuited, Cordelia yanked the bottle out of his loose grip. She slammed it down on the far end of the counter, issuing her first absolute decree.