Dangerously Mine

Nineteen

FIONA

The word custody echoes in my head long after I leave Mr. Hale’s office.

Full custody.

Sean doesn’t want visitation. He doesn’t want to talk.

He wants to take my son.

My hands are shaking so badly I have to grip the edge of my desk to steady myself. The office buzzes around me, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, but it all sounds distant—like I’m underwater.

Mr. Hale had offered to connect me with one of the firm’s family attorneys. I told him yes before pride could interfere.

I need help.

I step into the hallway and dial the only other person I can think of.

He answers on the second ring.

“Fiona?”

My voice cracks before I can stop it. “He filed for custody.”

Silence.

Then his tone changes instantly. Controlled. Focused.

“Where are you?”

“At work.”

“I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m coming,” he repeats.

And something in me unclenches.

He’s there in less than twenty minutes.

I don’t ask how.

When he walks through the office doors, every head turns, but I barely notice. I only notice the way his eyes find me immediately. Assessing. Protective.

“Show me,” he says.

We step into an empty conference room. I slide the papers across the table.

He reads them once.

Then again.

His jaw tightens.

“He’s claiming instability,” Flavian says flatly.

My stomach drops. “What?”

“He’s arguing you’ve created an unstable environment. That he can provide something more… structured.”

My pulse roars in my ears. “That’s ridiculous, do you think he knows about the cps investigation?”

“I dont know, it could be part of public records.”

He looks up at me then, and something in his expression shifts. This isn’t polite concern anymore.

This is personal.

“He sent you that picture,” Flavian says slowly. “He was building a case.”

The room feels colder.

“I never thought he’d actually—” My voice falters. “He left. He said he wasn’t ready.”

Flavian’s hands flatten on the table.

“Men like that don’t leave because they aren’t ready,” he says quietly. “They leave because they’re selfish.”

There’s something deeper in his voice. Experience.

“How do you know that?” I ask.

He hesitates.

Then: “Because I grew up watching one.”

The admission lands heavier than I expect.

For a moment, we’re not talking about Sean.

We’re talking about wounds.

“I won’t let him take your son,” Flavian vows.

Not you’ll fight this.

Not we’ll see what happens.

I won’t let him.

“You can’t promise that,” I whisper.

His eyes lock onto mine.

“try me.”

The intensity of the way he looks at me steals my breath.

And suddenly, something flickers in my memory.

Not last night.

Not recently.

Years ago.

A hospital corridor.

Harsh lights. The smell of antiseptic.

Me, seven months pregnant, exhausted, sitting alone after another appointment where the doctor had warned me about stress levels. Sean was already gone by then. I had been trying not to cry in public.

I remember standing too quickly. The dizziness. The way my vision blurred.

And then—

A hand at my elbow, and those deep brown eyes.

“Easy,” a deep voice had said.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It can’t be.

“You okay?” Flavian asks now, noticing the shift.

My heart starts pounding for an entirely different reason.

“I…” I stare at him. Really look at him.

The same eyes.

The same voice.

“Have we met before?” I breathe.

His brow furrows. “I don’t think so.”

“No. Wait.”

The memory sharpens.

He’d been on a phone call. Frustrated. Saying something about a deal falling through. But the second he noticed I was unsteady, he ended the call without hesitation.

He’d walked me to a chair.

Bought me water.

Told me to breathe.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he had said gently. “Not today.”

Tears sting my eyes.

“You helped me,” I whisper. “At St. Mary’s hospital. When I was pregnant.”

His expression changes—searching his memory.

“I was sitting outside the maternal clinic,” I continue. “You caught me when I almost fell.”

Recognition flickers.

“…You were crying,” he says slowly.

“Yes.”

The air between us shifts.

“I never forgot that day,” I admit. “You didn’t know me. You didn’t have to care. But you stayed until my grandma arrived.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Anyone would’ve done that.”

“No,” I say softly. “They wouldn’t have.”

Silence stretches.

“There’s something else,” I say.

My heart is racing now.

“I named my son Flavian.”

His eyes snap to mine.

“I told everyone it was because I liked the name,” I continue. “But the truth is… I remembered the man who told me I didn’t have to do everything alone.”

The room feels too small for this revelation.

“You gave me strength that day,” I say. “You made me feel safe when everything was falling apart.”

His protective intensity makes sudden, terrifying sense.

This isn’t coincidence.

This isn’t random attraction.

It never was.

He steps closer.

“Fiona,” he says, voice lower now, rougher. “If I had known—”

“You didn’t need to know,” I whisper. “You already treated me like i mattered.”

His hand hovers near my waist, like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.

“I won’t let him tear your family apart,” he says again.

But now it isn’t just protective instinct.

It’s something deeper.

Something chosen.

And for the first time since this nightmare started, I don’t feel alone.

Then my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

A video file.

My blood runs cold as I press play.

The screen fills with footage of my son walking out of school.

Sean’s voice echoes behind the camera.

“See you soon, champ.”

The video ends.

And I realize this isn’t just a custody battle.

It’s a warning.