I literally begged my husband on my knees to take me to the ER because I was in labor, but he snapped that I was just being dramatic and walked out to celebrate his mother's birthday.

When General Thomas Hayes walked into City General Hospital, the entire administration staff froze. Flanked by federal security, my father marched into the ICU looking like a storm about to make landfall.

I hadn't spoken to him since my wedding day—a wedding he had boycotted because he took one look at David and called him a "narcissistic parasite." I had been so angry at him then. Now, looking at the deep lines of worry on his face, I knew he had been entirely right.

"My little girl," my father choked out, leaning over my bed and wrapping his arms around my shoulders. The great general, a man who had commanded theaters of war, was weeping into my hospital gown.

"I'm sorry, Dad," I cried into his shoulder. "You were right. About everything."

"Shh," he stroked my hair. "That doesn't matter now. You are a Hayes. We survive. Now, tell me about my grandson."

After the doctors cleared me for a wheelchair, my father and brother escorted me to the NICU. We stood outside the glass, looking at my tiny, perfect son sleeping in the incubator.

"He needs a name," Marcus said softly, standing behind my chair.

"Arthur," I said, looking at my father. "After Grandpa."

My father’s chest swelled with pride. Then, he looked at his phone. One of his intelligence officers had just sent a complete dossier on David's whereabouts.

"Your husband spent last night drinking vintage champagne," my father said, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, icy calm. "And today, he is nursing a hangover at his mother’s estate. He plans to go home tomorrow afternoon."