My Billionaire Boss Pointed A Gun At Me When I Saved His Dying Son...

Julian didn't blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone, and punched in a three-digit extension with his thumb.

“Miller,” he said, his voice flat and authoritative. “Pull the physical keycard access logs for the service elevator and the private kitchen pantry for the last six hours. I want every single entry and exit timestamp routed to my personal terminal in the study. Now.”

He hung up without waiting for a reply, slipping the phone back into his tailored trousers. He looked down at the baby one last time, making sure the blue blanket was tucked securely around the infant's shoulders, then turned his gaze back to me.

“Come with me,” he said, turning toward the nursery door.

“My place is here, monitoring his recovery,” I said, crossing my arms over the front of my blue-and-white uniform.

“Your place is wherever I tell it to be right now,” Julian shot back, though there was less heat in it this time—just an absolute, unyielding demand for control. “You think I’m leaving my son alone in this room while I go hunt through server logs? The nursery has a secondary feed linked directly to my private study. We’re moving the monitor feed and the crib into the panic suite downstairs.”

“You can’t move a stabilizing neonate down three flights of stairs just because you’re paranoid,” I argued, stepping between him and the bassinet.

“Paranoid?” Julian stepped closer, his height and sheer presence pressing down on me. “Someone just tried to murder my son with a designer neurotoxin while standing inside a fortress guarded by twenty ex-marines. Paranoid isn't a strong enough word for what I am right now, Emily. Or whatever your real name is.”

“My name is Emily. And moving him will spike his cortisol levels,” I snapped back, refusing to give an inch. For the first time, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed Julian’s face—not anger, but the shock of someone who was so accustomed to people caving at the sound of his voice that my defiance acted like a splash of cold water.

“Fine,” Julian said, his jaw clenching. “We stay here. But we lock down the floor. No one enters, no one leaves.”

He strode over to the heavy oak doors, pulled them open, and began barking orders to the guards stationed in the hallway. I stayed by the bassinet, my fingers resting lightly against the baby’s chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of life returning. Through the tall windows, the storm outside lashed against the glass, the wind howling around the stone gables of the mansion like something trapped and desperate to get in.

Ten minutes later, Miller returned, holding a slim black tablet displaying a grid of digital data. His face was pale beneath his tactical crew cut, his eyes darting toward me with a mixture of resentment and newfound caution.

“Mr. Vance,” Miller said, his voice dropping as he handed the tablet over. “The service elevator logs... they’ve been wiped for the 3:00 PM to 4:00 PM window.”

Julian took the tablet, his eyes scanning the glowing screen. The ambient light caught the dark stubble along his jawline and the faint smear of formula still drying on his white shirt.