POV Noelle
“TURN THAT OFF!” I scream. My own voice cuts through the chaos like glass.
Maria fumbles with the remote, but every channel is the same—my face, my swollen eyes, my hospital gown. Headlines scream across the screen: HEIRESS GIVES BIRTH UNDER ARMED GUARD. CRIMINAL BODYGUARD AT HER BEDSIDE. LOVE OR CAPTIVITY?
I can’t breathe. The room spins in bright, cruel flashes—camera bulbs bursting through the hospital window like lightning.
“Close the curtains!” I shout again, clutching Luna tighter against my chest. She whimpers, soft and sleepy, unaware that the world is tearing her father apart before she’s even opened her eyes properly.
Maria shuts the blinds and turns off the TV, but the echoes of my name and Owen’s keep buzzing in my head. Noelle Morris. Owen Tate. Murder suspect. Former enforcer. Father of her child.
My blood turns cold. “They found him.”
“Owen’s record?” Maria whispers.
“Yes.” My voice shakes. “His old life… it’s all over the news.”
My phone vibrates on the bedside table, screen exploding with notifications. My father’s name flashes at the top: MICHAEL MORRIS — 11 MISSED CALLS. I don’t pick up. The moment I do, he’ll say I told you so.
Instead, I scroll through the messages—comments, articles, pictures of Owen in handcuffs from years ago. Ex-con bodyguard seduces heiress. Was the marriage staged? Mafia legacy reborn? My stomach twists.
Owen walks in just then, his hair damp from the hospital shower, his shirt half-buttoned, a paper cup of black coffee in his hand. The moment he sees my face, his jaw tightens.
“What happened?”
I don’t answer—I just hand him my phone. He stares at it for a few seconds, then tosses it onto the couch with a grunt. “They finally dug deep enough,” he mutters. “I knew this day would come.”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“Because I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” he says quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re scared of me.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. I’m not scared—just furious that the world gets to decide what kind of man he is.
Maria clears her throat softly. “Miss Noelle, there’s someone here to see you.”
The door opens before I can reply, and a woman in a navy blazer steps in like she owns the air. Perfect hair, perfect heels, and the kind of smile that looks like a blade.
“Mrs. Tate,” she says smoothly.
“I’m not—” I start, but Owen steps in front of me.
“What do you want, Cassandra?” he growls.
Cassandra Vale—the District Attorney. I remember her name from the evening news, the woman who never loses a case.
“I’d like a word,” she says, pulling out a folder. “You’re aware you were never officially pardoned for the West investigation, correct? Gregory West’s death remains unsolved. Evidence has resurfaced that could reopen it.”
I clutch Luna closer, her small body pressed against my heartbeat. “Evidence?”
“An anonymous submission. A gun with partial prints and a video clip from that night.”
Owen’s face goes still. “It’s fake.”
“I hope so,” Cassandra says, coldly polite. “But until forensics confirm, you’ll remain under observation. Step outside, Mr. Tate—we can handle this quietly.”
“No,” I snap. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You don’t get to decide that, Miss Morris.”
“Yes, I do.” My voice rises. “Because he’s my husband.”
The words fall out before I think, before I breathe. Silence hits the room like thunder. Owen turns sharply, his eyes wide.
Cassandra’s lips twitch. “Oh, is he? I wasn’t aware of any license on record.”
“Because it’s private,” I fire back. “And none of your business.”
Owen steps closer, his hand brushing mine—a silent warning, a plea to stop talking. But I can’t. My whole body is shaking with rage.
“You’re not arresting the man who saved my life. You’re not turning him into a headline for doing what the law couldn’t. If you want him, you’ll have to drag me and my daughter with you.”
For a moment, Cassandra just stares at me, unreadable. Then she tucks the folder under her arm. “Enjoy your peace while it lasts.”
When the door shuts behind her, Owen exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
“I don’t care.”
“Noelle—”
“She came into my room, next to my baby, threatening to arrest you for something you did to protect me.” I glare at him through tears. “You think I’m just going to sit there?”
He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me—the kind of look that says he’s angry, terrified, and impossibly in love all at once.
The door rattles suddenly—shouting from the hallway. Paparazzi voices echo: “Noelle! Is it true?!” “Did your bodyguard kill a man for you?” “Are you married or is this a cover-up?”
Owen moves instantly, blocking the window as camera flashes explode through the half-open blinds. Maria screams, rushing to pull them shut again.
“God, they followed us here,” I breathe. “They’re outside the hospital.”
Owen swears under his breath, pacing. “We’ll leave tonight. I’ll get Rhea to drive us out through the staff entrance.”
But the flashes don’t stop. The shouting gets louder. I can’t stand it anymore. Something snaps in me.
“Give me my phone,” I say.
Owen freezes. “What are you doing?”
“Ending this.”
Before he can stop me, I grab my phone and hit Go Live. The red dot blinks back at me, small and bright—like the start of a war.
“Hi,” I say, my voice trembling at first. “I’m Noelle Morris. And yes, the man you’re calling a criminal is the father of my child.”
Owen’s eyes widen; Maria gasps. I keep talking.
“He’s also the man who saved me when no one else did. He’s the man who held me while I brought our daughter into the world. His name is Owen Tate—and he’s my husband.”
Hundreds of hearts and comments flood the screen. She’s insane. She’s lying. He’s manipulating her. Married? No record. Delusional rich girl.
My chest tightens, but I don’t stop. “You can call me crazy, but love doesn’t need a marriage license to be real. If protecting me makes him a criminal, then I guess I’m an accomplice.”
I end the live. The room is silent again, except for Luna’s soft breathing.
Owen stands there, speechless. Slowly, he walks toward me. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up. His eyes—those storm-colored eyes—are wet.
“You’re out of your mind,” he whispers.
“Maybe.”
He smiles, the kind that’s equal parts pride and heartbreak. “You just painted a target on your back.”
“I know.” I touch his cheek. “But at least they’ll have to go through both of us now.”
He leans down, forehead pressed to mine, voice breaking against my skin. “You’re not delusional, angel,” he murmurs. “You’re brave.”