Julius carried Rosalie back to his bedroom slowly, more carefully than he had ever moved through a battlefield.
The manor halls were silent, polished floors reflecting the soft chandelier light above. Servants passed at a respectful distance, none daring to question why he was holding the child himself.
In the original timeline—
He wouldn't have been.
Rosalie had grown up surrounded by luxury and neglect in equal measure.
Julius rarely looked at her, let alone held her. In his obsession with Kayden, the child had only ever been a tool—a chain binding a reluctant husband.
And Kayden…
Kayden kept his distance.
Not from Rosalie.
From Julius.
He visited when necessary. Ensured she lacked nothing materially. But he never lingered, because lingering meant interacting with the man who had deceived him.
So Rosalie spent most of her short life in a gilded nursery, tended by the best nannies money could buy.
They were professional. Gentle. Highly trained.
But they were not her parents.
And no amount of wealth could substitute for warmth.
Rosalie shifted in his arms, tiny fingers clutching weakly at his shirt. Her earlier cries had quieted into soft, needy whimpers. She pressed closer instinctively, searching for comfort she wasn't used to receiving.
Julius's chest tightened.
She was beautiful.
Soft black hair dusted her small head, already hinting at Kayden's coloring. Her cheeks were round, her lashes long and delicate against flushed skin. When her bright blue eyes blinked open briefly, they were clear and searching.
Starving.
Not for milk.
For affection.
For presence.
For acknowledgment.
Julius sat on the edge of his bed and adjusted her carefully, supporting her head the way instinct and borrowed memories guided him. He felt awkward, uncertain—but determined.
"I'm sorry," he murmured under his breath, though she couldn't understand.
Sorry for the version of himself that had treated her as leverage.
Sorry for the future she had originally been given.
Because in the novel—
She hadn't survived.
Rosalie died within the first few months of the apocalypse.
Too young to run.
Too small to defend herself.
A casualty of chaos and poor decisions.
One of the losses that began carving the cold brutality into Kayden Black's heart.
Julius swallowed hard.
He began to hum softly.
It wasn't a song he consciously chose—just a low, steady melody from somewhere distant in his own childhood. The vibration seemed to soothe her. Her breathing slowed. Her tiny hand fisted into his shirt as if anchoring herself.
The room felt different.
Quieter.
Less like a gilded cage.
More like something fragile that could still be protected.
He continued humming as his thoughts shifted back to strategy.
Today was for planning.
He had already outlined food, medicine, weapons, infrastructure.
Tomorrow—
Tomorrow he would begin moving.
Orders would be placed discreetly. Bulk purchases hidden beneath corporate investments. Land surveys initiated under the guise of expansion. Engineers contracted under confidentiality agreements.
The safe house construction would begin immediately.
Underground.
Reinforced against earthquakes and tornadoes.
Shielded from radiation.
Insulated against eighty-degree heatwaves and sub-zero nights.
Equipped with filtered air, purified water systems, independent generators.
A fortress built not for prestige—
But for children.
Rosalie's eyelids fluttered.
She fell asleep against him.
Trusting.
Without knowing the world she was supposed to die in.
Julius looked down at her small, peaceful face and tightened his hold ever so slightly.
"You're not dying," he whispered, voice steady with quiet resolve.
Not you.
Not any of them.
Today he would plan.
Tomorrow he would act.
And eight months from now—
When the world tried to devour everything—
He would make sure this child was still alive in his arms.