Eliana had always been composed—measured, precise, even under pressure.
Labor shattered all of that.
Twelve hours in, she was cursing, crying, and clinging to Adrian's hand like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
"You did this to me," she gasped between contractions.
Adrian, pale but smiling, kissed her forehead. "I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
He never left her side. Not once. Not when the machines beeped louder, not when the doctors grew tense, not even when she screamed his name like it was the only word she remembered.
And then—a cry.
Sharp. Real. New.
Their daughter.
The nurse handed her over, tiny and perfect and wrapped in pink.
Adrian's eyes filled as he cradled her. "She's so small," he whispered.
"She's ours," Eliana murmured, exhausted but glowing.
In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the company. Not the past. Not the world outside.
Just them.
A man who had everything but didn't know love.
A woman who had nothing but gave everything.
And the little life they'd made—soft and sleeping between them.