By the third morning after the birth, the private recovery suite had stopped feeling like a hospital room and started feeling like occupied territory.
Not by doctors.
Not by nurses.
By family.
The sunlight spilling through the massive glass windows was soft and pale against the snow-covered Manhattan skyline, washing the room in quiet gold. Fresh flowers crowded every available surface—white orchids from European diplomats, extravagant floral sculptures from Sterling board members, and an aggressively oversized arrangement from Marcus that looked less like a bouquet and more like a military tribute.
Maya's mother had already complained about all of them.
"Flowers are nice," she declared from the small breakfast table near the windows, "but none of these rich people know how to send soup."
Reid, seated beside Maya's bed with their daughter sleeping against his chest, looked up calmly from the tablet in his hands.
"Marcus sent soup."
