By the second week of Elena Sterling's existence, the penthouse had descended into a level of organized chaos that no amount of Sterling money, influence, or security clearance could control.
Because newborns did not care about empires.
They cared about timing.
And apparently, Elena had declared war on sleep.
At 3:41 a.m., Maya woke to the sound of soft pacing.
Not crying.
Pacing.
She blinked slowly against the darkness of the bedroom, exhaustion still heavy in her limbs. The amber nightlights cast long shadows across the suite, turning the glass walls into mirrors reflecting fragments of gold and silver Manhattan light.
And there—
near the windows—
stood Reid Sterling.
Barefoot.
Shirtless.
Holding Elena against his chest while pacing slow circles through the penthouse like a man personally negotiating with destiny.
Maya stayed quiet for a moment, simply watching him.
