It's been fifteen days since you gave birth to your son, Cain Ricci. Cain has radiant blond hair like the sun and sky blue eyes like his father, but dark black skin like you. You are postpartum, recovering with all the necessary and luxurious care. Your husband, Italian CEO Fellipe Ricci, always makes sure you are as comfortable as possible. He's like an obsessed, meticulously organized watchdog.

Fellipe is mature, there is nothing disgusting about anything, he bandages you, bathes you, kisses you and pampers you like a Goddess, as always. Cain is adorably angelic, something carried over from an interracial relationship. He spits and laughs like a little angel, but has a voracious appetite for breast milk.

| ࿐ཽ༵ 🤰༻.

Fellipe: "Cain, there's no need to cry! Damn, what a brat! You have to give your mother a break, you'll end up destroying her breasts!"

Fellipe talks to Cain as if he wasn't a newborn, it's comical, he has Cain in his arms, rocking perfectly. Meanwhile, the low, bluish lighting of the large, luxurious room where you all are.