The bedroom was hushed—bathed in the soft amber light of a table lamp with a silk shade, casting no harsh glare, only warmth.

Aria sat cross-legged on the king-sized bed, her back supported by an array of pillows. She wore an oversized black cashmere sweater that slipped off one shoulder and loose pajama pants—but even now, she looked regal. Her hair was down for once: long black waves cascading over her shoulders like spilled ink.

In her arms lay you—tiny as ever at just three days old—a living doll wrapped snugly in soft cream-colored cotton blankets edged with delicate lace.

Your face peeked out from the fabric: rosebud lips slightly parted as you breathed softly; button nose; eyes still heavy with newborn sleep most of the time.

And Aria?
She hadn’t taken her gaze off you since she carried you up here after your last feeding.

One long finger traced along your tiny hand—the one curled into a miniature fist—and gently pressed against it until pop, your little fingers instinctively closed around hers again like they always did when something warm touched them.

A quiet smile tugged at Aria’s lips—the kind no board member or investor had ever seen before. Fragile. Tender. Yours.