Elena's POV

Eight months later, my life fit into the quiet rhythm of breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

That was how I measured time now—not by board meetings or hostile emails or Damian’s moods, but by the soft rise and fall of my daughter’s chest against mine.

She slept curled into me, warm and impossibly small, her tiny fist wrapped around my finger like she had decided—without consulting anyone—that I was hers forever.

I hadn’t named her yet.

I told people I was taking my time. That I ...