The penthouse, once a stage for corporate warfare and tense seduction, was now filled with the soft, milky light of a New York morning.
The silence that had once been a strategic, pressurized thing was now punctuated by the gentle, wet gurgles of their four-month-old son. It was a sound that had rewritten the very architecture of the space, softening its sharp edges and warming its cool marble heart.
Akachi Haruto Daki lay on a plush, cream-colored blanket, a tiny emperor on a field of cashmere. His serious, dark eyes, mirrors of his father's, were fixed with intense concentration on a black-and-white mobile spinning slowly above him. His small, starfish hands batted at the geometric shapes with a focus Reomen usually reserved for dissecting a competitor's quarterly report.
