It hurt.
He took my hand.
Fourteen hours later, my son was born.
Leo Cole.
Seven pounds, six ounces.
Angry lungs.
Dark hair.
Tiny clenched fists.
The nurse placed him against my chest and the world narrowed to warmth, exhaustion and disbelief.
Gideon stood beside the bed crying without making a sound.
I had seen my father negotiate billion-dollar deals with people who terrified entire boardrooms.
Now he stared at a seven-pound baby like the child had personally dismantled him.
“He’s perfect,” Dad whispered.
I looked at Leo.
“Yes.”
Then my phone buzzed.
Adrian.
For half a second, hope betrayed me.
