"It's a boy."
The words came softly from the doctor, muffled behind the haze of fatigue and relief that filled the delivery room. Helen Moreau's hand gripped Charlie's, trembling with a mix of awe and exhaustion.
"A boy…" she whispered, barely above a breath, her eyes bright despite the pain. "What… what shall we call him?"
Charlie's lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile. He looked down at the tiny, wailing infant swaddled in blankets, and for a moment, all the weight of his responsibilities seemed to vanish.
"Lucien. Lucien Davis. My son," he said, voice steady and proud, as if proclaiming a victory that belonged not just to him but to the Moreau legacy.
Helen nodded, reaching out to brush the fine hair from her newborn's forehead. "Lucien Davis Moreau… it's perfect."
That was many years ago.
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