Dawn filtered through the ICU windows, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that felt too beautiful for a room where people fought to survive.
Alexander hadn't moved from his position between Emily's bed and the incubator. His clothes were rumpled, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and tears he'd stopped trying to hide. Every few minutes, his gaze alternated between his wife—sleeping now, recovering slowly—and the tiny form behind glass.
His son.
They'd decided on the name during one of Emily's brief periods of consciousness. Not Aria, as Alexander had so confidently predicted. Not the daughter he'd imagined ruling his empire. But Leo—a boy who'd surprised them from the moment of conception by surviving when the odds said he shouldn't.
Leo. Lion. Fighter.
