Damien insisted on walking us to the car.
"It's pouring," he said, already grabbing an umbrella from the hall closet. "I'm not letting you carry Noah through this storm."
Vanessa's smile was razor-sharp. "How gallant. Elena, you should let Damien help you. He's very good with children."
The subtext was clear: *I'm watching you. Both of you.*
I wanted to refuse, to grab Noah and run from this suffocating penthouse with its white walls and darker secrets. But my son was dead weight in my arms, exhausted from the evening's excitement, and the storm outside was vicious.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
The elevator ride down was silent except for the soft sound of Noah's breathing. Damien stood close enough that I could smell his cologne, the same scent that had haunted my dreams for three y
