The nursery in the Whitmore estate smelled faintly of fresh paint and new furniture. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, soft and golden, illuminating the pale cream walls and the delicate wooden crib Julian had insisted on assembling himself. Kya stood beside him, folding tiny blankets and placing them neatly into the dresser drawers.
Julian adjusted the rocking chair, stepping back to see if it looked better angled toward the window. “What do you think?”
Kya smiled. “It’s perfect.”
Reginald watched from the doorway, leaning on his cane, eyes soft with pride. “Make it nice,” he said. “I want the baby to feel at home when you visit.”
Kya laughed. “There’s already a nursery at the Gray estate.”
Reginald waved a hand. “This is different. This is my great‑grandchild.”
Julia
