Noah
The late afternoon sun filtered through the light curtains of my office, casting golden patterns on the polished wooden floor. The air was warm but pleasant, filled with the scent of wood and leather. The distant hum of cicadas from the villa’s gardens created a soft background noise as I worked, one hand on my laptop keyboard, the other holding onto something infinitely more important than any contract or business deal I was reviewing.
Matthia.
My son slept soundly against my chest, his chubby face pressed against the fabric of my shirt. His soft black hair, fine as silk, curled slightly on his forehead—a clear sign that he had taken after me. But his eyes, those clear blue eyes as bright as the sky after a storm, were all Irina’s. Every time I looked at him, I saw her, the woman
