Eddie's satisfied gurgle echoed through the penthouse as I adjusted his tiny silk one—custom-made, naturally, because even month-old Prescott heirs had standards to maintain. The irony wasn't lost on me that I was dressing my son for what was essentially his debutante ball, except instead of coming out into society, he was coming out as the newest member of Manhattan's most ruthless dynasty.
“He's perfect,” Eleanor breathed, leaning over the antique bassinet that had housed three generations of Prescott men. Her fingers traced Eddie's impossibly small hand with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.
“He better be,” Sterling said from across the nursery, straightening his tie with the mechanical precision of someone preparing for battle rather than a family celebration. “
