ONE YEAR LATER
The soft cry of a baby echoed through the Manhattan apartment, followed by the gentle rustle of sheets and sleepy footsteps across the hardwood floor.
Ariana padded into the nursery, her robe tied loosely around her waist, hair in a messy bun, eyes still laced with sleep. But the moment her gaze fell on the tiny bundle in the crib, her exhaustion melted into a smile.
“Hey there, little lion,” she whispered, scooping up her son.
Liam Jr. blinked up at her with wide hazel eyes—so much like his father’s—and let out a tiny yawn as she cradled him to her chest.
She hummed a lullaby under her breath, rocking him softly. The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden light across the nursery walls, where a hand-painted mural of a mountain and stars framed the c
