The afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Enock's house, casting long, golden shadows over the plush velvet and Italian marble. Mileh sat on the chaise longue, her gaze fixed on the nursery monitor where her son, little Leo, lay sleeping. He had been born dangerously early—a tiny, fragile thing that had spent weeks fighting for breath in the NICU—but now, he was thriving, a living testament to the resilience of the Armitage bloodline.
Beside her, Enock swirled a glass of vintage scotch, though his eyes were clouded with a heavy, somber distraction. The usual sharp, business-minded edge of his personality was softened by a layer of genuine grief.
"I saw him last week, Mileh," Enock said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to anchor the quiet of the room. "At the hospital, before they moved him back to the estate. I walked right up to him. I called his name. I even reached out to shake his hand, out of habit."
