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Kade did not look up immediately.
That, in itself, was normal.
He sat behind the long, dark desk, sleeves precise, posture composed, attention fixed on the document before him as Marcus finished a sentence mid-briefing. The city stretched behind him through walls of glass, sunlight cutting clean lines across steel and shadow.
Everything about him was controlled. Contained. Unmoved.
Until—the air changed.
It was subtle. Not a sound. Not a movement. Only a shift—one he could never ignore.
His pen stilled. Not dropped. Not paused. Just stilled.
Then he looked up.
His gaze landed on Dakota first. As it always did.
For a fraction of a second, nothing in his expression changed. No surprise. No visible reaction.
Then his eyes moved—to the child in her arms. To the way she held her. To the fact that Dakota stood in his office as though she had every right to, and nothing in the room dared to challenge her.
Something in him sharpened.
"Dakota."
Her name came low. Measured.
