By the time the calendar flipped into the sweltering heat of mid-August, Maya had officially crossed the threshold into her second trimester. The fierce, daily battle with morning sickness had faded into a quiet truce, replaced by a sudden, fierce burst of energy that Marcus's security team struggled to keep up with.
The color was completely back in her cheeks, and beneath the tailored, custom-cut silk dresses she now wore to the executive floor, a distinct, rounded swell had changed her silhouette entirely. She was radiant, commanding, and—according to David—chemically unpredictable.
But the most significant development of the second trimester wasn't recorded in Dr. Evans's medical charts. It was happening in the middle of the night.
At 2:45 AM, the penthouse was silent, save for the rhythmic, muted hum of the New York traffic sixty floors below. The bedroom was bathed in the cool, blue shadow of the moonlight.
