Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The midnight silence of the Spencer penthouse was no longer the heavy, strategic quiet of a corporate war room. It was a fragile, living thing, punctuated by the soft hum of the high-tech nursery monitor and the rhythmic breathing of a three-week-old heir.
At 3:14 AM, a sharp, demanding wail pierced the darkness. It wasn't a tentative cry; it was a summons.
Ysabella stirred instantly. Her "Director" instincts had been replaced by something far more primal and alert.
She didn't need an alarm; her body reacted to Zeke's voice before her brain was even fully awake. She sat up slowly, the moonlight catching the fluid shimmer of her midnight-blue silk nightdress.
She had abandoned her structured pajamas weeks ago. Now, she lived in silk slips with delicate lace straps that could be slid down with a single hand—a tactical adjustment for the relentless schedule of a breastfeeding mother.
"Our mini-shark is hungry, mhm?" Ysabella whispered, her voice raspy with sleep.
She reached into the bedside bassinet and lifted Zeke. He was surprisingly heavy for twenty-one days old, his small body warm and radiating a frantic energy. She settled back against the plush velvet headboard, sliding the lace strap of her dress down her shoulder. With the practiced ease of a woman who had mastered a new kind of ledger, she guided Zeke's mouth to her breast.
The silence returned, replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of Zeke latching and drinking with an intensity that lived up to his lineage.
Beside her, the "King of the Docks" shifted. Zayden hadn't been asleep—he was rarely truly asleep these days. He sat up, his bare chest bronzed in the dim light, his golden hair a messy halo. He leaned over, resting his chin on Ysabella's shoulder, his blue eyes fixed on his son with a mixture of awe and weary pride.
"He's hungry again?" Zayden chuckled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a shiver down Ysabella's spine. "He's just like me kapag tayo lang dalawa sa kwarto, wifey."
Ysabella felt the heat rise to her cheeks. She looked at her husband, seeing the playful, predatory glint in his eyes that even fatherhood couldn't dim. Zayden reached out, his large hand—the one that signed billion-dollar contracts—moving with incredible gentleness to massage Ysabella's other breast, easing the tension of the milk supply.
"Hubby, gising pa si Zeke," Ysabella whispered, though she didn't pull away. She leaned into his touch, the familiarity of his hand providing a grounding comfort against the exhaustion of the late-night feed. "Ano magagawa ko? Mana sa'yo si Zeke. He has an alpha appetite like you."
She bit her lower lip, her hazel eyes meeting Zayden's in the shadows. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and the messy bun in her hair, she looked radiant to him—a queen who had delivered his greatest treasure.
"An alpha appetite, huh?" Zayden murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of her silk dress. "Does that mean he's going to start demanding a seat at the board meetings soon? Because he's already better at negotiating for what he wants than most of my senior VPs. One cry and he gets exactly what he needs."
"He doesn't negotiate, Zayden. He dictates," Ysabella corrected with a small smile. She looked down at Zeke, whose tiny hand was curled into a fist against her skin. "He has your stubbornness. I tried to put him down ten minutes ago, but he knew. He waited until I almost closed my eyes before he started the protest."
Zayden let out a soft, dark laugh. He moved his hand from her breast to the back of her neck, pulling her closer until their foreheads touched. The scent of her—milk, jasmine, and that unique Ysabella sweetness—was more intoxicating to him than any vintage whiskey.
"I can't blame him," Zayden whispered, his lips brushing against hers. "If I were him, I wouldn't want to let go of you either. I spent thirty years looking for a woman like you, and he got you on day one. He's the luckiest Spencer in history."
Zeke let out a contented little grunt, his eyes fluttering shut as he drifted into a milk-drunk stupor. Ysabella carefully adjusted her dress, pulling the lace back into place, and began to burp the baby with a rhythmic pat on his back.
"He's done," she whispered. "For now."
Zayden reached out and took Zeke from her arms. It was a ritual they had developed—she fed him, and Zayden handled the "post-audit" logistics. He stood up, his tall, muscular frame casting a long shadow over the bed as he walked Zeke back to the bassinet. He moved with a grace that was surprisingly feline, tucking the baby in with a precision that would have made his head of security proud.
When Zayden returned to the bed, he didn't go back to his side. He slid in behind Ysabella, pulling her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, his hands resting over the soft curve of her stomach
"I missed you today," Zayden murmured into her hair. "I spent six hours in a meeting with the port authorities, and all I could think about was the way you bit your lip when you were trying to figure out the new swaddling technique this morning."
Ysabella smiled, her eyes drifting shut as she relaxed into his strength. "I missed you too. The 42nd floor feels like a lifetime ago, Zayden. Sometimes I look at Zeke and I forget that I ever cared about interest rates or offshore accounts."
"Don't worry," Zayden teased, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts through the silk. "I've seen the way you look at the nursery expenses. You're still auditing every diaper delivery. The Director hasn't gone anywhere."
Ysabella let out a sleepy giggle, her hand covering his. "Someone has to keep the Spencer legacy from overspending on gold-plated pacifiers, hubby."
"Only the best for the mini-shark," Zayden growled playfully, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "But for now, I think the Director needs to focus on her primary client."
"And who would that be?"
"The man who's been waiting very patiently for his turn," Zayden whispered, his hands roaming over her curves with a renewed, possessive heat.
Ysabella bit her lip again, but this time it wasn't out of stress or concentration. She turned in his arms, her hazel eyes searching his. The exhaustion was there, but so was the spark—the unbreakable connection that had seen them through sieges, scandals, and the miracle of birth.
"The alpha appetite is contagious, I see," she whispered.
"It's a Spencer trait, wifey. Get used to it."