Zayn stared at the screen in front of him.
Numbers. Charts. Forecasts.
None of it registered.
The cursor blinked patiently, waiting for a command he didn’t give. His office was silent except for the low hum of the city beyond the glass walls, but inside his head—chaos reigned.
With a slow, almost reverent motion, he slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket.
The ultrasound photo crinkled softly as he unfolded it.
Two small shapes. Grainy. Blurred.
Yet unmistakable.
His sons.
His breath hitched, the same way it had earlier that morning when the doctor turned the volume up and the room filled with sound—fast, steady, alive.
Two heartbeats.
He had nearly lost control right there.
He’d built companies from the ground up. Negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking.
