Hours later, when Maya finally laid Lily in her crib, she didn’t go back to her own room. She sat in the corner of the nursery until morning, watching over the child.

The next day, Mrs. Delaney entered quietly and froze when she saw Maya sitting there. She glanced at the baby, then at Maya. “She only sleeps with you,” the older woman murmured, almost to herself.

Nathaniel said nothing at breakfast. His tie was crooked, his coffee untouched.

That night, they tried again—Mrs. Delaney first, then Nathaniel. Both failed. Lily cried until her tiny voice was hoarse. Only when Maya entered, arms outstretched, did she quiet instantly.

By the third night, Nathaniel was waiting outside the nursery door. He didn’t knock at first—just listened. There was no crying. Only a soft lullaby, half hummed, half whispered.

Finally, he tapped on the door.

Maya opened it, stepping into the hallway.

“I need to speak with you,” Nathaniel said quietly.

She crossed her arms. “What is it?”

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“For what?”