Chapter 3 - The Sinking Arm
The transformation on Ethan’s face was almost instantaneous. The hard, intimidating glare, born of grief and paranoia, shattered into a look of absolute, breathless astonishment. He stared at his son, his eyes widening as he took in the quiet, rhythmic movements of the baby’s jaw.
“He's drinking milk?” Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper, a rough, emotional sound that seemed to catch in his throat. “He wouldn't take anything.”
His hand, previously tense around the grip of the handgun, went slack. The weapon lowered slowly, pointing harmlessly toward the carpeted floor. The imposing billionaire seemed to shrink slightly, the heavy armor of his grief cracking in the presence of his thriving son. He couldn't take his eyes off Leo's peaceful face, the small miracle of his feeding after days of terrifying starvation.
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Emma watched him, the tension in her own shoulders beginning to give way as she saw the danger pass. “He was so hungry,” she said softly, her tears finally tracing paths down her cheeks as she held the baby secure. “I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't let him suffer any longer.”
Ethan stood there for a long moment, the silence between them filled only by the soft, rhythmic sounds of the nursing infant. Slowly, he reached out, placing the handgun high on a marble cabinet, completely out of reach, before turning back to the velvet armchair.
