He wore a dark, tailored suit and an expression that left zero room for questions.

“Ms. Brooks,” he said, offering a respectful, low bow of his head. “Your father instructed me to bring you home immediately.”

Behind him stepped two women: a private neonatal nurse and a specialized postpartum medical officer. One took Leo with practiced, feather-light gentleness; the other supported my frame, making sure no pressure touched my incision.

I didn’t offer a single word of protest.

The moment I sank into the leather interior, the climate-controlled warmth, the pristine scent, and the orthopedic support were such a stark contrast to the city bus that tears finally threatened to break past my lashes.

But I held them back. Not anymore.