The night was still, bathed in moonlight flowing like water.

Liz and Remington lay on the large bed in the master bedroom, with baby Ron sleeping between them.

The little boy smelled faintly of milk, a comforting and sweet scent.

No sooner had Liz lain down than Ron kicked his little legs and rolled right into her arms, as if instinctively seeking his mother.

Liz's eyes snapped open, a flicker of panic and uncertainty crossing her gaze.

She raised her hands, unsure of where to place them.

Terrified of squishing the soft, fragile little thing if she held him wrong—he was so incredibly tiny-her hands just hovered stiffly in mid-air.

Suddenly, a large hand reached out and gently grasped her hovering one.

Intertwining his fingers with hers, Remington guided her hand over the baby's head, resting their clasped hands on the pillow beside them.

Guided by his movement, Liz shifted onto her side completely.

Remington was also lying on his side. In the darkness, their eyes met across the sleeping baby.

Through the dim light, Liz could trace the faint outline of his face and the soft gleam in his deep, profound eyes.

They held each other's gaze for a couple of seconds before Remington lightly tapped his fingers against the back of her hand.

It was rhythmic—their own unique, unspoken way of saying goodnight.

An indescribable wave of tender melancholy washed over her. Liz tapped the back

of his hand in the same rhythmic pattern and gently closed her eyes.

She had thought she wouldn't be able to sleep, anticipating endless nightmares and the painful memories of that tragic night triggered by being here.

But none of that happened. Soon, her breathing deepened into a peaceful, steady rhythm.

Across the hall, however, Stella West was not having such a restful night.

Her injured hand was throbbing with pain, and she was consumed by intense jealousy and resentment.

Pulling out her phone, she walked toward the balcony and dialed a number.

It was answered quickly. Lowering her voice, Stella issued her instructions.

"I'm on the east balcony of the villa now. Come over here. Make sure you find a good angle and get a clear shot."

Hanging up, she quickly adjusted her clothes, pulling her collar down slightly. She let her hair loose, messing it up to cover the bandage on her forehead.

Leaning languidly against the railing, she glanced behind her. Then, she walked back in, moved a cabinet slightly and left the curtains half drawn to create a suggestive silhouette.

From a distance, it would look exactly as if someone was standing in the shadows of the room.

This way, if she performed a few

fake gestures towards the dark room and the photographer found the fight they could create the

illusion of a man flirting with her in the shadows.

It was a pity Remington was so guarded against her; she couldn't get real photos of them spending time together late at night.

Still, as long as she was photographed at Oakridge Heights, making people believe

she had officially moved in, it would serve its purpose.

With everything set, Stella peered

outside. But after waiting for ages with the cold

and biting at her neck

therewas still no sign of the

paparazzo she had hired.

They had agreed that once he arrived, he would flash his phone's flashlight from a distance as a signal.

Growing impatient, Stella was about to call and rush him, only to realize her phone had no signal.

Pacing back and forth, she tried several times, but the call just wouldn't go through.

Just as she was wondering what was going on, she casually glanced downstairs and saw a small figure dart across the yard.

But where would a child come from at Oakridge Heights?

She squeezed her eyes shut and looked again. The yard was completely empty, not

a single soul in sight.