A slice of heaven

Around two in the afternoon, Ishmael arrives home.

After leaving the hotel casino, he drove straight to his villa—about thirty minutes away at normal speed.

The private jet had only taken four hours to fly from Las Vegas to Finland. Now, as the butler—a lean, tall man in his early forties, with slicked hair parted in the middle and a refined moustache—greets him at the door, Ishmael immediately asks about his wife.

The pale man, sympathetic to Ishmael's urgency, offers a brief answer, then steps outside to retrieve his master's belongings from the Rolls–Royce parked in the driveway.

Ishmael heads directly to the kitchen, guided by the butler's response.

His steps begin to slow, heart lightening, body loosening, as he reaches the doorway—where the scene before him stills time.

Neva stands at the white marble counter, whipping something in a blue bowl with a cream beater. Their sleeping daughter rests against her chest in a baby wrap.

The soft buzz of the mixer ceases as Neva turns to look at him. A smile tugs at his lips, mirrored by the bloom of delight on her face.

"Hello, love," Ishmael says, sauntering in.

"Hello, husband," Neva replies gently.

She removes the beater from the mixer and places it on the counter, then momentarily shifts the steel mixer into the sink nearby.

"How is she?" he asks, frowning, eyes narrowing on the pale, slumbering girl nestled against her.

"The fever's gone down. You shouldn't have rushed," Neva says, gently rubbing Inaya's back. "Fortunately, it wasn't too bad."

Ishmael reaches out and brushes his fingers over Inaya's forehead. She's still slightly warm. That was the reason he left the casino early—Zev had informed him of her sudden fever.

Though he had one more day of business in Las Vegas, he entrusted it to Manager Cha and Zev and returned home—for her.

"How did she even catch a fever?" he asks, pulling his hand back.

"Probably the harsh change in season."

He watches her small mouth breathing in labored puffs, her nose clearly blocked by the cold. The sight draws his brows tighter.

"You should go change and rest," Neva says, studying him—still in formal wear, clearly exhausted.

He offers her a soft smile, one hand smoothing along their daughter's back, the other brushing Neva's arm.

He leans in and kisses her cheek—then gently catches her lips in his.

"I missed you," he murmurs against them. It's only been two days, yet each one without her feels agonizingly leaden.

"Me too," Neva replies with a soft smile.

His gaze flicks to the bowl on the counter. "Where are the maids? Why are you doing all the work?"

Neva chuckles. "I gave the cook the evening off. And I'm barely doing anything."

Just then, a sharp ting rings through the kitchen.

One of the ovens beneath the stovetop beeps—an alert.

"Let me," Ishmael says, catching her step. He takes the mittens from her hands and slips them on his own.

As he opens the oven door, a wave of warm, sweet, slightly spicy aroma fills the air—the scent of cinnamon rolls swirling around him like calm itself.

He inhales deeply, a hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest as he carries the tray to the counter.

"Cinnamon rolls," he murmurs to himself.

"Isaiah demanded I make him some—it's fall, after all," Neva says.

She takes a spoon and scoops cream cheese from the bowl, carefully spreading the frosting over the golden puffs.

"Speaking of him, where's my son?" Ishmael asks, removing the mittens.

"In his playroom, obviously." Neva shrugs, focused on icing.

Suddenly, the thunder of little feet pounding down the stairs fills the air.

Both parents glance up, instinctively awaiting the inevitable arrival.

Ishmael shakes his head. "Speak of the devil."

Neva chuckles.

"Mumma!" Isaiah's voice rings through the wide halls as he bursts into the kitchen.

His eyes land on Ishmael—and widen with joy.

"Papa! You're back!" he shouts, racing over.

Ishmael crouches down, arms open.

"My, my. Did you get this big in just two days?" he teases, swinging Isaiah into a hug that erupts giggles.

"I want to get big soon!" Isaiah declares. But his attention is soon hijacked by the rich, buttery scent drifting from the counter.

"My cinnamon rolls!" he cries, wiggling in Ishmael's hold, stretching toward the tray with greedy little hands.

"In a moment, Isaiah. Let me plate it first," Neva says with a tired sigh.

Ishmael sets him down, and the boy immediately lunges for the tray—but Neva, anticipating the move, catches his wrist just in time.

"Careful," she scolds gently, "you'll burn your fingers."

"But Mumma, let me taste it!" he bounces impatiently.

"Patience, baby," Neva replies. She cuts a warm piece, places it on a plate, and gently blows on it to cool it down.

"I want four. No—five!" Isaiah pleads, holding up all five fingers.

Ishmael stands back, silent, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Adoration swells in his chest as he watches them—the frosting, the warmth, the chaos. His little family.

Neva offers Isaiah the first bite, then turns and lifts a spoonful to Ishmael's lips. He leans forward and accepts it gratefully.

The moment is tender, full.

Then, his little girl stirs and softly whimpers—her sleep broken by her brother's exuberance.

Ishmael gazes at them all, his heart full.

If he could live forever in one moment—one slice of heaven—it would be this.

Because she is here.

And for the reason her, he wishes this life could last forever.