Prologue

HARDIN'S POV

The shrill cry pierced the sterile air, a symphony of pain and triumph. My gaze darted to the bed where Elara lay, her face pale but etched with a radiant smile.

Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were now soft with exhaustion, yet a profound joy emanated from her.

A wave of emotions washed over me – fear, exhilaration, a love so immense it threatened to consume me whole.

This tiny human, a miracle born from our love, was the culmination of our dreams. Elara, my love, my anchor, had gifted me the most precious treasure imaginable.

I shifted my gaze to the bundle in the nurse's arms. A girl. Tiny fingers, impossibly delicate, curled around her fist. I would build her a castle, a kingdom of love and laughter.

She would be my princess, sheltered from the world's harsh realities.

Then, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor sputtered, the steady rhythm breaking into a frantic, erratic dance. Panic clawed at my throat. Doctors and nurses swarmed Elara, their movements a blur of white coats and anxious faces.

"Charge the defibrillator," a voice barked, sharp and urgent.

The air crackled with electricity.

"200 volts! Clear!"

"550 volts! Clear!"

"1000 volts! Clear!"

Each jolt sent a tremor through the room, but Elara remained still. The rhythmic beep faltered, then sputtered into silence.

My heart plummeted to the depths of my stomach. I reached for Elara's hand, my fingers tracing the delicate veins that had once pulsed with life. Now, they were cold and lifeless.

"What the hell is going on?" I roared, my voice hoarse with disbelief.

The doctor, his face grim, shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Hardin. We did everything we could."

The words echoed in the sterile chamber, hollow and meaningless. "No," I choked out, "no, she can't be..."

The nurse, sensing my distress, gently placed our daughter in my arms. Her tiny body, warm against my skin, offered a fragile beacon of hope amidst the despair.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring the vision of my precious girl. I held her close, whispering promises against her soft skin. "Natasha, welcome to the world," I croaked, my voice thick with emotion.

"Your father will protect you, my love. He will make you proud."

The weight of grief threatened to crush me, but I clung to the warmth of my daughter, to the fragile thread of hope that kept me tethered to the world.

I vowed to fill her life with laughter, to chase away every shadow. I would be her father, her mother, her protector. I would teach her to ride the waves of grief, to find joy in the smallest of things, to embrace the beauty of the world even in its darkest moments.

The weight of grief threatened to crush me, but I clung to the warmth of my daughter, to the fragile thread of hope that kept me tethered to the world.

Days turned into weeks, each one a relentless assault on my senses. The silence in the house was deafening, a constant reminder of Elara's absence. Every corner whispered her name, every scent, every sound, a ghost of her presence.

I found myself drawn to the nursery, the room still filled with the faint scent of baby powder and Elara's favouritee lavender lotion. I would spend hours there, gazing at Natasha, her tiny fingers curled into fists, her breath soft and rhythmic.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, convinced I heard Elara's laughter, her gentle voice calling my name. The illusion would shatter, leaving me adrift in a sea of grief.

But Natasha, my tiny warrior, was a constant source of strength. Her smiles, her gurgles, her playful kicks, brought a flicker of joy back into my life. I would spend hours playing with her, reading to her, singing silly songs.

I enrolled in parenting classes, desperate to learn everything I could about raising a child. I devoured books on child development, desperate to understand every stage, every milestone. I wanted to be the best father I could be for her, honournor Elara's memory, by giving Natasha the best life possible.

Being a billionaire has its peak,but I'm willing to give everything to my baby Natsaha

One evening, while bathing Natasha, I noticed a tiny birthmark shaped like a crescent moon on her shoulder.

"Elara's moon," I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. It was a small thing, a fleeting moment of connection, but it felt like a sign, a reminder that Elara was still with us, watching over her daughter.

As Natasha grew, I began to see glimpses of Elara in her – the curve of her smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes, the way she would tilt her head in thought. It brought a bittersweet comfort, a reminder that a part of Elara lived on in their daughter.

The grief never truly subsided, but it softened with time. It became a constant companion, a dull ache that lingered beneath the surface.

But it no longer consumed me. I had learned to live with it, to carry it with me, while still finding joy in the everyday moments – Natasha's first steps, her first words, her contagious laughter.

I knew Elara would have wanted me to be happy. She would have wanted Natasha to know the joy of life, to experience love and laughter, to chase her dreams.

And so, I wouhonournor their love by living my life to the full t, by raising Natasha to be a strong, independent wo n, filled with kindness and courage.

The future held uncertainties, but one thing was certain: Natasha would always be a part of me, a piece of my heart beating outside my chest. And in her, I would carry the memory of Elara forever.