On a quiet Sunday in October, rain pattered gently against the glass conservatory of their 740 Park Avenue penthouse. Sienna sat among the potted orchids and citrus trees, holding a small white medical envelope from New York-Presbyterian Hospital. When Marcus walked in carrying two mugs of hot cider, he noticed the radiant, wondrous stillness on her face. Setting the mugs down, he knelt beside her chair, his amber eyes searching…
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