The CEO's Substitute: Love In London

The elevator doors slid open with a soft, expensive ping, depositing Dana Zhu directly into the foyer of the Griffith-Emerson penthouse. She adjusted the strap of her oversized tote bag, prepared for the usual sterile silence that defined the home of two of New York's most intimidating business tycoons.

Instead, she heard Mozart.

It was faint, drifting down the hallway, a soft piano sonata that seemed at war with the muted roar of Manhattan traffic vibrating against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The melody wasn't live; it was coming from a state-of-the-art sound system embedded in the walls, a ghost of a performance. Dana recognized the phrasing instantly. It was from one of Helena's old recordings, made before the accident, before the music had been stolen from her. Dana kicked off her heels, leaving them by the door, and followed the sound.

She found Helena Griffith in the nursery.

Helena wasn't working. There was no iPad in her lap, no phone pressed to her ear, no furrow in her brow dictating the fate of the Griffith Corporation. She was simply sitting in a plush velvet armchair, her silhouette sharp against the burning orange of the sunset bleeding through the window. Her shoulders, usually set in a permanent line of defense, were slumped.

Dana cleared her throat.

Helena turned. For a split second, the "Iron Lady" mask was gone. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face slack with exhaustion. Then, she blinked, and the CEO was back. She straightened her spine, smoothing the fabric of her silk blouse.

"You're early," Helena said, her voice a little huskier than usual.

"And you're human. We all have our surprises." Dana walked past her to the crib in the center of the room. She leaned over the railing.

Penny was asleep. A tiny bundle of pink and white, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that made the rest of the world seem chaotic. One small hand was curled into a fist near her cheek.

"God," Dana whispered. "Look at those fingers. They're microscopic."

Behind her, the fabric of the chair rustled. Helena shifted. Her right hand moved across her body, covering her left hand. Her thumb began to rub the base of her left ring finger, a rhythmic, unconscious motion.

"She has Kamden's nose," Helena said quietly.

Dana snorted, keeping her voice low. "Let's hope she gets his height and your brain. If she gets Kamden's emotional range, the poor girl is going to be an ice sculpture by kindergarten."

Helena let out a laugh. It was a rare sound, rusty and genuine. "He's not that cold, Dana."

"Please. The man signs billion-dollar mergers without blinking. I'm pretty sure his blood type is antifreeze."

"He cried."

Dana froze. She turned around slowly, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

Helena looked at the crib, a softness entering her expression that made her look five years younger. "In the delivery room. When the nurse handed her to him. He was shaking so hard I thought he was