Kaelyn floated into the presidential suite like it owed her money. The elevator doors sighed open to a hallway rimmed in warm oak and art that looked expensive because it wasn’t trying too hard. Angela Marlowe met them with a tilt of her head and a smile that had been practiced in front of a mirror. The Honeycroft smelled faintly of bergamot and something milky — the smell a mother remembers between feedings, a curated nostalgia. Kaelyn set her hand on the suite door and paused, as if touching it could prove ownership. Satin sheets flashed in her peripheral vision through the doorway; a velvet chaise lay angled to catch the bay view; a small white crib was tucked under a canopy that screamed bespoke. The room had been staged by someone who knew how to sell safety in a city that sold speed. “We deserve this,” Kaelyn breathed, and it sounded less like a hope and more like a claim. Evelyn stood two steps behind her, the woman’s posture a ledger: neat shoulders, eyes scanning for profit margins in everything. She wore a pale suit that made her look younger and meaner. “We do.” She said it like a sentence that ended the discussion. Angela glided forward, phone already out. “We’ll have a photographer come by in an hour — editorial light. Some of our clients do lifestyle shoots. We can tag you on our social; The Honeycroft’s account has a high engagement with expectant mothers and