Chapter 8
He set the bottles on the changing table, walked behind the rocking chair where I was holding Clara, and leaned down to kiss the top of my head, then Clara's tiny forehead.
"The board call is finished," he whispered.
"Already?" I asked, looking up at him with a smile. "Did you fire your father?"
"Officially retired him from the advisory committee," Grant answered, his eyes gleaming with quiet triumph. "And restructured the family foundation into an irrevocable trust entirely under your name and the twins'. No succession protocols. No corporate custody. Just two kids who will grow up knowing only that their parents adore them."
He walked over to the other crib as Leo began to stir with a soft, hungry whimper. Grant picked up our son with hands that had become gentle, effortless, and endlessly patient. He cradled Leo in the crook of his arm, settling the bottle into the baby’s mouth with practiced ease.
Grant walked back over to the window, standing beside my chair, looking out over the blooming gardens of Hawthorne House with our son in his arms.
On my finger, the modest band from our arranged wedding had been replaced by a simple gold ring engraved on the inside with four words:
There are two heartbeats.
I reached out and slipped my hand into Grant's free one. His fingers curled around mine instantly, strong, warm, and protective.
Our marriage had started as a transaction on paper.
It had taken a storm, a collapse, and two tiny, stubborn miracles to tear those papers to shreds—and to build a real family in their place.