Chapter 8 - The Shadow of the Past
With Eleanor gone and Charlotte’s legal team in retreat, the Kensington house fell into a quiet, peaceful routine.
Alexander spent his days in his study, managing his global empire through video conferences, but his door was always open. Every afternoon at three o'clock, he would walk down to the nursery or the garden to watch Grace work with Iris.
Today, they were on the lawn.
Grace had laid out a series of brightly colored foam mats. Iris was sitting on the first mat, her tiny bare feet stretching out toward the green grass.
"Come on, sweetheart," Grace coaxed, kneeling three feet away, her arms spread wide. "Just three steps to the red mat. You can do it."
Iris looked at the grass, then up at Grace, her hazel eyes filled with a mixture of determination and fear. She looked back toward the terrace, where Alexander was standing.
"Daddy!" she called out, her voice bright.
"Go to Grace, Iris," Alexander said, his heart swelling with a warmth that felt entirely foreign. "Daddy is watching."
Iris took a deep breath. She pushed herself up from the foam mat, her tiny legs shaking. She stood for a second, balancing herself, and then took a step.
One.
Two.
Three.
She didn't fall. She took a fourth step, her tiny foot touching the green grass for the first time, and then she lunged forward, her small arms wrapping around Grace's neck.
Grace laughed, a bright, musical sound that seemed to chase away the last of the gray London clouds. She gathered Iris into her arms, kissing her cheek.
"You did it!" Grace whispered. "You did it, my brave girl!"
Alexander walked down the stone steps, his eyes stinging with tears he had not shed since his father’s death twenty years ago. He knelt beside them on the grass, his hand resting on Iris's back.
"Thank you," he said to Grace, his voice thick with emotion.
May you like
Grace looked up, her gray eyes locking onto his. The space between them seemed to shrink, the memory of the cold, digital screen in New York fading into the warm, vibrant reality of the garden.
"She did the work, Mr. Whitmore," Grace said softly. "I just held the door open."
