Franz returned home to an empty house.
The twins were spending the night with Layla’s parents, and the absence of their voices—Lily’s constant chatter, Leo’s occasional tablet dings—made the estate feel larger than it was. The foyer lamp was on, but the sitting room was dim except for the flickering glow of the television. The evening news was playing, the sound low, and Arianne was on the couch.
She didn’t notice him come in.
He stood in the doorway, watching her. She was staring at the television, but her eyes weren’t tracking the images on the screen. Her hand rested on her belly. Her expression was distant, thoughtful, the way it got when she was turning something over in her mind and hadn’t yet decided what to do with it.
He shrugged off his coat and crossed to the couch. Only when he sat beside her did she blink and turn her head.
"You’re home," she said.
"I’m home." He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I stopped by Jessica and Paul’s before coming back. To check on the twins."
"How are they?"
"Occupied. Jessica put them to work in the bakery. Lily was helping shape bread rolls and telling Paul his technique needed improvement. Leo was in charge of flour distribution, which mostly meant he was covered in it from head to toe."
Arianne’s mouth curved. "Lily criticizes Paul’s baking?"
"She told him his kneading was inconsistent. He thanked her for the feedback. Jessica was laughing behind the counter."
"That girl is going to run a company someday."
"Several companies. Simultaneously."
Franz settled back against the couch cushions. "Jessica sent food. Containers of it. Soup, fresh bread, some kind of vegetable dish she said you’d like. She also said—" He paused, remembering. "She said the soup was made with help from the twins. Lily picked the vegetables. Leo was in charge of stirring."
"Leo stirred soup?"
"He took the job very seriously. Jessica said he didn’t stop for fifteen minutes."
Arianne looked toward the kitchen, where the containers were waiting on the counter. "She shouldn’t have bothered. She’s already doing enough by taking the twins for the night."
"I told her that. She said it wasn’t a bother. She said feeding people is what she does." Franz shrugged. "I wasn’t going to argue with her. She’s terrifying when she’s determined."
"She’s five feet tall."
"Terrifying comes in all sizes. You’re proof of that."
Arianne didn’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of her mouth twitched again.
The evening news continued in the background, and Franz let his attention drift to it. The business segment was on—a familiar panel of analysts discussing market movements. Then Dominic Blackwood’s face appeared on the screen.
Franz felt his posture stiffen. He didn’t mean to react. It was involuntary, a reflex he hadn’t been able to shake even after all this time.
The segment was not flattering. Dominic had failed to secure an investment from Mythos Group for the second time. The analysts were clinical in their assessment. Blackwood had reached a point where he couldn’t advance. He had overextended, overpromised, and now the market was correcting itself. One analyst suggested he should focus on local competition first, the way Rochefort Group had done over the past year—consolidating, stabilizing, building a foundation before reaching outward.
"Rochefort Group," another analyst said, "established its strong foundation under Alexander Rochefort and Arianne Summers. It’s now positioned to enter the international market with minimal risk. That’s the result of careful, methodical planning."
"Arianne Summers seems to have temporarily slowed down," the first analyst noted. "Her public appearances have decreased, and Rochefort Group’s aggressive expansion has paused."
"She’s known to be meticulous," the second analyst replied. "If she’s slowed down, it’s for a reason. She’ll make a move when the time is right. She always does."
The segment moved on to other companies, other CEOs. Franz glanced at Arianne. Her expression hadn’t changed. She had watched the segment with the same distant attention she’d been giving the television all evening, as if Dominic Blackwood’s failures were no more interesting to her than the weather report.
"The investors have stopped reacting to the rumors," Franz said. "About you and Noah Hart. About the company."
"I know. Gio sent me the sentiment report. Investor confidence is stable."
"More than stable. It’s up."
"That’s what happens when you deliver results. People stop caring about your personal life."
The news moved to sports. Arianne turned to him. "I’m starving."
Franz blinked. "You should have said something earlier."
"I wasn’t hungry earlier. I’m hungry now."
He was already on his feet. "Come on. Let’s get you fed."
He helped her up from the couch—a process that had become more involved as her pregnancy progressed, requiring careful leverage and a steadying hand—and led her to the dining area. She lowered herself into a chair while he unpacked the containers Jessica had sent. The soup went into a pot on the stove to reheat. The bread went onto a plate. The vegetable dish went into the microwave.
"Where’s Aunt Estella?" Franz asked, stirring the soup.
"Out having dinner with friends. She left about an hour before you got home."
"And Gio?"
"In his room. So I wasn’t technically alone."
"You were alone in the sitting room."
"Gio was in the building. That counts."
"It doesn’t count."
"It counts."
Franz shook his head and ladled the soup into a bowl. He set it in front of her with a spoon and a slice of fresh bread. The soup was golden and fragrant, and floating on its surface were small pieces of vegetables cut into the shapes of animals, a carrot star, a potato duck, something that might have been a turnip rabbit.
Arianne stared at them. "Did Lily do this?"
"Jessica said she insisted. She wanted the soup to be ’visually appealing’ for you."
"Visually appealing."
"Her words. Not mine."
Arianne picked up her spoon. The soup was good, rich and savory, the vegetables soft, the animal shapes intact despite the reheating. She ate steadily, and Franz sat across from her and watched.
"I started reading my mother’s journals," she said.
Franz stilled. He didn’t speak, didn’t push. He waited, the silence between them the kind he had learned to hold for her.
Arianne didn’t look up from her soup. "Today. The house was empty and I had nothing else to do, so I opened the first one."
"How do you feel?"
"Tired. Heavy. Like I’ve been carrying something I didn’t know I was carrying, and now it’s on the floor in front of me, and I’m not sure what to do with it." She paused. "But I’m alright. It was only the first journal. The early years. Before she married my father. The wedding. Finding out about Arianna. Finding out she was pregnant with me."
"What did she write?"
"That she was afraid. She wanted to love me. She wrote that—’I want to love it. I want to love it so badly.’ But she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to. Terrified I would look at her and see everything she thought she’d done wrong." Arianne’s spoon moved through the soup. "I spent my whole life thinking she didn’t care. That I was a burden. Something she endured. But she was just afraid. The whole time, she was afraid."
Franz reached across the table and covered her hand with his. She let him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He had learned, with her, that the wrong words were worse than none.
"Are you going to read the rest?" he asked, after a moment.
"Yes." She looked up at him. "I’m done avoiding it. I’m done pretending I don’t need to know. I’ve spent years wondering why my mother couldn’t love me, and the answer has been sitting in a locked room this whole time. I want to understand her. Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts."
"It will hurt."
"I know. But maybe—" She paused. "Maybe her journals can give us a better picture of what really happened. The things Aunt Estella couldn’t tell us. The things no one else knew. She wrote everything down. I want to know what she was thinking. What she was feeling. Why she made the choices she made."
"Then read them. Take your time. There’s no rush."
"I know." She turned her hand over beneath his, interlacing their fingers. "Thank you for putting them in my study. For not pushing."
"I knew you’d find them when you were ready."
"I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready."
"But you were."
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. They sat together in the dining area, her hand in his, her soup growing cold. Outside, the night pressed against the windows. Somewhere in the guest house, the rest of her mother’s belongings were waiting to be sorted. Somewhere on her desk, thirteen more journals were waiting to be read.
Tonight, she had taken the first step. Tonight, she had opened the door her mother had left for her, and she had begun to understand.
It was enough. For now, it was enough.