The Fitzgeralt manor had never known this kind of quiet.
Not the heavy, echoing stillness of wealth or discipline, it was the gentler kind, soft and domestic, threaded with the faint scent of coffee and linen detergent. Outside, the winter light stretched across the estate's terraces, gleaming off the pale stone and the glass veranda where frost still clung like lace. Inside, everything was warm, deliberate, and absurdly expensive.
Lucas sat curled in one of the living room armchairs, a blanket draped over his lap and their son resting against his chest. The cardigan he wore was cashmere, undoubtedly Trevor's, soft enough to feel like a bribe for getting out of bed that morning.
