Morning entered the mansion differently now.
Not with brilliance.
Not with thunder.
But with a hesitant stillness, like a bird unsure if it should land.
After last night, after almost leaving, the house feels like it's holding its breath.
The twins chatter in the sitting room, sorting crayons by color.
The staff moves quietly, as if the walls might bruise.
And Alexander…
Alexander is nowhere in sight.
For a moment, I wonder if he left, if the man who cornered me with brutal honesty last night has already gone back to boardrooms and weapons made of spreadsheets and power.
But then I find him.
Not in his office.
Not in the gym.
Not in front of a glowing battle map of corporate destruction.
He's in the nursery.
On the floor.
With blue paint smudged on his cheek and a tiny crown of paper taped to his hair.
Zara sits on his lap, sticking glitter stars onto his shirt like medals of honor.
Zane leans against him, explaining a story about a spaceship and two best-friend twins who defeat villains using "the power of teamwork and snack breaks."
Alexander listens.
Not politely.
Attentively.
His head is bent toward Zane, expression soft, vulnerable in a way I didn't know he could be.
When he tries to speak, his voice is quieter than I've ever heard.
"So in this imaginary world… no one ever takes you away?"
Zane nods firmly.
"No bad guys allowed."
Something in Alexander's throat moves, pain, or maybe relief.
And then Zara announces, completely serious:
"You're our daddy-knight."
He flinches.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, sharp inhale.
Like a man realizing a title he would give his whole empire for… isn't something he can buy or demand.
I stay hidden by the doorway, my heart tangled between awe and ache.
The staff is whispering.
"He's… helping with the twins?"
"He tied Zane's shoes."
"He apologized to Maria for raising his voice… Alexander Knight apologized."
The world feels rearranged.
He's not performing.
He's not manipulating.
He is learning.
One small, unfamiliar act at a time.
Later, when the twins' tutor arrives, Alexander stands and brushes glitter off his shirt. The old Alexander, the immaculate, untouchable titan, would have scowled, demanded a new shirt, punished the fabric for daring to be imperfect.
Instead, he looks down at the glitter and murmurs:
"Don't tell anyone I wore battle armor today."
The twins giggle and run off.
He turns.
Sees me.
For a heartbeat, we simply stare at each other across the hallway, a distance both too wide and too intimate.
His voice is gentle.
"You're awake."
I should walk past him.
I should keep distance.
Instead, I ask softly, "Do you… want breakfast?"
Something breaks open in his expression, not joy, not triumph.
Hope.
"…yes."
We find ourselves in the kitchen.
Not the formal dining hall where power is displayed under chandeliers and expensive silence.
Just the kitchen, warm, imperfect, domestic.
He tries to make grilled cheese.
Burns it.
Smoke spirals into the air.
I take the spatula from his hand; our fingers brush, barely a second, but it sends something bright and dangerous down my spine.
"Let me," I whisper.
He doesn't argue.
He just watches me, the way someone looks at a sunrise after forgetting the world could be gentle.
"Selene."
There's no command in his voice.
No expectation.
Only truth.
"When you tried to leave last night, I saw myself."
My hand freezes mid-flip.
"I saw what I become when I love power more than peace. When I chase control instead of… grace."
He swallows hard.
"You humbled me."
The grilled cheese sizzles.
Neither of us looks away.
"In business," he continues quietly, "power means never yielding.
In love… maybe it means being soft."
He breathes out, slow, raw.
"I would rather be softened by you than hardened by the world."
He doesn't reach for me.
He gives me space.
He lets silence carry what his hands don't take.
We eat at the kitchen island, sharing a plate like we've done a thousand times when we were young and naive about the rules of desire. He eats the burned half; I pretend not to notice.
And I watch him.
Watch the man who used to conquer everything begin to choose surrender in the smallest ways:
…he pours milk for the twins without being asked.
…he stops checking his phone every two minutes.
…he speaks gently when the twins interrupt.
…he listens to me, even when I'm silent.
Every quiet action carries the same unspoken vow:
I am trying.
Not to win you.
Not to trap you.
But to deserve you.
When night falls and the twins are asleep, he walks me to the hallway outside my room.
Not as a guard.
As a man learning humility.
He doesn't touch me.
He only whispers,
"I will earn tomorrow."
Then he steps back.
And lets me go.
For the first time in forever,
I don't walk away feeling chased.
I walk away feeling seen.
And…
Sometimes, along the way, we learn that redemption is not a grand gesture.
Sometimes, it is the quiet choice to do better, again and again.
So that when love asks:
Are you willing to change your habits, not just your words?
The redemption answers will be:
Yes. One quiet morning at a time.