(Ruby's POV)
The morning light was pale and cold.
I stood at the window of the master suite, watching the sun climb over the cliffs. The snow had melted overnight, leaving the garden muddy and bare. But the shoots were still there, green and determined, pushing through the wet earth. The new west wing was taking shape. The glass for the greenhouse had arrived. The workers would start installing it next week.
Nicholas was still in bed. His dark hair was spread across the pillow, his face peaceful. The fire had burned down to embers, but the room was warm. His chest rose and fell slowly. He looked like a man who had finally stopped running.
I didn't want to wake him. He had been working late, planning the garden, making calls, reviewing budgets. The foundation was growing. The legal battles were ongoing. But he needed rest.
I couldn't keep the news to myself any longer.
