Chapter 9 - The Sunflowers in Lake ForestThree months later, the Lake Forest mansion felt entirely different.
The oppressive, suffocating cold that used to hang in the air was gone. The heavy velvet drapes in the drawing room had been replaced with light, sheer linens that let the warm Chicago sunlight flood into every corner.
Out in the sprawling backyard gardens, seven-year-old Lily and five-year-old Noah were laughing as they chased a golden retriever puppy across the green lawn. No one was hiding. No one was flinching.
I sat on the white wrought-iron patio bench, holding a cup of hot chamomile tea, watching them with a quiet, peaceful smile.
"They haven't asked about the old rules once," a deep, familiar voice murmured beside me.
I turned my head. Grant Calloway sat down on the bench next to me. He had finally taken off his dark suit jacket, his white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, looking more like a relaxed father than a ruthless billionaire tycoon.
"Children heal fast," I said softly, looking back out at Lily and Noah. "As long as they know the door to their room is locked from the inside to keep safety in, not fear out."
Grant turned, resting his arm along the back of the bench, his gray eyes softening as he looked at me.
"And what about you, Nora?" he asked, his voice low and rich. "Have you unpacked your bags yet? Or are you still keeping your suitcase packed by the door out of habit?"
I looked down at my hands, feeling a sudden warmth rise in my cheeks. In the three months since Vivian’s arrest and trial, my role in the household had changed. I was no longer wearing the black uniform of a housekeeper. Grant had formally appointed me as the director of the Calloway Foundation and the permanent guardian of his children.
But sitting here beside him, I knew titles didn't capture what we had become to one another.
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"I think..." I smiled, looking straight into his eyes, "I finally threw the suitcase away."
Grant let out a rare, genuine laugh—a warm, deep sound that chased away every lingering shadow of the past. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers intertwining gently with mine.
