The ink on the billionaire's draft didn't just smell like iron and cedar; it smelled like execution notices.

The police had come and gone—or rather, the select precinct captains on Roman’s payroll had arrived, carted away Slade’s twelve wounded mercenaries in unmarked vans, and filed an official report detailing a "botched private break-in by an unidentified burglary ring."

Inside the grand kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and melted butter filled the air.

Max sat on the high butcher-block stool, his small legs swinging freely. A stack of four golden pancakes sat on his plate, topped with a mountain of fresh blueberries that Marcus had managed to procure from an all-night import market down on dock street.

Roman sat across from him at the wooden table, his tailored jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked ten years older, yet somehow, for the first time in eight months, he looked like a man who could breathe.

Ivy stood by the stove, pouring a fresh cup of coffee into a cracked ceramic mug. Her duffel bag sat by the back door, fully packed, the silver duct tape on her left sneaker looking clean and secure in the morning light.

"You're leaving," Roman stated. It wasn't a question.

"My rent's paid," Ivy said, leaning against the counter and taking a slow sip of her coffee. "And the West Wing is quiet again. Your son doesn't need a dishwasher anymore; he’s got his voice back, and he’s got a father who’s finally ready to listen."

Roman stood up slowly, walking across the tile floor until he stood two feet away from her. The checkbook—the one he had slammed onto the steel table forty-eight hours ago—sat on the counter between them, untouched, its pages crisp and blank.

"The fifty thousand is yours," Roman said quietly. "And the house on the North Side. And my name, if you want it—or anything else I own."

Ivy looked down at the checkbook, then up into those dark, intense, impossibly deep eyes. She reached out, picked up the pen resting beside it, and slowly closed the cover without writing a single line.

"I don't want your money, Roman Cross," Ivy said, a faint, tired smile touching the corners of her mouth. "And I don't want your name."

Roman’s brow furrowed, a rare flash of confusion crossing his hardened features. "Then what do you want?"

Ivy reached into her pocket, pulled out the pink-and-purple plastic bead bracelet that had belonged to Grace, and laid it gently on the counter beside the checkbook.

"Just come down to the diner on Roosevelt Road sometime next week," Ivy said, turning toward the door and slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder. "Bring the boy. I’ll make the pancakes. And this time... you're paying for the coffee."

As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind her, Roman didn't chase her. He stood in the warm morning light for a long moment, watching through the shattered window as she walked down the long, empty driveway toward the gates.

From the high stool behind him, a small hand tugged gently on his sleeve.

"Dad?" Max asked, his voice clear and bright as the morning sun.

Roman looked down, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird finally set free. "Yeah, buddy?"

"Can we bring her some blueberries next time?"