The rain over Seattle didn’t fall so much as it drowned the city, sweeping off Puget Sound in icy sheets that rattled the glass windows of the emergency transport van.

The spring sun had finally broken through the Seattle rain, turning the waters of Puget Sound into a sparkling sheet of sapphire blue.

The Orcas Island estate had transformed from a gloomy black-site retreat into a home. The heavy steel-reinforced doors remained, but they were now framed by blooming hydrangeas and white roses. The terrace was covered with baby gear—a modern bassinet, a bright pink play mat, and a silver stroller that Damian had spent three hours assembling himself despite having a team of forty staff members at his disposal.

I stood in the sunroom, wearing a comfortable cream-colored knit sweater and jeans, holding two-month-old Maya against my shoulder. She was getting bigger every day, her dark eyes wide and curious as she tracked the movement of the birds outside the window.

A quiet knock echoed at the double doors of the foyer.

Marcus Vance stepped into the room, looking visibly uncomfortable.

"Mrs. Cross," Marcus said, bowing his head slightly. (I hadn't corrected him on the title in weeks.) "We have a situation at the main security gate."

I turned, frowning slightly. "A situation? Damian is on his way back from the Seattle dockyard meeting, isn't he?"

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Cross's helicopter will land in twenty minutes," Marcus replied, adjusting his tactical belt. "However, a vehicle just cleared the island ferry. It's registered to the Cross Family Estate in Virginia."

My stomach gave a sudden, cold turn. "Virginia?"

Before Marcus could explain further, the loud crunch of gravel echoed from the driveway outside.

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the sunroom, I watched a sleek, vintage silver Rolls-Royce pull up to the front portico.

The rear door was opened by a uniformed chauffeur.

Stepping out of the vehicle was a woman who looked like she had been sculpted from solid, unyielding granite. She wore a tailored charcoal Chanel suit, a three-strand pearl necklace, and dark sunglasses despite the soft sunlight. Her silver hair was pulled back into a flawless, severe bun.

It was Victoria Cross. Damian’s mother.

The woman who had refused to attend our wedding three years ago because she considered me "a low-born distraction with no lineage."

"Do you want me to turn her away at the gate, ma'am?" Marcus asked, his hand resting near his sidearm. "Mr. Cross gave explicit orders that no member of the extended family is allowed on this property without his personal authorization."

I looked down at Maya, who was fast asleep against my chest.

For three years, I had been terrified of Victoria Cross. She represented the old money, the dark aristocracy, and the cold, unfeeling cruelty that had turned Damian’s father into a monster. But I wasn't the scared, insecure girl who had married Damian in a quiet courthouse ceremony anymore.

I was Maya’s mother. And I was the woman who had survived Noah Reed.

"No, Marcus," I said, my voice cool and steady. "Open the doors. Let her in."

"Mrs. Cross—"

"I said let her in, Marcus," I repeated, looking him straight in the eye. "It's time my mother-in-law met her granddaughter."

Two minutes later, the massive oak doors of the foyer opened, and Victoria Cross swept into the residence. Her sharp, hazel eyes—the exact same color as Damian’s—scanned the warm cedar walls, the baby toys scattered near the sofa, and the simple, comfortable furniture with profound disdain.

"So," Victoria said, her voice dripping with iced velvet as she removed her sunglasses. "This is where my son has hidden his secret family. A wooden cabin in the woods."

"It's a home, Victoria," I replied, stepping out from the sunroom into the foyer, holding Maya securely in my arms. "Something the Cross family hasn't had in three generations."

Victoria froze. Her sharp eyes snapped to me, floating down from my face to the tiny bundle resting against my chest.

A micro-expression of absolute shock crossed her severe face before she instantly smoothed it away with decades of practiced aristocratic composure.

"You've grown quite bold, Elena," Victoria said, taking a slow, measured step forward, her high heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor. "The last time I saw you, you were weeping into your tea at the country club because my associate asked if your father had ever held a real job."

"The last time you saw me," I replied, stepping forward to meet her halfway, "I didn't realize how weak you actually were."

Victoria’s eyebrows arched dangerously. "Weak?"

"You spent forty years letting your husband run a criminal syndicate that almost destroyed your son," I said, my voice completely devoid of fear. "You sat in your Virginia mansion while Noah Reed poisoned me and tried to kill your granddaughter. You didn't come here to check on Damian. You came here to see if I was going to ruin your family's precious reputation."

Silence descended on the foyer, thick and heavy as a fog.

Victoria stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, her eyes drifted down to Maya’s tiny face.

The baby opened her eyes, letting out a soft, tiny yawn, her dark hazel eyes fixing directly on the older woman.

Victoria took a hesitant breath. Her hand, covered in diamond rings, lifted slightly toward the baby before she pulled it back, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"She... she has his eyes," Victoria whispered, her cold facade cracking for a brief, fleeting fraction of a second.

"She has my heart," I corrected softly. "And if you want to be a part of her life, Victoria, you will leave your titles, your arrogance, and your dark history at the gate. Because if you bring an ounce of the Cross family poison into this house, I will personally throw you off this island."