Chapter 7

The estate’s morning view burst into full glory: a sweeping private garden framed by climbing roses, trimmed hedges, and a small fountain in the center. The kind of garden her mother never thought she’d live to have.

“She always does,” Elara said, voice low but amused.

Lydia walked to the bed and set her coffee down on the side table.

She looked at the sleeping girl with a tenderness that was still new to her, raw, quiet, almost reverent.

“I came to steal her,” Lydia said. “She promised me pancakes yesterday, and I intend to collect.”

“She’s two, mom. I made that promise on her behalf.”

Lydia waved a hand dismissively. “Details. She owes me breakfast. You owe me silence until noon.”

Elara shook her head and folded her arms, watching her mother gently pick up the little girl without waking her.

She curled naturally against her grandmother’s chest, her chubby arms instinctively circling around Lydia’s neck.

And for just a moment, Elara’s heart clenched.

Not in sadness.

In awe.

It hadn’t always been like this. Far from it.

Three years ago, the memory was sharp, etched in crystal clarity.

She had stood trembling in the corner of their small apartment kitchen, pregnancy test clenched tightly in her hand, the result burning into her skin.

Lydia had stared at her like she was losing her mind.

“You’re eighteen,” she’d said coldly. “You’re in college.”

“I’m not anymore,” Elara had whispered, voice cracking. “They... they made it unbearable after what happened.”

“You're going to keep it?” Lydia had asked, voice rising with disbelief.

Elara had nodded, eyes glassy. “Yes.”

And that had been it.

A long silence. A door slammed. And for nearly a week, they didn’t speak.

But Lydia didn’t leave. She didn’t throw her out. She cooked. She did the laundry. She even started sending Elara job listings for remote design work.

It took time. It took the weight of isolation. Of seeing her daughter lose friends, opportunities, and the bright light she’d once held.

And eventually, Lydia broke.

She started reading baby books. Started buying groceries in pairs, one for the pantry, one for prenatal cravings. She never asked again about the father.

Because she knew if Elara wasn’t saying his name… there was a reason.

Present day...

“I’ll bring her back after breakfast,” Lydia said, adjusting the toddler in her arms and walking toward the door. “She’ll probably want to drag me into her closet and play fashion show again.”

“Let her. She’s got taste,” Elara smirked.

“I wonder where she gets it from,” Lydia replied dryly, arching a brow.

Then, just as she was about to leave the room, she turned.

“Elara…”

“Yeah?”

There was a beat of hesitation.

“You’re not just tired this morning. You’re worried.”

The silence hung between them like a taut thread.

“I saw your face last night, after the ceremony.”

Elara stilled. She hated that her mother could still read her like that.

“He didn’t recognize me,” she said simply.

“But you did him.”

Elara gave a small, bitter smile. “How could I not?”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Does he know?”

“No,” Elara said. “And he won’t. That door was closed a long time ago.”

Her mother studied her for a moment longer, but didn’t push.

Instead, she nodded. “Good. Then let’s keep it that way.”

Elara’s eyes dropped for a moment. Not because she disagreed.

But because a tiny voice inside her asked a question she hated: What if he deserves to know?

She shoved the thought away.

“He was a mistake,” she said flatly. “One I paid for. One that nearly broke me. I built my life so she’d never have to know that pain. I won’t let him undo that.”

Lydia stepped forward and rested her free hand on Elara’s shoulder.

“You built more than just your life. You built ours.”

And then she left, carrying her granddaughter into the day like she was holding the world in her arms.

Elara stood in the quiet bedroom, letting the morning sink in.

She wasn’t that broken girl anymore.

She was Elara Hayes.

Designer. Mother. Survivor.

And if Leonard Shaw thought he could walk back into her world after three years of silence, after that night, after those words...

He had no idea who he was dealing with.

The sound of her mother’s footsteps faded down the marble hallway, swallowed by the warm hush of the estate.

Elara still stood still in the middle of her bedroom, staring at the spot her daughter had been lying moments ago. A soft imprint remained in the comforter, as if her warmth still lingered.

The quiet felt deafening now.

She blinked once, twice, and let out a slow, controlled breath.

The walls of her sanctuary, painted in soft tones of pearl and ash grey, stood tall around her.

She had designed this space herself: every brush of color, every curve in the molding, every shard of glass in the chandelier above. All of it was curated for one reason.

Control.

Because she hadn’t always had it.

And now, as her mind wandered back to the ceremony, to the sharp pull in Leonard Shaw’s eyes, to that haunted, stunned expression he wore when he saw her, really saw her, for the first time in three years, something inside her chest shifted uncomfortably.

She turned away from the silence and padded barefoot to her walk in closet.

The doors opened with a soft click, revealing an entire world of curated designer pieces, most of them hers.

She didn’t even glance. Instead, she reached for the silk robe she’d had pressed the day before. Pale ivory, embroidered with delicate golden thread along the hem.

She slipped it over her camisole and knotted it at her waist, then turned to the vanity.

Her phone sat there, face down.

She picked it up and tapped the screen.

Three missed calls.

All from Julian.

Her throat tightened.

Damn.

She hadn’t meant to ignore him last night. But between Leonard’s sudden reappearance, the whispers at the gala, the journalists reaching out with requests for interviews, and the afterparty she strategically skipped, Elara had needed silence.

Julian Cross wasn’t the type of man to call unless it mattered.

She dialed back immediately.