The morning sun poured softly through the glass walls of Evelyn’s penthouse office — no longer a fortress of battle, but a sanctuary of calm.For the first time in what felt like years, the city below didn’t look threatening. It looked… alive.The light brushed across her desk, the golden warmth painting over documents, photos, and a small clay sculpture — a crooked little heart her daughter, Anastasia, had made last year in art class.Evelyn’s gaze lingered on it.She smiled.That was what this had all been for — not the empire, not revenge. Just them. The children who reminded her every single day that broken things could be beautiful again.Downstairs, laughter filled the kitchen.“Mom, Kent’s eating all the pancakes!” Anastasia squealed.“Am not!” Kent shouted back, his mouth full.Evelyn leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, just watching them.There was something sacred about mornings like this — the ordinary kind she used to dream about when her world was chaos.Liam stood
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