377 Poppy said it while Nathan’s fork was halfway to his mouth.

By midnight, Ashcombe Manor was swarming with local authorities, forensic investigators, and legal representatives from the county prosecutor’s office.

The heavy dining room doors were closed, but the grand hallway was filled with the rhythmic flash of camera bulbs and the quiet, professional murmurs of police officers cataloging evidence from the Blue Room.

Edmund Vale had been led down the grand staircase in steel handcuffs, his head bowed, his dark velvet jacket confiscated as evidence. His thirty-one-year career, his social standing, and his fraudulent empire had evaporated in a single evening.

In the small drawing room on the ground floor, far removed from the forensic commotion in the west wing, a small fire crackled in the hearth.

Nathan sat on the plush velvet sofa, a blanket wrapped around Celia’s shoulders. She held a warm mug of chamomile tea in her hands, her color slowly returning. Across from them sat Sophie, holding a sleeping Poppy in her arms. The six-year-old girl was curled up like a small cat, her head resting against her mother’s shoulder, her dusty-pink hair bows slightly crumpled.

The door opened softly, and Detective Inspector Miller stepped into the room, holding a leather notepad.

"Mr. Ashcombe," Miller said politely, bowing his head slightly. "We've secured the USB drive and the original 1996 will. Our financial crime division has already begun freezing Mr. Vale’s offshore accounts in the Channel Islands. It appears he had already converted nearly eight million pounds into untraceable corporate bonds."

"Will the estate recover the funds?" Nathan asked, gently stroking Celia’s back.

"Most of it, yes," Miller confirmed. "Thanks to the ledger files on that flash drive, we have a clear map of every fraudulent transfer he made over the last decade. He was planning to board a private flight to Zurich on Tuesday morning."

Miller looked down at little Poppy, sleeping peacefully in Sophie's arms, a small smile touching his lips.

"I have to say, sir... in my twenty years on the force, I've never seen an eight-million-pound international fraud ring unravelled by a six-year-old asking for a potato."

Sophie let out a soft, wet laugh, kissing the top of her daughter's braided hair. "She has always had terrible timing, Inspector. But tonight... it saved us all."

"Thank you, Inspector," Nathan said, standing up to shake the detective's hand. "Please let us know if you need anything else tonight."

"We have everything we need for now, Mr. Ashcombe. Goodnight."

As the detective left the room, the drawing room fell into a quiet, peaceful silence—the first true peace Ashcombe Manor had known in ten years.

Nathan walked over to the window, pushing aside the heavy lace curtains. Outside, the rain had begun to fall softly over the south gardens, washing away the mist and revealing the grand outline of the Victorian glasshouses in the moonlight.

Celia stood up from the sofa, trailing her blanket behind her, and walked over to stand beside him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest.

"What happens now, Nathan?" she asked softly.

Nathan turned, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her sweet, scented hair.

"Now... we rebuild," Nathan whispered. "We tear down the secrets. We pay off Father's old debts honestly. And we turn this house into a home where Poppy and our future children can grow up without fear."

Celia looked up at him, her amber eyes shining with deep, unwavering love. "Our future children?"

Nathan smiled—a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes for the first time all evening. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, simple gold band—his grandmother’s ring, which he had kept hidden in his coat.

He slipped it gently onto Celia’s ring finger.