Chapter 8 - Rebuilding the Broken
Three months later.
The morning sun flooded through the high glass windows of the sprawling estate in Bel-Air. Unlike the cold, fortress-like Vault in Malibu, this house was warm, surrounded by lush green gardens, blooming rose bushes, and the cheerful sound of birds.
Julian Blackwood had been pulled from the ocean by the Coast Guard, arrested, and was now facing life in prison without parole for kidnapping, corporate espionage, and attempted murder. The corrupt board members had been purged, and Adrian had officially consolidated seventy percent of Blackwood Global's stock, transforming the company from a shadowy conglomerate into a global medical research foundation dedicated to curing rare childhood blood disorders.
I stood on the back porch, holding a warm mug of coffee, watching the backyard.
A brand-new, perfectly manicured baseball diamond sat in the center of the lawn.
Adrian, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans—a sight I was slowly getting used to—was kneeling near home plate, adjusting Ethan's grip on a small wooden bat. Ethan was wearing a tiny custom baseball jersey that read BLACKWOOD across the back with the number 7.
"Keep your elbows up, Ethan," Adrian coached gently, shifting Ethan's small shoulders. "Keep your eyes on the ball."
"Like this, Dad?" Ethan asked, adjusting his stance.
"Perfect," Adrian smiled, stepping back toward the pitcher's mound. "Alright, here comes a slow one!"
Adrian tossed the ball gently. Ethan swung with all his might, making a loud crack sound as the ball flew over Adrian's head into the grass.
"I hit it! I hit it!" Ethan cheered, throwing the bat down and sprinting around the bases, his loud laughter filling the sunny morning air.
Adrian laughed—a real, rich, beautiful sound—and chased after him, scooping Ethan up into a bear hug as he tagged home plate, spinning him around in the air while Ethan squealed with joy.
My heart felt so full it almost hurt. The seven years of hiding, the tiny dark apartment in Pasadena, the fear of the dark—it all seemed like a distant bad dream now.
Adrian set Ethan down and pointed toward the porch. "Go get some lemonade from the kitchen, champ."
"Okay!" Ethan ran past me, giving my hip a quick hug before barging into the house.
Adrian walked up the porch steps toward me, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. He looked relaxed, younger, and happier than I had ever seen him.
"He's getting good," Adrian said, sliding his arms around my waist from behind and pulling me back against his chest. He rested his chin on my shoulder, looking out at the yard.
"He gets his athletic talent from you," I murmured, leaning back into his warmth. "I couldn't hit a ball if my life depended on it."
"He gets his bravery from you," Adrian corrected softly, kissing the side of my neck, sending a delightful shiver down my spine. "Every single day I look at him, I see your courage."
I turned around in his arms, facing him, resting my hands against his chest. "How are the foundation papers coming along?"
"Signed this morning," Adrian replied. "We've officially funded ten pediatric research centers across the country. No child with Ethan's condition will ever be turned away or lack treatment again."
"Thank you, Adrian," I whispered genuinely.
He looked at me, his gray eyes deep and full of intense warmth. "Don't thank me, Claire. Everything I have, everything I build from now on, is for you and our son."
May you like
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, navy velvet box.
My breath caught in my throat.
