Slowly, he reached forward and unlocked the gate.
“Come inside,” he said, his voice unsteady in a way it hadn’t been in years. “Both of you. You don’t need to work. You don’t need to prove anything. You’re safe here.”
Addison stared at him, disbelief and exhaustion battling across her face.
“Sir… I—”
“Graham,” he corrected gently. “Just Graham.”
That first night in the mansion, Addison slept sitting upright, the baby held tightly against her, flinching at every unfamiliar sound. Graham observed from a distance, ashamed at how long it took for her body to ease. Doctors were called. Hazel was examined, fed, and warmed. Addison was given clean clothes, a private room, and something she had gone without for far too long—space.
Days passed.
Then the weeks rolled on.
Addison returned to school, throwing herself into her studies with an intensity fueled by more than hunger alone. Graham watched as she slowly relearned how to smile—tentative at first, as if happiness were something fragile that might vanish the moment she believed in it.
One evening, they sat together on the terrace while Hazel slept peacefully in her stroller. The quiet stretched between them before Graham finally spoke.