The autumn sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Thorne Estate's grand library, catching dust motes that danced above ancient tomes and casting a golden glow across the polished mahogany table where Lysander bent over stacks of documents. At twenty-seven, my son was every inch his father's successor—tall, broad-shouldered, with Alaric's commanding presence but a gentleness in his eyes that was uniquely his own.
I paused in the doorway, watching him work. The quill moved steadily in his hand as he reviewed tenant agreements, his brow furrowed in concentration just like Alaric's would.
"You're hovering, Mother," he said without looking up, a smile playing at his lips.
"A mother's prerogative," I replied, stepping into the room. "Especially the day before her eldest child's wedding."
Lysander finally glanced up, setting down his quill. "I thought I might find a moment of peace before the chaos begins."
