Chapter 10 - The Unwritten Page
The gala wound down late into the night. By the time my town car dropped us off at the brownstone, Leo was fast asleep, his head resting softly against my shoulder, breathing in a steady, peaceful rhythm.
I carried him upstairs, tucked him gently into his crib beneath a mobile of twinkling stars, and kissed his cheek.
"Sleep well, my little king," I whispered.
I walked down the hallway into my private study. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows. On my mahogany desk sat an open leather-bound journal—the first blank page waiting for tomorrow's headline.
I pulled out my fountain pen, the same one I had used to sign away the Vance legacy, and sat down in my leather armchair.
For five years, I had believed I was a character in someone else's story—a wife in a happy marriage, a supporting player in a grand family dynasty designed by others.
Now, looking at the blank page, I realized the truth.
I wasn't the character.
I was the author.
May you like
And the pen had never left my hand.
I smiled, pressed the golden nib to the crisp white paper, and began to write.
