Chapter 160
Zander
I have dealt with every last Vale. Their shadows are gone, but my unease lingers. Standing in wait at the airport feels unreal, like I've stepped into someone else's life.
This is the first time my father has ever left the island.
Ivan and Nia are at home. Safe. Waiting. I remind myself of that as I tap my foot restlessly against the glossy floor. Still, the anxiety claws at me—old instincts whispering that the Vales could somehow hurt him even now.
But they can't.
I've made sure of it.
The low roar of engines cuts through my thoughts. The private jet touches down, sleek and gleaming under the late afternoon sun. My chest tightens as it taxis closer, and when the door finally opens, I feel like I'm holding my breath.
The stairs unfold, and then I see him.
My father.
He looks smaller somehow, but still steady, sharp-eyed as he surveys the foreign airport. His gaze darts around curiously, almost lost, until it lands on me. Recognition. Relief.
My control shatters.
I move—two steps at a time, closing the distance, my chest aching with how much I've missed him. He doesn't hesitate either, descending the stairs faster than he should, and when we meet at the bottom, I crush him into my arms.
Too tight, too desperate.
He doesn't complain. He just holds me back, his grip iron, as though he's the one afraid I'll disappear.
His arms used to wrap around me like iron, swallowing me whole. Now, they're firm but smaller around my grown frame. I hold him too tight anyway.
He smells the same. Like home.
"Now take me to my grandchild," he says, shoving me away like I'm some clingy teenager instead of a grown man. A grown man that's his son, his only son.
I laugh, a choked sound caught somewhere between relief and joy. "You're not even going to ask how I've been?"
"I can see how you've been," he replies gruffly, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You look good, son. But I've waited long enough. I want to meet her."
*
The drive home is short, but my chest is tight the entire way. I keep sneaking glances at him in the rearview mirror. He's looking out the window, curious, absorbing everything like a man stepping out of another lifetime. And in a way, he is.
When we pull into the driveway, Ivan's already standing outside with his sleeves rolled up, like the soft domestic bastard he's become.
"Ivan," my father says, pulling him into a hug before Ivan can even react.
"I—hi," Ivan stammers, laughing into the unexpected embrace.
"Jeremy, it's so nice to see you," he adds warmly once they pull apart.
And then Nia squeals from the porch.
Margaret stands there holding her, the late sun slanting across the porch and making Nia's curls shine like spun gold. She kicks her legs in excitement, as if she already knows who's come for her.
Jeremy freezes for half a second. His entire face softens—creases and all.
"Is this my granddaughter?" he whispers, and his voice cracks just a little.
Without waiting for permission, he strides forward. Margaret, to her credit, doesn't flinch at all when he approaches—she simply tilts Nia forward.
"Master Jeremy, it's a pleasure," Margaret says with her usual elegance.
"Please, just Jeremy," he says absently, his gaze locked entirely on the tiny bundle in her arms.
He leans in. "Hi there, little one."
Nia blinks up at him, then reaches out with a chubby hand and fumbles at his sleeve. That's all it takes for the man for him to crumble right in front of me. His eyes shine, and his mouth trembles in a way I've never seen before.
He looks over at me like he can't quite believe it. "Oh my goodness," he breathes. "She's perfect."
I don't even try to stop the lump in my throat.
He coos at her, babbling nonsense in a tone I've never heard from him, and Nia giggles like she's decided he's her new favorite person.
***
Jeremy
I cradle my granddaughter against my chest as I walk through the house.
Despite its humongous size, it doesn't feel cold or distant. It feels like a home. Warm. Lived in. There are shoes at the door, faint laughter echoing from the kitchen, and the soft hum of life that was evidently missing from my home.
It hurt to leave the island. That place was all I'd ever known. Every tree, every grain of sand, every salt-stung breeze carried a piece of me. But there was no family left for me there—not really. So when my son and his husband asked if I wanted to live with them, the answer came before the question even finished leaving their mouths.
I didn't have to think. Not at all.
I take the steps slowly, careful not to wake Nia as she dozes lightly against my shoulder. In the living room, sunlight spills across the wall where an array of pictures hangs.
And there—there I am.
Photographs of me are nestled between their own memories, as if I've always belonged here. So that's why Zander had asked for those old pictures on my phone… he wanted to make sure I was part of their walls, their story.
I swallow against the sting in my throat.
I heard they have a nanny, but she's away on vacation, which means most of the childcare falls to me for now. I don't mind. Not in the slightest.
Back on the island, my days were just endless waiting. Sitting on the porch, staring at the trees, the driveway. Waiting for what? My son's voice? Or maybe—if I'm honest with myself—waiting for him.
My mate. My alpha.
Even though I know he's gone, my heart refuses to let go. It's been more than a decade, but the gaping hole in my chest has never really closed. Time has simply taught me how to breathe around it.
"Jeremy, good morning."
The soft, warm voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
I turn—and there he is. My son-in-law.
Ivan.
Ivan is as always still strikingly beautiful, it's blinding.
"Ivan," I greet, returning the smile.
"And hello to you too, little sunshine," he adds, tilting his head toward Nia. She babbles something incomprehensible in response, and we both laugh.
"Join us for breakfast," Ivan says, and I nod without hesitation.
Breakfast. Such a simple thing. But to me, it's everything.
After years of silent meals, where my only company was a creaking chair and the sound of crickets outside, the soft chatter filling the kitchen now feels like balm to a starved soul.
Zander leans forward, eyes crinkled at the corners, and wipes the corner of Ivan's mouth with his thumb.
For a heartbeat, the image blurs—his face melts into another. His father's.
The resemblance isn't just in Zander's features. It's in the way he loves. Fierce. Quiet. Sure.
I blink rapidly, swallowing the tremor in my chest.
Please… whoever's listening up there… let them grow old together. Let them have what I was never granted.
I lower my gaze to my granddaughter's tiny face, her little mouth curved in a sleepy half-smile.
For the first time in years, the ache inside me doesn't feel so sharp.