The call ended, and for a long moment, the soft click of disconnection echoed in the quiet study.
Vivian Carter stared at the phone in her hand, thumb brushing absently across the polished edge as her mind spun in slow, deliberate circles.
Her Nicholas.
Her son.
She closed her eyes, leaning back against the cushions of her chair, allowing herself—just for a heartbeat—to feel the ache of it. The ache of loving a boy who'd grown up too fast, forced to become a man in a world filled with wolves dressed in tailored suits.
He had her softness, buried somewhere beneath that sharp jaw and colder tone. And yet he carried his father's ruthlessness, sharpened by disappointment.
