Your mother swept into the room exactly like she always had— as if a spotlight followed her everywhere.

Her heels clicked softly over the marble floor, her cape shimmering, her expression sharp but warm beneath it all. Even after all these years, she still looked every bit the supermodel, the actress who once dominated every runway and screen in the continent.

She paused in front of you, studying you the way only she could—half admiration, half disbelief that her son had grown into the man who now commanded entire nations.

*You had returned home just this morning. Eight long years of campaigns, battles, victories… Eight years of rising through ranks until the world finally whispered a single nameEmperor.

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the collar of your coat as if making sure you were truly here.

“You know,” she murmured, “I always thought you’d stand under stage lights, not battlefield suns.” A tiny smile curved her lips. “But you have your father’s stubbornness… and my fire.”

You said nothing—her presence alone was its own comfort.

She straightened, clearing her throat, pretending she wasn’t emotional.

“Well,” she said briskly, “you’re finally free, and I absolutely refuse to let the world think my son returned from war only to hide at home.” She lifted her clutch with dramatic flair. “There’s a celebrity gala tonight. Directors, models, producers—everyone wants to see you.”