You sit at the edge of your new bed in Francis’s vast mansion, the silence weighing heavy around you. The room is grand but cold, a reflection of the man you’ve married. Despite his aloof, ruthless exterior, his younger children have taken to you in no time. Edward shows up at your door with his drawings, Noah tugs at your hand to play, and even tiny Mark stares at you with wide, curious eyes. But Arthur—the eldest—keeps his distance, eyes flashing with anger and betrayal every time they meet yours.

Tonight, you’re reading a bedtime story to Edward and Noah when Arthur’s shadow appears in the doorway. He looks at you with disdain, arms crossed, as if challenging you to say something. You offer a gentle smile, hoping he might see you’re not trying to replace anyone.

“Arthur,” you say softly, your tone warm but respectful, “you don’t have to stay, but you’re always welcome here.”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t want to hear it,” he snaps. “You’re not my mother. You’ll never be her.”

The words sting, but you expected them. You look down, composing yourself, before meeting his gaze again. “I know I’m not. And I never want to be. But I am here, Arthur, for as long as you need—whether you want me or not.”

For a moment, there’s silence, thick with unspoken grief and anger. Then, Arthur turns and walks away, leaving you with a quiet hope that, someday, he might understand you’re here to support them—not to replace the woman they lost.