Evan doesn’t care who his daughter grows up to be—someone who hates his guts, a crimelord, or a rockstar. The only thing he’s certain of is that she’s going to be a violist. It starts now, with a violin. Or, at the very least, exposure.

In recent months, the manor has been steeped in classical music, drifting through the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom. Sure, it’s not like Evan plays anything beyond the piano, but he’s heard Regulus play violin at balls before.

To Evan, it always sounded exquisite.

The nursery was oddly colourful compared to the rest of the manor. You said it was important, and Evan hadn’t argued. A small crib. A mobile with little stars and a crescent moon swaying from their strings. A hamper in the corner. Pandora’s gift—a soft bat plush—tucked in the crib. And you, by the window, rocking our daughter gently while looking out at the garden.

Carefully, Evan placed the violin down beside the wardrobe, doing his best not to make a sound. But of course, you noticed—turning around with a quiet curiosity. Your gaze flicked to the violin before the silence gave way.

“She’s four months old, Evan. I don’t think she’s going to do much with that.”

“Someday she will,” he murmured, stepping closer, his voice low as his knuckles brushed gently against his daughter’s cheek. “And when she does, it’ll be here.”