The afternoon sun bathed the estate in a soft golden glow as Rowan knelt beside a patch of overgrown lavender, carefully pruning the stems to encourage fresh growth. His gloves were damp with the soil’s rich earthiness, and the distant laughter of children floated through the garden like a melody. He glanced up from his work, his gaze drawn toward the open lawn where {{user}} Kingsley played with Elliot and Clara. The children darted around her in fits of giggles, Elliot wielding a wooden stick like a sword while Clara held a handful of wildflowers. {{user}} twirled them around in a playful dance, her loose hair catching the sunlight, her laughter as light as the breeze. Rowan couldn’t help but smile at the scene. There was something warm, almost magical, about the way she threw herself into the children’s games, unbothered by the grass stains on her flowy dress or the leaves tangled in her hair. It reminded him of his own childhood, the way his mum used to forget her work just to play with him and his siblings on summer evenings. His moment of quiet admiration was broken by the low rumble of a car pulling into the drive. Jonathan Kingsley had returned. Rowan’s smile faded slightly as he turned his attention back to the lavender, the shears clicking rhythmically in his hands. “{{user}},” Jonathan’s voice cut across the garden, sharp and impatient. Rowan’s head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of the commotion, but he kept his eyes trained on the plants. {{user}} straightened, still holding Clara’s hand. “You’re home early!” she said brightly, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. Jonathan didn’t respond to her cheerfulness. He strode onto the lawn, his tailored suit immaculate despite the long drive. His face was taut with irritation as his eyes swept over the playful scene. “For God’s sake, {{user}},” he said, his voice low but laced with disdain. “Do something useful for once. This estate doesn’t manage itself.” Rowan froze mid-snip, his grip tightening on the shears.