chair before a maid reached him first.
Alexander watched from the head of the table, his expression unreadable.
He had spent years negotiating with men who lied for profit. He knew polished behavior when he saw it. He knew that people could train their faces, soften their voices, and arrange compassion like flowers in a vase.
Still, part of him hoped.
He wanted one of them to be genuine.
He wanted the answer to be simple.
He wanted to believe that by choosing carefully enough, he could give Liam the life Juliette would have wanted for him.
Liam, meanwhile, cared nothing for strategy.
He banged a spoon.
He threw a piece of carrot.
He laughed when the butler caught it against his sleeve.
Then dessert was served.
A small dish of pear puree was placed before the child, and Liam immediately smeared one hand through it. Alexander smiled despite himself. Vivienne laughed prettily. Clara reached for a napkin. Rose leaned forward, glowing with rehearsed affection.
That was when Liam gripped the edge of his high chair.
At first, no one understood.
His fingers curled.
His knees pushed.
His little body lifted from the seat with trembling determination.
A maid near the wall covered her mouth.
Alexander’s hand froze beside his glass.
For weeks, Liam had been trying to walk. He could stand if someone held his hands. He could take one step between the nursery sofa and the ottoman before falling backward in outrage. He could wobble toward his toys and collapse into a heap of curls and frustration.
But he had never truly walked.
Not alone.
Not like this.
Alexander rose slowly, afraid that one sudden movement might break the moment.
Liam steadied himself against the high chair tray. His cheeks flushed. His mouth opened in a delighted little gasp, as if he had discovered a secret about his own legs.
“My boy,” Alexander whispered.
The words barely escaped him.
Liam lifted one foot.
The room seemed to tilt around that tiny movement.
He set it down.
Then he lifted the other.
A sound passed through the dining room, half gasp and half prayer.
Alexander felt tears burn his eyes. He did not wipe them away. He could only stare as his son stood under the chandelier light, swaying between babyhood and the first brave step into the rest of his life.
The three women reacted at once.
Vivienne moved first, because Vivienne always moved first. She pushed back her chair with graceful urgency and opened her arms, red satin shimmering around her.
“Come here, darling,” she called, her voice sweet and bright. “Come to me.”
Clara followed, leaning forward with a gentleness that looked almost convincing.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” she said. “You can do it. Come here.”
Rose slipped from her chair and knelt beside the table, arranging herself at Liam’s height. Her eyes glistened beautifully.
“Come to me, little angel,” she breathed.
The scene was perfect.
Three lovely women.
Three open pairs of arms.
Three possible mothers waiting in candlelight.
Alexander stood behind them, unable to breathe.
He suddenly realized how absurd and sacred the moment was. He had invited these women to be judged by conversation, manners, family background, and social suitability. But now his son stood at the center of the room, holding the power
