For generations, autumn at Raven Hill had been synonymous with tense shareholder summits and ruthless corporate maneuvering behind closed doors. But today, the south lawn was filled with laughter, wooden picnic tables laden with fresh apple cider, and local school children participating in the foundation’s annual harvest festival.

I stood on the stone terrace, wearing a thick cable-knit cream sweater and dark denim, watching little Julian—who had grown into an energetic toddler with bright, curious eyes—chase a golden retriever across the dew-kissed grass.

"He's going to wear that puppy out before lunch," Claire chuckled, walking up beside me with a steaming mug of spiced tea in her hands.

"エネルギー infinite," I laughed, taking a sip from my own mug. "Sometimes I wonder where he gets it from."

"Look at his father," Claire pointed toward the apple-bobbing station where Daniel was currently kneeling in the grass, attempting to rescue a very determined toddler from a runaway pumpkin cart while maintaining his dignity in a sharp wool blazer.

I smiled, a warm swell of affection filling my chest. The man who had once been feared as the coldest corporate titan in Ashport now spent his weekends building wooden toy trains and chasing toddlers across the lawn.