By 5:00 P.M., the storm had finally cleared over Brooklyn, leaving behind a brilliant, golden sunset that reflected off the misty surface of the East River.

Valon drove the Range Rover down the quiet, cobblestone street of the Brooklyn waterfront, stopping outside the brick facade of the Northern Table. The gold lettering on the front window glistened in the evening light: THE NORTHERN TABLE - SIGRID META, OWNER.

The restaurant was quiet, closed for the afternoon shift. Through the front glass, I could see Clara wiping down the wooden tables and Marcus preparing the evening stocks in the open kitchen.

Valon turned off the engine.

We sat in the quiet cabin of the vehicle, watching the sunlight play over the water.

"Are you sure you want to go upstairs?" Valon asked gently, looking at me. "I can take you back to the penthouse. I had the staff clear out the study. It's... it's going to be a nursery."

I looked at him, my heart softening.

"The penthouse is too big for three people, Valon," I smiled faintly.

Valon’s eyes widened slightly. "Three people?"

"I want us to build a home, Valon," I said, reaching across the console to take his hand. "Not a fortress. Not a museum for your family’s history. A home."

Valon looked down at our joined hands, his fingers tightening around mine as if he would never let go.

"We can sell the penthouse," he whispered, looking up at me with a reverence that made tears spring to my eyes. "We can buy the brownstone next to the restaurant. We can open the garden in the back."

"I would like that," I murmured.

Valon reached out, his large, warm palm gently coming to rest over my lower abdomen. He held his hand there, feeling the quiet warmth beneath my sweater, his face lit by the golden sunset streaming through the window.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked softly.

"The nausea is gone," I smiled, leaning my head against his shoulder. "The doctor said as long as I eat properly and stay away from arrogant attorneys, I’ll be fine."

Valon let out a low, deep laugh—a sound I hadn't heard in two long years—and leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the top of my head.

"I love you, Sigrid," he whispered into my hair. "More than the ports, more than the family, more than my own life."

"I know," I replied, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Now take me upstairs. My mother’s recipes are waiting."