Franz was in the foyer at ten.

He’d been there since nine-thirty. Not pacing — Franz didn’t pace. He stood near the window with his hands in his pockets and watched the drive, and if anyone had asked, he would have said he was thinking about nothing in particular. The paper bags were on the hall table behind him. Three of them. He’d gone out early, before the twins were awake, and come back with something for each of them.

He hadn’t told Arianne. It wasn’t the kind of thing you announced.

She came down the stairs at ten-fifteen.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps. And stopped.

She was wearing a cream sweater. Dark trousers. Flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back, but loosely — not the tight twist she wore to boardrooms and press conferences. No blazer. No heels. No armor.

He’d only ever seen her like this at home. Late nights in the kitchen. Early mornings before the twins came down. Never outside. Never walking into enemy territory.

"You look — " He paused. "I expected a suit."

"I know." She reached the bottom of the stairs. "That’s why I didn’t wear one."

She wasn’t going to the Conway estate as the interim CEO. She wasn’t going as the woman who’d filed for fifty million in damages. She was going as her grandmother’s granddaughter. Evelyn had summoned her. Fine. But Evelyn didn’t get the performance. She got the person.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes."

Her eyes went to the bags on the table. "What are those?"

He picked them up. Three paper bags, simple, no logos. "Gifts."

"Gifts."

"For your family."

She looked at him. The scar on his knuckle. The way he held the bags like they were nothing and everything at once.

"You bought my family gifts."

"I’m meeting my in-laws." His voice was even. No drama. "I wanted to make an impression."

"They’ve been silent for a year. They didn’t come to the wedding. They didn’t acknowledge the marriage. Joyce is the only one who’s ever — "

"I know." He adjusted his grip on the bags. "But they’re your family. And I’m your husband. If I walk in empty-handed, they’ll use it. They’ll say you married someone who doesn’t know how to show respect. I’m not going to let them criticize you for me."

Arianne was quiet for a moment. The foyer was still. Through the window, the car was waiting — Gio in the front passenger seat.

"You didn’t have to do that," she said.

"I know."

She reached out. Her fingers touched the edge of one bag — the top one, folded neat at the seam. Then she dropped her hand.

"Let’s go."

***

The drive to the Conway estate took forty minutes.

The city gave way to suburbs, suburbs to hills. The road narrowed. The trees got older — oaks and elms, the kind that had been planted a century ago by people who thought in generations instead of years.

Arianne watched the landscape change through the window. She’d made this drive before. Once as a child, sitting in the back of her father’s car, watching her mother’s hands twist in her lap. Once at thirteen, alone, for the funeral. Once at thirty-five, in a suit, ready to fight for the voting shares.

Now she was thirty-six. In a cream sweater. With her husband beside her.

Gio turned from the front passenger seat.

"Your Aunt Joyce sent a message. She’ll be there. Your Uncle Yosef too. Julian’s already inside."

"My grandmother?"

"Hasn’t come down yet."

Of course she hadn’t. Evelyn would enter when she was ready. Not before.

The gates appeared around the last bend. Same iron. Same ivy. The estate hadn’t changed — stone facade, tall windows, the fountain in the courtyard that hadn’t run in twenty years. The butler was waiting at the top of the steps. Older now. Thinner. But the same man who’d opened the door for her when she was a child, when her mother was still alive and the house still felt like something other than a mausoleum.

The car pulled to a stop.

Gio got out first. Franz stepped out and turned back, offering his hand to Arianne.

She took it. His palm was warm. Dry. Steady.

The butler inclined his head. "Miss Arianne. Mr. Rochefort. Mrs. Conway is expecting you."

As usual, Gio was ignored but he didn’t seem to mind it.

The foyer was exactly as she remembered it. High ceilings. Dark wood. The portrait of her grandfather above the mantel — the same stern face, the same eyes that followed you around the room. The air smelled like old furniture and fresh flowers, a combination that had always struck her as dishonest.

Joyce was the first to reach them.

She came across the marble floor with her arms already half-open.

"Arianne." Joyce took her face in both hands and kissed her left cheek, then her right. "You look wonderful. I saw the press conference. I told Julian — I said, she’s going to win. You can tell from the way she stands."

"I haven’t won yet."

"You will." Joyce turned. Her eyes went to Franz. Warm. Curious. "And you must be Franz."

"Franz Rochefort." He offered his hand.

Joyce ignored it. She pulled him into a brief embrace instead — the kind that surprised him, Arianne could tell. His shoulders went still for half a second before he relaxed into it.

"I’m Joyce. Julian’s mother." She stepped back. "I’m a fan. I hope that’s not awkward to say. But I’ve followed your career for years. The medical drama — the one where you played the surgeon. I watched every episode."

"The Second Cut."

"Yes. That one. You were wonderful." She hesitated. "Could I — would you mind terribly if I asked for an autograph? Julian says I shouldn’t, but Julian isn’t here right now."

Franz smiled. Not the public smile — the real one. "I don’t mind."

Joyce produced a small notebook from her pocket like she’d been hoping for this exact moment. Franz took it. Signed. Handed it back.

"Thank you. I’ll be insufferable about it at the next book club." She tucked the notebook away. "Julian didn’t tell me you were handsome. He said you were patient. That’s a different thing."

"Julian is diplomatic."

"Julian is protective." Joyce’s eyes flicked to Arianne. "He’s been that way since you were children. He worries."

Yosef appeared behind Joyce. He was taller than Arianne remembered — her uncle, her mother’s older brother. He had the Conway jaw and the Conway reserve. He didn’t embrace her. He nodded. Formally. A beat of silence that said more than a greeting.

"Arianne."

"Uncle."

He looked at Franz. The assessment was brief but thorough — the kind of look men gave other men when they were deciding whether to take them seriously.

"Mr. Rochefort."

"Franz is fine."

Yosef didn’t say whether Franz was fine. But he nodded again, and that was something.

Franz held out the paper bags. "These are for you. All three of you. It’s — I wanted to bring something. As a first meeting."

Joyce took hers with both hands. "You brought gifts."

"It felt appropriate."

"Most people don’t bother with appropriate anymore." She opened the bag. Inside was a small box of tea — loose-leaf, the good kind, from the shop in the city that had been there for sixty years. Joyce’s face softened. "You asked someone what I liked."

"Julian."

"Of course he did." She looked at Arianne. "He asked Julian."

Yosef opened his. A bottle of whiskey. Irish. Twelve years. He turned it over in his hands and something shifted behind his expression — not warmth, not quite, but a crack in the reserve.

"Irish," he said.

"Julian mentioned you preferred it."

"Julian talks too much."

"Sometimes."

Yosef met his eyes. Held them. Then he nodded — a real nod this time, not the formal one. "Thank you."

The third bag was for Evelyn. Franz didn’t hand it to anyone. He kept it with him.

Joyce noticed. She didn’t comment.

The foyer was quiet for a moment. Then the air changed.

It was subtle — a shift in pressure, a drop in temperature. Joyce’s posture straightened. Yosef’s jaw tightened. Even the butler, standing by the door, seemed to hold himself differently.

Evelyn Conway was coming down the stairs.

She walked slowly. Older than Arianne remembered — the lines around her mouth deeper, the silver in her hair more pronounced. But the eyes were the same. Sharp. Missed nothing. She moved slowly, one hand on the banister, each step deliberate. She wasn’t frail. She was deliberate. There was a difference.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped.

"Arianne."

"Grandmother."

The two women looked at each other across the marble floor. Neither moved. Neither smiled.

Then Evelyn’s gaze shifted to Franz.

"You must be the husband." Her voice was dry. Measured. "I’ve seen you on television. You play a doctor."

"I did. Yes."

"And now you’re married to my granddaughter."

"Yes."

Evelyn studied him. The silence stretched — five seconds, ten. Franz didn’t fill it. He stood where he was, the third paper bag in his hand, and let her look.

"You’re calmer than I expected," she said.

"I’ve had a long time to learn patience."

Something flickered in Evelyn’s face. Not approval. Recognition. She looked at Arianne.

"He’s like you."

"I know," Arianne said.

Evelyn’s eyes dropped to the bag in Franz’s hand. She said nothing about it.

Joyce stepped forward into the silence. Her voice was bright — deliberately bright, the brightness of a woman who’d spent years defusing tension in this house.

"Lunch is ready. We should move to the dining room before it gets cold." She touched Evelyn’s arm. Light. Tactical. "Aunt, let’s sit. They’ve driven all the way from the city."

Evelyn didn’t argue. She turned toward the dining room, and the room exhaled. Joyce caught Arianne’s eye as she passed. A small smile. A smaller shrug. That went about as well as expected.

Franz fell into step beside Arianne. His hand found the small of her back — brief, light, there and gone.

"She’s exactly how you described," he said quietly.

"You haven’t seen anything yet."

They walked into the dining room together.