Shay lunged straight back into Lara’s arms, clinging to her with desperate strength, her small limbs wrapping around her like an octopus. She buried her face into Lara’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably, her tiny body trembling as if she had just escaped something terrifying.

"Who the hell are you?!" Moira’s voice cracked through the room, sharp and furious, though there was something unstable beneath it now.

"Shay is my daughter! How dare you trick her into calling you Mommy?!"

Lara didn’t answer.

She simply held Shay closer, one hand cradling the back of her head, shielding her from the storm.

A soft, amused chuckle broke the tension.

"Well, my darling Moira," Beatrice’s voice dripped with sarcasm as she elegantly crossed her legs, watching the scene unfold like theater, "she is Shay’s governess, Larissa Reyes."

Moira let out a short, mocking laugh, her lips curling.

"A governess?" she repeated, eyes flicking over Lara with open disdain. "You mean—a maid?"

The insult hadn’t even fully settled in the air when—

Ares moved.

In just a few long strides, he crossed the room and positioned himself beside Lara’s chair. His presence was solid. unmovable and protective.

"Ares," Moira said, turning to him, her voice shifting—pleading now, wounded, as if trying to reclaim lost ground. "How could you let my daughter call someone else Mommy?"

Ares looked at her. Really looked at her.

And whatever she saw in his eyes made her breath hitch.

"Why?" he asked, his voice low—almost conversational. "Have you ever been a mother to Shay?"

The question struck harder than any accusation.

"Where were you," he continued, each word precise and cutting, "when she was sick? When she was going through chemotherapy?"

Moira’s lips parted.

No sound came out.

"Where were you during her school conferences? When her classmates bullied her because her mommy is always not around?" His gaze didn’t waver. "Where were you when she needed you the most?"

"I—I..." Moira stammered, the confidence she carried earlier crumbling piece by piece.

The answers were there.

Late nights under flashing cameras. Endless flights. Contracts. Fame. Applause.

Her career as a model.

Her life.

All the reasons she had convinced herself were valid.

But under Ares’ gaze—cold, unrelenting, almost merciless—

Those reasons felt... small and pathetic.

Her throat tightened.

She couldn’t say it.

Didn’t dare to.

"But Ares, my dear son-in-law," Beatrice interjected smoothly, though her tone carried a deliberate edge, "Larissa wasn’t there either when Shay was sick. After all, she was lying in bed half-dead herself. She—"

"Enough!"

Ares didn’t raise his voice.

But the single word landed like a blade.

He turned his head slightly, casting Beatrice a look so sharp, so filled with undisguised scorn, that it silenced her instantly.

The room fell quiet.

Not a single person dared to speak.

And in the middle of it all—

Shay continued to cry softly in Lara’s arms, clutching her as if she were the only safe place left in the world.

Moira’s hands curled slowly into fists at her sides—tight, tighter—until her manicured nails bit into her palms, leaving pale crescent marks against her skin.

The sting grounded her and kept her from exploding.

Not here. Not in front of him. She reminded herself silently.

She inhaled, forcing the anger down, swallowing it until her chest ached. When she spoke again, her voice was no longer sharp or shrill.

It softened. Deliberately.

"Shay... baby..." she murmured, lowering her tone to something almost fragile. "Mommy is so sorry. Can you forgive Mommy?"

The words sounded gentle.

It was careful and sounded practiced.

Because they were.

Shay’s sobs gradually faded into uneven, shaky breaths, but she didn’t lift her head. Instead, she pressed herself closer into Lara’s chest, as if hiding there was the only way to keep the world at bay.

Moira’s gaze flickered briefly toward Ares, standing just beside Lara—silent, imposing, watching everything. His presence alone was enough to chain her temper.

She couldn’t lash out. Couldn’t force Shay.

Not with Ares here.

So she adjusted.

If Shay wanted warmth—then she would give her warmth.

If Shay wanted tenderness—then she would become tenderness.

For now.

Her lips curved faintly, almost trembling, as if she were holding back tears of her own.

Inside, her thoughts were anything but soft.

Get closer to the child. Win her back.

Because Shay wasn’t just her daughter.

She was the key. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

The bridge.

The only way back to Ares.

And this time—

Moira wouldn’t let that chance slip away.

"I guess you and your mother are tired."

Ares’ voice cut cleanly through the room, calm but decisive. He didn’t even look at Moira as he spoke. Instead, he lifted his hand slightly, signaling the maid who had been standing quietly in the corner, trying her best to remain invisible.

The maid stepped forward immediately, head bowed.

"This way, Madam... Miss Torres," she said carefully, her tone respectful but hesitant—as if unsure which title would offend less.

Moira’s jaw tightened.

Miss Torres.

The name scraped against her pride.

She should be a Zuvel.

She was supposed to be a Zuvel.

Her gaze lingered on Ares for a second longer, but he had already turned away—his attention elsewhere, as if she were no longer worth it.

A flicker of frustration burned in her chest.

But she forced it down.

Not now.

She exhaled slowly, straightening her posture, masking everything beneath a composed exterior.

"Yes... I am tired," she said, allowing just a hint of weariness to seep into her voice.

And it wasn’t entirely a lie.

The journey, the confrontation, the humiliation—

It drained her.

But more than rest—

She needed time.

Time to think.

Time to plan.

Time to reclaim what was hers.

As she followed the maid out of the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, her mind was already moving ahead, weaving possibilities, calculating every step.

She would take Shay back.

She would secure her place.

And then—

She would become what she was always meant to be.

Mrs. Ares Zuvel.