The first weeks of shared custody were a delicate dance of caution, tenderness, and quiet healing.
Mornings belonged to Xander. He arrived at the private residence on the mansion grounds every day at 7:30 sharp, dressed in a crisp shirt but with his sleeves rolled up, ready to be a father. Alex Jr. would run to him with pure delight, shouting “Daddy!” as he launched himself into Xander’s arms. The bond between father and son had formed quickly and beautifully. The five-year-old was fascinated by the tall, powerful man who could lift him high, kick a football with perfect aim across the garden, and tell him stories about brave wolves that made his eyes sparkle.
Claire watched from the doorway most mornings, heart aching with a mixture of joy and pain. She saw small cracks in Xander’s cold
