Mary Ann’s POV
One year later.
There were children in my garden.
Six of them.
Possibly seven.
They moved too quickly for me to count properly.
“Stop running near the fountain!”
Nobody listened.
I lowered my paintbrush and stared through the open doors of my studio.
A little girl darted past carrying a wooden sword while two boys chased her.
“I am Alpha!” she shouted.
“You can’t be Alpha!” one boy yelled.
“Why?”
“Because I am!”
“You can both be Alpha,” another child suggested.
“No!”
I smiled.
Apparently, political reform had not reached children’s games yet.
My studio occupied most of the greenhouse Modric and I had argued about the morning after our second wedding.
I had won.
Obviously.
The eastern side remained a proper greenhouse, filled with wildflowers, herbs, and
