The sun rose over the Hudson Valley, blindingly white. It reflected off four feet of pristine snow, flooding the Master Suite with a brilliance that felt almost holy.
Inside, the room was silent, save for the crackling of the dying fire and the rhythmic breathing of the exhausted. It was a tableau of a fallen empire, reduced to its most human elements. Malcolm was asleep in the wingback chair, his mouth slightly open, with a tiny, swaddled bundle tucked into the crook of each arm. Isabella slept on the chaise lounge, covered by William’s parka.
On the massive bed, Victoria sat propped up against the pillows. She was pale, her hair matted with sweat, but her eyes were open, watching the dust motes dance in the light. In her arms lay Hope, sleeping with a fierce, quiet determination.
William stirred on the rug beside the bed, where he had collapsed after the delivery. He sat up, rubbing his face, and looked at his wife.
“We survived,” William whispered, his voice raspy from the smoke and the shouting.
“We did more than survive,” Victoria replied softly, looking around the room at the sprawling, sleeping clan. “For a moment, we weren’t a corporation. We were just a family.”