The next day, the chalet was filled with the sound of laughter.
Leo Croft, the heir to a billion-dollar empire, sat in a high chair smeared with blue frosting. It was his first birthday. There were no dignitaries, no orchestrated photo ops, and no Cynthia Sharpe managing the optics. Just a lopsided homemade cake Isabella had baked and a small pile of wrapped gifts.
William snapped a photo of Victoria wiping frosting from Leo’s nose. He lowered the camera, looking at the image on the screen. It was a far cry from the muddy, terrifying night in the truck when he had delivered his son during the storm.
“He was so small then,” William murmured, sitting beside Victoria. “I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to keep him safe. I thought I had to conquer the world to protect him.”
“You did,” Victoria smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. “You fought the world, William. And you won.”
Leo let out a squeal of delight, throwing a piece of cake onto the floor. Isabella laughed, clapping her hands. “Bravo, Leo! A true artist!”
William watched them, his heart swelling. The “Protector” finally had nothing left to fight.