The Grand Boardroom of Croft Enterprises had been dominated for three decades by a six-foot oil painting of Alistair Croft. In the portrait, he stood alone in a storm, scowling at the viewer.
Today, two maintenance workers lifted it off the wall.
“Careful with the frame,” Victoria instructed.
In its place, they hung a massive, high-definition photograph printed on canvas. It was the antithesis of Alistair’s lonely vigil.
It was a wide shot taken in the estate library. Victoria was laughing, holding Hope. William was looking at Victoria with adoration. Malcolm and Isabella were wrestling a squirming Alistair II and Arthur. Beatrice stood in the center, smiling warmly. Even Leo was there, standing slightly to the side, his hand resting protectively on the back of Victoria’s chair.
It was chaotic, crowded, and vibrant.
“It’s perfect,” Malcolm said, standing back to admire it. “It looks like we actually like each other.”
“It looks like a dynasty,” Victoria corrected, linking her arm through William’s. “A new one.”