The street below the new penthouse was a sea of telephoto lenses. Since Cynthia Sharpe’s article had dropped, painting Victoria as an unstable former stripper unfit for motherhood, the paparazzi had camped out like vultures waiting for a carcass.
Inside the foyer, William paced. “We can take the service elevator. The car is waiting in the underground garage. You don’t have to face them.”
Victoria adjusted the silk wrap carrier against her chest. Leo was asleep, a tiny, warm weight against her heart. She checked her reflection: calm, immaculate, maternal. The “Scared Girl” from Season 2 was gone; the “Lioness” was here.
“If I hide, they win,” Victoria said, smoothing Leo’s blanket. “Cynthia wants the world to think I’m having a breakdown. I’m going to show them I’m having a morning stroll.”
She opened the front door.
As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the flashbulbs erupted like a strobe light. Shouts of “Luna!” and “Is the baby safe?” filled the air.
Victoria didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover her face. She smiled–a soft, serene smile that radiated absolute peace. She paused just long enough for the photographers to get the shot: the glowing mother, the healthy heir, the picture of stability.
She walked a block, bought a coffee, and walked back, nodding politely to the cameras. By the time she re-entered the building, the photos were already trending. The headline wasn’t “Meltdown.” It was *”Mother of the Year: Victoria Croft Glows.”*
Cynthia’s narrative didn’t just crack; it shattered.