"Then you've already won." She releases my hands. "Go live the life I couldn't. Be loud. Be difficult. Be transcendent."
ThedrivebacktoManhattan is quiet. I process what I learned—that my mother didn't abandon me, that bond rejection has consequences I'm still learning, that I'm walking a path she started but couldn't finish.
"You okay?" Oakley asks from the backseat.
"I will be," I say.
We're almost back to the city when my phone rings. Eleanor Ashworth—or rather, her and Harrison on speaker, based on the background noise.
I answer, because two years of monthly dinners means I actually take their calls now.
"Vespera," Eleanor says, and I hear genuine emotion in her voice. "That performance. You were transcendent."
"We're both incredibly proud," Harrison adds. "That's Broadway-caliber work."
"Thank you," I say. "It means a lot that you both came."
"We wouldn't have missed it," Eleanor says. There's a pause, then: "We have something we'd like to discuss. Can we come by tomorrow? All four of you?"
"What's this about?" Dorian asks—I've put them on speaker.
"The brownstone," Harrison says. "The family property in Brooklyn Heights. Your mother and I have been discussing it, and we'd like to sign it over to the pack."
Silence in the car.
"Four bedrooms, full renovation last year, excellent neighborhood," Eleanor continues. "It's sitting empty. You're four adults in a one-bedroom. This makes more sense."
"That's worth millions," Corvus says carefully.
"It is," Harrison confirms. "But it's also family property that should go to family. And you are family. All four of you."
"No strings?" I ask, because I have to.
"No strings," Eleanor says firmly. "We're not trying to control you. We're trying to support you. There's a difference, and it's taken us two years to learn it."
"We'll think about it," Dorian says.
"That's all we ask," Harrison says. "Come by for brunch tomorrow? We can discuss details, answer questions, whatever you need."
"We'll be there," Dorian agrees.
They hang up, and the car fills with thoughtful silence.
"A brownstone in Brooklyn Heights," Corvus says slowly. "That's easily five million dollars."
"More, probably, with the renovation," Oakley adds.
"They've been working up to this," Dorian says thoughtfully. "The trust fund restoration eighteen months ago. The regular dinners. Dad apologizing properly. This is the next step."
"Or the final apology," I say. "The big gesture that says 'we really mean it.'"
"Both, maybe," Dorian says. "They've been proving themselves consistently for two years. This feels like... completion. Like they've earned the right to offer something this big."
"Do we accept?" Oakley asks.
"That's pack decision," Dorian says. "Not just mine. What do you all think?"
We spend the rest of the drive discussing it. The practical implications—the space, the neighborhood, what it means to own property. The emotional weight—accepting something this substantial from Eleanor and Harrison. Whether it feels like a gift or a trap.
