Sixteen months later…
We’re back on the island where it all began.
Mykonos glows golden in the early summer light, the breeze crisp with salt and jasmine.
The Aegean sparkles like a jewel beyond the cliffs, and from the villa’s upper terrace, I can hear the sound of laughter rising in waves.
My entire family has gathered here.
Not just my parents—though seeing them dote on my son like he personally hung the moon has been enough to bring me to tears on more than one occasion.
No, I mean everyone.
They all came. My aunts and uncles. My cousins and their spouses. Their children, wild and sticky-fingered and full of joy, streaking across the sun-warmed marble floors like miniature hurricanes.
It's a full-blown family reunion. The first we’ve had in years.
And it's glorious.
I was nervous to return here, to be honest.
Nervous that the people of this island would remember the gunfire. The chaos. The way it ended.
But they remember something else instead.
They remember the return of their rightful heir—regardless of whether Greece has a monarch right now.
They remember the fall of a tyrant.
The rise of a new legacy.
And more than anything, they’ve welcomed the arrival of him. Our son.
Lucas James Stavros.
He’s the living proof of our love. He’s our heartbeat.
Healthy, perfect, wide-eyed and already ruling the entire household with nothing more than a gummy smile and an iron grip on his father’s thumb.
God, I can’t believe he’s mine. Ours.
He’s sleeping now, tucked into the crook of his father’s chest while they both nap on a shaded lounger below.
The image is so beautiful it makes my throat ache.
Lucas is a miracle.
But I know why.
Because his father is one, too.
Atlas James Stavros.
A man who once planned to use me.
Who now worships the ground I walk on.
Who kisses my stretch marks like they’re treasure maps.
