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She never treated me as though I were fragile.

She also never pretended twenty-five years at La Cruzona could be sorted out in a few conversations.

Some days we talked for an hour. Other days she stopped by long enough to ask how I’d slept, whether anything had brought the compound rushing back unexpectedly, and what I planned to do with the rest of my afternoon.

We talked about Papá and Mamá, the complicated relief I still felt whenever I remembered Ciro was dead, and how freedom could be wonderful and exhausting at the same time.

Maria helped me understand that I didn’t need to untangle my entire past before I was allowed to enjoy my present.

One afternoon, she handed me a notebook and asked me to write down what I wanted my new life to be.

The point wasn’t to write what anyone expected from me or what I thought I should accomplish to prove I had recovered properly. Maria wanted me to write down what I actually wanted.

The first page filled quickly with smaller things: learn Manhattan well enough to stop checking every street sign, travel somewhere because I wanted to go, and enroll in pastry school.

The five-year plan page intimidated me at first.

Then I wrote Own a bakery across the top.

I stared at the words for a long time before adding three more.

Make it beautiful.

I had no idea where it would be or what I would call it. I didn’t need to know yet.

For once, imagining a future was exciting instead of dangerous.

Scarlett and Lacey had done their part too.

They seemed to understand instinctively when I wanted company and when I wanted a quiet afternoon to myself. They showed me stores, cafés, tiny neighborhood places I never would have noticed on my own, and enough of Manhattan that I could walk several blocks around the building without feeling as though I might accidentally end up in another state.

They tried to take me to a Broadway show, but I refused.

Scarlett had looked at me strangely until I explained that Lachlan liked sharing my first experiences with me, and I wanted that one to be his.

I smiled at the memory as I turned back to the stove. The potatoes were still waiting for me, so I finished them by folding in the cabbage, cream, and another generous piece of butter, then lowered the heat to keep the colcannon warm. A few bowls and utensils still crowded the counter, and I cleared them away while the music played behind me.

As I wiped down the counter, my thoughts drifted to the conversation that had changed more than anything else while Lachlan was gone. A few days after Maria began visiting, I finally told her I was ready to speak to Mamá’s family.

She suggested a video call. Nothing formal. No travel. No room full of royal officials. If I wanted to answer one question and end the call, I could. If I wanted to talk for hours, that was fine too.

Nik had become almost painfully careful around me after what happened in his office. He explained every step before he took it and checked with me so many times that by the third one, I almost laughed.

I finally understood a little better why Lacey loved him so much. Somewhere beneath the Pakhan, the hacker, and the man who could terrify grown men without raising his voice, Nikolai Volkov was surprisingly soft where the people he loved were concerned.

He would probably kill me for ever calling him soft, so I kept that observation to myself.

When the video call finally connected, Dr. Maria sat just outside the camera’s view.

King Aleksander Dravik, Queen Sofija Dravik, and Crown Prince Stefan Dravik appeared on the screen.

For approximately ten seconds, all I could think was that I was speaking to a king and queen.

Then Queen Sofija smiled, and for a moment I saw my mother in her. Mamá had been younger in every memory I carried, but the pale blue eyes were unmistakable. Stefan had her dark hair, and something about the shape of his smile made my throat tighten before any of us had said more than hello.

They saw her in me too.

After that, the titles stopped mattering very quickly.