Month Eighteen: May
Sera was walking everywhere now. Running, really. Toddling at impossible speeds through the apartment, the office, anywhere Isla took her.
Talking in full sentences. "Mama, juice please." "No bedtime." "Want dada."
Always want dada.
Isla had learned to deflect. "Dada loves you. Dada will call tonight. Dada is thinking about you."
Never "Dada is in prison." Never "Dada can't be here."
Just—vague promises. Distant comfort. The best she could offer an eighteen-month-old who didn't understand why her father was always somewhere else.
The empire was thriving. Under Isla's leadership, revenue had increased forty percent. They'd expanded into three new territories. Absorbed two rival operations.
She was good at this. Better than Killian in some ways. More strategic. More patient. More willing to build slow and stable rather than fast and volatile.
