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“The last point on the agenda, the quarterly ethics report, is finalized, Sebastian,” Aaron says. “We took a three percent hit on the logistics margins by switching to the fair-trade suppliers, but the public sentiment index is at an all-time high. Investors are buying our story and our stock.”

I nod, scanning the data on the screen. “Good. I’m encouraged to see that gamble paying off. We stay the course.”

I notice a few of the older board members exchanging looks. They’re still getting used to this version of me, the man who puts integrity over money. They still sit up straighter when I speak. That part hasn’t changed. But they can’t argue with the results. The King Corporation is healthier than it’s been in a decade. I am proving every day that I am far more than just my father’s heir.

“Meeting adjourned,” Evelyn announces.

“And remind the team leaders that the new mental health stipends go into effect on Monday. I want every employee to know it’s not just a line in the handbook; it’s a requirement,” I add before anyone can leave.

As the board members and upper management file out, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s a text from Jesse, a photo of a sunrise over a beach. He came home from the facility in Sedona before Thanksgiving and is now working on a farm and eco-resort in Costa Rica.

Beneath the picture are six words.

Harvesting today. I’m okay, Seb. Really.

I release a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for years. Saving the company was hard but helping Jesse save himself was one of the most important things I’ve ever done. It’s the metric by which I now measure my success.

The other metric sits in a folder on my desk: the signed agreement that brings Anchorstone’s Alzheimer’s trial under King Corporation funding, bought back from Corinth’s creditors for a fraction of the price after Oliver Thorne’s arrest. The first trial site opens in the spring. We named the program after my grandmother.

An hour later, clouds are covering the weak March sunlight, and a few late flakes of snow are drifting past the windows when my phone buzzes on the table.

I’m in the middle of a budget review with Evelyn and the finance committee. I don’t look at my phone during meetings. Everyone in this building knows that.

I look at it.

Isabella: It’s time. Don’t panic. Okay, panic a little.

I’m on my feet before I’ve finished reading it. My chair rolls back and hits the wall.

Six committee members stare at me. Desmond Oberfeld actually drops his pen.

“Meeting adjourned,” I say.

“Sebastian, we’re halfway through the⁠—”

“Aaron will finish it.” I’m already at the door. “I’m having a daughter.”

The last thing I see as the doors swing shut is Evelyn Hart, who hasn’t smiled in eleven years, pressing her lips together very hard to keep from doing exactly that.

I don’t wait for the elevator. I take the stairs. All of them.

Elena Rose King arrives at 11:42 that night, after nine hours of labor during which her mother calls me every name she grew up hearing in Spanish Harlem and a few she clearly invented on the spot.

She’s seven pounds, four ounces. She has a full head of dark hair, a furious little face, and a voice that could silence a boardroom.

When the nurse places her in my arms for the first time, I forget how to breathe. She’s warm and impossibly light, and she fits into the crook of my elbow like that space was made for her. Her tiny fingers close around one of mine and hold on with a strength that seems completely unreasonable for someone who has existed for eleven minutes.

“Hi,” I whisper. “Hi, Elena. I’m your dad.”

The word should terrify me. A year ago, it would have.

Instead, I look down at my daughter, and the two versions of my father that lived on my shoulders for forty-three years are just gone. There’s no room for them. There’s only her.

“Sebastian.” Isabella is propped up against the pillows, exhausted and flushed and more beautiful than I have ever seen her. She holds out her hand. “Bring her here.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and settle Elena between us. Isabella runs one finger down her cheek, and our daughter makes a small, offended noise, and we both laugh.

“I have no idea how to be a father,” I admit quietly. “I had a terrible role model.”