Eleanor joined them without speaking.
She slipped her hand into his, the same hand she had once used to hold tightly to her sister when he was only a stranger in a doorway.
Alexander looked toward the water and thought of Isabelle: brilliant, stubborn, frightened, and stronger than anyone in his family had understood.
He could not give her back the years stolen from them.
He could not erase the silence she had died believing was his.
But he could honor the final thing she had asked of him.
He held his daughters’ hands and walked home with them, not as Alexander Harrington, the millionaire who never lost, but as their father—a name no empire had earned for him and no one would ever take away again.
