Chapter 10 - The Heir of Cedar Hill
Samuel Rowan Armand was born at four-twenty-two on a bright, freezing Thursday morning in the private suite at the maternal-fetal center downtown.
He weighed eight pounds and two ounces, with a thick mop of dark hair like his father’s and a sharp, demanding cry that filled the delivery room the second Dr. Chen lifted him into the warm light.
Rowan cut the cord with hands that were shaking so hard Dr. Chen had to guide his fingers twice. When he brought the baby over to my bed, wrapped in a soft blue flannel blanket, his face was wet with tears he made no effort to wipe away.
“Look at him, Abby,” Rowan choked out, sitting on the edge of the mattress and laying our son gently across my chest. “Look at our boy.”
I held the small, warm bundle against my skin, my fingers touching his tiny, perfectly formed nails, his soft, pink cheeks, his small chest rising and falling in fast, sweet breaths.
There were no marks on his skin. No shadows in his eyes.
He was whole, he was safe, and he was home.
Three days later, we brought Samuel back to Cedar Hill through the long iron gates.
The sun was low in the west, casting a long, golden light across the white fencing and the winter pastures. Lena was standing on the front porch with the household staff as the black SUV pulled up to the side entrance, a quiet, respectful cheer going up as Rowan opened the door and helped me out into the crisp, cold air.
We didn't go up the grand staircase right away.
Rowan led me into the morning room, where a bright wood fire was crackling in the hearth, throwing warm, yellow light across the mahogany desk, the cream-colored sofa, and the long french doors that looked out over the gardens.
On the desk sat a fresh, white ledger book—unopened, clean, its silver lock holding a small key that sat on the leather pad.
Rowan set Samuel’s wooden bassinet near the fire, then walked over to the desk, picked up the new ledger, and brought it over to where I was sitting on the sofa.
He set it in my lap, along with a heavy brass fountain pen that had belonged to his grandfather.
“First entry, Associate Armand,” Rowan said, his voice soft and warm as he sat beside me and pulled the wool throw over my legs.
I opened the thick, cream-colored page. The paper smelled of fresh ink and clean cotton.
I dipped the pen into the well, and in my clear, neat auditor’s hand, I wrote three lines across the top of the white page:
CEDAR HILL ESTATE — GENERAL LEDGER DECEMBER 12, 2026 ASSETS: ONE HOME. ONE FAMILY. PERFECT BALANCE.
May you like
I set the pen down, closed the heavy leather cover, and turned my head to look at my husband and my son sleeping peacefully by the quiet fire.
The balance was restored. The accounts were closed. And Cedar Hill was finally a place of peace.
