Page 91 of Kingpin's Secret Baby

The drive to Wesley Hall is quiet, the hum of the engine the only constant sound between us. Valeria is fast asleep, curled up in the backseat, her tiny chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that only babies seem to have. Every so often, Piers glances at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes softening with a mix of awe and protectiveness, like he's still coming to terms with the reality of being a father.

When we pull up to the estate, my breath catches.

The last time I was here, it was cold and hollow, filled with ghosts of a legacy Piers didn’t yet know how to claim. But now- it’s different. The trailing ivy is trimmed, the stone archways restored, the sweeping front drive no longer cluttered with abandoned history. The windows glow with warm, golden light, and even in the evening shadows, it looks more welcoming than I ever thought it could.

Piers climbs out first, making his way around the car to open my door. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t rush me, just waits as I step onto the gravel. Wesley Hall is standing taller, stronger. And so is he.

“You did all this?” I ask softly.

He nods. “Not overnight. But yeah.”

Something in his voice makes me turn to look at him. He’s not smug or proud, not fishing for praise. This place isn't just a house anymore- it’s his home. His family.

And I left him to build it alone.

Before I can say anything else, he moves to the back seat, unbuckling Valeria while keeping his movements careful, mindful. She stirs slightly when he lifts her, but only for a moment before settling her face against his shoulder.

“You coming?” he asks, already heading up the steps.

I let out a slow breath before following him inside.

As Piers leads me through the halls, the heavy, suffocating presence I remember is gone. The rooms are lighter, the windows open, the furniture arranged like a home instead of a fortress.

Valeria wiggles in Piers’ arms, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. “Pretty,” she murmurs sleepily.

I swallow hard.

This place was never pretty before.

I trail behind Piers as he moves through the house, pointing out the changes.

And that’s when it hits me.

“You didn’t just do this for you,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be.

Piers stops. Turns.

He meets my eyes, his expression thoughtful, as if weighing my words. “I didn’t know what the future would look like,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “But yeah, I was hopeful. Hopeful that one day you'd come back... that maybe there’d be a future here for us.” He pauses, then adds with a slight, almost reluctant smile, “I wanted to be ready for it, just in case.”

We stand there in the heart of the house, surrounded by memories and changes alike. Then, as if the house itself is bearing witness to his quiet confession, he leads me forward.

The study where my father used to sit for hours, brooding over the past, is now a functioning command center, lined with books, maps, and notes spread across the large mahogany desk. The dining hall, once cavernous and silent, now feels alive, with mismatched chairs tucked around the long table, faint echoes of past laughter still clinging to the air. Even the grand staircase, which used to loom like a relic of a forgotten era, has been reinforced, its wood polished and gleaming beneath the soft glow of chandeliers that no longer feel oppressive but warm, lived-in.

And then there’s the drawing room.

Gone is the dim, somber space where I’d spend hours lost in my own thoughts, the fire flickering as I drank almost an entire bottle of sherry in one sitting, too afraid to face the loss of my identity, unsure of who I was without the title.

Now, it's bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the daylight. Antique furniture has given way to sleek, modern pieces that still feel warm and inviting. The fireplace burns as always, but now soft lamps cast a golden glow, and fresh flowers on the coffee table fill the air with a crisp, sweet scent.

I glance up at the chandelier, half-smiling. “No more flickering lights?”

Piers chuckles softly, clearly catching the hint of my nostalgia.“Not anymore.”

He's turned this into something real.Something thriving.

And then he leads me to another room. I stop in the doorway, my heart skips a beat as I take in the familiar space.

It’s Piers’s old room.

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