Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me Chapter 179

The last time I saw my mother, she smelled like gin at ten in the morning. She had sunglasses on inside the house and wouldn’t meet my eyes when I came home to pack the rest of my stuff, shortly after my father and brother were sentenced—fifteen and ten years respectively.

And now here she is, standing outside a Paris hospital with the November wind lifting the ends of her dark hair, streaked liberally with silver.

There’s a scarf knotted at her neck, a wool coat that looks a little too big for her frame, and hands twisting together like she can't figure out what to do with them. The picture is so *un-*Marisol Ashford.

For a moment, my feet don’t work.

She gives me a tentative smile. “Hi, Nathan.”

I swallow. “Mom," I repeat. That seems like the only thing I can say.

“Uhm…” She clears her throat. “It was supposed to be a surprise, for Thanksgiving. “But then…” Her eyes dart toward the hospital and then back to me. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me like this, but Peter told me to give it a try.”

My first instinct is to ask *why now?* Why today, when my life is the most perfect it’s ever been? Why after years of silence?

And not just after the monsters in my life were locked in cages.

She was never there when *he* bruised and broke me. Not in the way that mattered.

She must see the questions on my face, because her expression trembles.

“I’m almost two years sober.” Her voice cracks just enough to thaw the ice wall that automatically shoots up around my mother.

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but—” She shakes her head. “Nathan, I didn’t know if I had the right. I wasn’t a good mother to you. I let things happen to you that…”

She looks away, blinking hard. “Things a mother should never let happen. And I can’t change any of it. But I’m sorry. I am so, so *sorry*.”

The ice thaws with alarming ferocity and is quickly replaced by a heat that burns hotter than an open flame.

The night terrors stopped; I freed myself from the horrors of my past.

But those memories still cut through my mind like jagged glass—Samuel’s voice, dripping with disdain and hate, his fists, her absence even when she was in the room.

I’ve never once visited Samuel or Lucas, but I rehearsed a thousand speeches in my head, some full of rage, some full of grief. But now…

Now I have a newborn daughter upstairs. Now I’m married to a woman who’s taught me more about love than anyone else ever has.

Now my life is something I never thought it could be. And as painful and awful as it all was, if I had never been born an Ashford, I would have never met my April.

I take one step toward my mother. Then another.

Her eyes widen, brimming with tears, and when I reach her, I wrap my arms around her. She stiffens for half a second before clinging to me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“I’m not angry anymore,” I murmur into her hair. “It’s done. It’s over.”

“Oh, my baby,” she sniffs.

I kiss her temple tenderly. “Would you like to meet your granddaughter?”

She nods against my shoulder, her breath hitching. “I’d love to.”

A lump rises in my throat. “Come on.”

When I walk her back into the room, the lively conversation dips. April glances up from where she’s cradling Camille, her eyes flicking to me, then to the woman at my side.

“Marisol,” April says softly.

There’s no accusation in her gaze, just understanding. April has every reason to hate her. She knows exactly what kind of childhood I had, what my mother didn’t stop. She wasn't exactly kind to April, either.

But a ghost of a smile stretches her lips, and she nods toward the bed. “Come meet your granddaughter.”

My mother hesitates only a moment before stepping closer.

April shifts Camille carefully into her arms, and I watch as my mother stares down at the tiny face swaddled in pink.

“She’s beautiful,” she whispers, like she’s afraid to speak too loudly. “She has your eyes, Nathan.”

“She has April’s mouth and nose,” I say, and April’s smile deepens.

Marisol looks up, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she tells April, her voice breaking. “For loving him. For giving him this life. And for…letting me be here now.”

April squeezes her hand. “Thank you for being here. For giving Nathan back his mother.”

It’s quiet for a moment—just the sound of our daughter breathing, the hum of the hospital hallway beyond.

Then June edges closer, peeking over Marisol’s shoulder with cautious curiosity.

“That’s your niece,” I tell her. “You ready to babysit when you come visit for the holidays?” She flew in for the long Thanksgiving weekend because she knew April’s due date was soon.

June smirks. “I’ll start my rates at twenty euros an hour.”

Laughter ripples through the room, easing the tension like steam off a kettle.

The rest of the evening blurs into snapshots—Peter wrangling Asher while Eliza coos over Camille, Lara and Rhys snapping photos on their phones, June sneaking extra chocolates from the pastry box.

We never do eat Thanksgiving dinner. But no one seems to mind.

It’s almost midnight when the last visitor leaves, their goodbyes echoing down the quiet hall. The nurses dim the lights, and the city hum fades to a distant murmur outside the window.

I climb into the hospital bed beside April, careful not to jostle her or the tiny bundle sleeping between us. Camille makes a soft little sound, her lips parting in sleep.

April tilts her head toward me, her hair a bright halo against the pillow. “Can you believe this?” she whispers.

“No, I can’t. I get it when you say our life feels like a dream.”

She chuckles softly. “I’m glad she has your eyes.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “All your life, you looked into eyes like yours and saw monsters. Now, you’ll look into her eyes and see all the love and adoration in the world reflected back to you.”

A strangled sound tears out of me, and I press my lips to her forehead, a tear trailing down my cheek.

“Thank you,” I whisper against her skin. “For giving me you. For giving me her.”

I pull back and press our foreheads together. April’s eyes shine in the low light.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved you as much as I do right now. And yet, I know that tomorrow, I'll love you more.”

A soft sigh flows out of her and wraps around me like a hug. “That’s my line.”

I chuckle, leaning down to capture her lips with mine.

Camille fusses, and we break apart, laughing softly. “Guess we have a third wheel for the next eighteen years.”

“Longer than that,” I tell her. “I intend to give Camille little brothers and sisters.”

She nods solemnly. “Sounds like a plan. You’re carrying the next one.”

I chuckle softly, and my hand finds hers, our fingers threading together over the baby’s tiny form.

“We’re going to give her the best damn life,” I promise fiercely.

April kisses my knuckle. “She already has something neither of us had. Amazing parents who will love her unconditionally and fight for her no matter what.”

Amen to that.

For a while, we just lie there, breathing in sync, watching our daughter’s chest rise and fall. The world outside could collapse, and I wouldn’t care—as long as *this* stays untouched.

April’s eyes start to drift closed, her lips curving faintly. “Happy Thanksgiving, Nathan.”

I kiss her temple, my heart so full it almost hurts. “Best Thanksgiving of my life.”

And in the quiet, with Paris sleeping beyond the window, I hold my family close and let the gratitude sink into my bones.