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In the months since I'd set up the workshop, a small, unexpected thing had happened.

One of the nurses at the hospital had bought a few pet outfits from me while Lily was in recovery. She'd dressed her cat in one and posted the photos online. It spread. By the following week, my online orders had tripled.

I'd been running the workshop out of a rented studio for six months now. The business had grown past what I could make by hand, so I'd taken on a factory relationship for the straightforward pieces and kept the custom and limited-run work in-house.

I had ideas about building a proper brand.

That afternoon I went to the factory to sign off on a design amendment. The factory manager was walking someone out as I arrived.

The someone turned out to be Marcus Wyndham.

We'd met once before — briefly, at the nursery car park. He'd collected his nephew Fletcher from my back seat.

He remembered me. We stopped to speak. He introduced himself properly: executive director of a mid-size company with a brief for high-quality corporate gifting. They needed a designer who could produce something in limited quantities but to exacting standards. They'd been looking for months.

I gave him my card.

When I got back to the workshop, my assistant told me someone was waiting.

Julian.

He looked worse in person than he had outside the registry office. His suit was the right one but it hung on him wrong. He looked up when I came in and his face changed — the kind of change you can't quite hide.

He'd set up a trust for Lily. Signed documents already with a solicitor, irrevocable.

"I may not get to see her grow up," he said.

I looked at him.

Julian's jaw moved. He steadied himself.

"I got a diagnosis. Last month." He paused. "Liver cancer. Late stage."

I didn't say anything for a moment.

Then: "Julian—"

"It's all right." His voice was very quiet. "Probably deserved."

I didn't argue with that.

He stayed a little while longer, mostly talking about Lily. Then at the door he turned and put his arms around me. It was a brief thing — nothing held in it, nothing asked for. Just the weight of a person who knew it was almost over and wanted once more to feel something solid.

His voice against my hair: "I'm sorry."

Four months later, Julian died.

He had notarised his will early. His Ashford Technologies shares were divided three ways: one portion each to me, to Lily, and to Eleanor.