Chapter 3 Quiet doesn't mean weak

It was a Thursday morning when Amara walked into MJ's nursery and found her son painting on the walls with mango puree.

"Monroe Junior!" she gasped.

The little boy blinked up at her with those big, round eyes that looked so much like Dylan's. He was holding a spoon like a brush, proud of his work orange streaks everywhere, like sunshine had exploded on the wall.

Amara exhaled, hands on her hips. She wanted to scold him, but his joy was infectious. And this this messy, unfiltered, mango-covered moment was her life now.

Real. Unpredictable. And soft.

She crouched down to his level and said, "What exactly are you painting, artist-in-residence?"

MJ giggled. "That's you! And that's baby!"

He pointed to two uneven circles, one clearly much bigger than the other.

Amara laughed. "You made me look like a balloon."

"Because you big!" he said, then added innocently, "Daddy say so too.

She shook her head, smiling. "Remind me to scold your father."

That evening, as the sun dipped into the ocean and the sky turned cotton-candy pink, Amara sat on the porch, reading a book she hadn't touched in years - Women Who Run With the Wind

Dylan came out with two mugs of ginger tea, one hand already resting instinctively on her back. "Your son tried to eat mango off the wall," he said.

She snorted. "He gets his weirdness from you."

They sat together as MJ played barefoot in the sand, chasing the tide, his laughter carried on the breeze.

Dylan took a sip of tea. "You ever miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"The chaos. The spotlight. The nonstop meetings. The world calling your name every second."

Amara thought for a moment. "I don't miss the noise. I miss the fire sometimes. But this? This is peace. And peace is harder to earn than power."

He looked at her for a long time. "You make peace look like royalty."

Just then, her phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen. It was a message from the Monroe Africa board. A media leak. Something about an old investor trying to stir up drama. Her name trending on Twitter. Again.

Dylan saw her expression shift. "Ignore it."

"I can't," she said. "Not completely. Not yet."

He paused. "Want me to read it for you first?"

She handed him the phone. "Be my filter."

He read the article. Silent. Calm. Then passed it back. "It's noise. Let them talk. You're not that woman anymore."

She nodded, exhaling.

He placed a hand over her belly. "You're a mother. A mogul. A miracle. Let them catch up."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

The waves kept rolling in. The stars started showing up one by one.

And somewhere between the mess, the mango stains, and the murmurs of the media, Amara realized something:

She wasn't afraid anymore. Not of being forgotten.Not of being doubted. Not of being loved again.