They met at a quiet tearoom inside Grantham Estate.
Tasha wore her best—an old lavender dress borrowed from a neighbor—and clutched her mother’s hand like it was a lifeline. The butler led them through a marble hallway into a sunlit room with tall windows and crisp white napkins.
Richard Grantham stood as they entered.
He looked different now. Stronger. But his eyes softened when he saw her.
“Tasha.”
She smiled shyly. “Hi, Mister Grantham.”
He knelt down—not to intimidate, but to meet her gaze.
“You saved me,” he said quietly. “And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay that.”
Tasha shifted her feet. “I just… I didn’t want you to die.”
That made him smile.
“I want to help you,” he said, “the way you helped me.”
He turned to her mother. “If it’s alright, I’d like to set up a trust in her name. She deserves every opportunity.”
Her mother covered her mouth. “Why? Why would you do that for us?”
He looked at them with glassy eyes. “Because someone once did it for me.”
