Fuck it.
She’s here.
That’s what matters.
I press a kiss to her temple and she stirs. Her eyes flutter open and I catch the exact moment she remembers where she is. A smile spreads across her face.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
“Morning yourself.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb. “Ben gets back in an hour.”
Her whole face lights up. “Really?”
“Really.” I check my phone. Text from Jag:Package inbound. ETA 58 minutes.
Package. Like my daughter is a goddamn delivery.But I get it. Operational language keeps things clean. Keeps Ben safe.
Jess is already moving. She throws on one of my shirts and her jeans from yesterday. I watch her dress with the kind of hunger that’s going to get me in trouble if I don’t redirect it toward something productive. Like coffee. Or reviewing the security protocols for today’s event.
Instead I grab her wrist and pull her back to the bed. She laughs, that bright sound that cuts through all the shit in my head. I kiss her thoroughly. The kind of kiss that makes promises I fully intend to keep.
“We have time,” I tell her.
“Marco.” She’s breathless. Pupils blown. “Ben will be here soon.”
“Fifty-six minutes.” I nip at her lower lip. “I can work fast.”
She shoves at my chest, still laughing. “Coffee first. Then we’ll see.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I make espresso while Jess raids the fridge. She pulls out ingredients like she owns the place. Eggs. Butter. The good cheese. I lean against the counter and watch her move through my space with easy confidence. Like she belongs here.
Because she does.
My phone buzzes. Email from that fucking vulture Kells.
Subject line:Follow-up: Owner recovery timeline?
I delete it without reading.
“Another one?” Jess asks. She’s cracking eggs into a bowl.
“Same parasite. Different angle.” I drain my espresso in one swallow. “He’s like mold. Keep scraping him off but he always comes back.”
She stops whisking. Turns to face me. “What if we flip the script?”
“How?”
“Invite the Editor-in-Chief to observe one Family Meal,” she says. “Not Kells. Hisboss. No cameras. Just a voice recorder. And no quotes from anyone under eighteen. We show them what we’re actually building.”
I consider this. It’s smart. Gives us control of the narrative without feeding the machine. Takes the power away from Kells and puts it in more reasonable hands.
“Elena will need to draft terms,” I say slowly.
“Obviously.” Jess returns to her eggs. “But it beats playing whack-a-mole with every intrusive question.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Elena:Need airtight observer agreement for press. One EIC visit to Family Meal. Terms: voice recorder only, no cameras, no BOH access, no quotes from minors or private citizens on-site, full NDA. Can you draft by noon?
Her reply comes back in thirty seconds:On it.
