Ben appears in the doorway with her backpack. Hair perfect. Curls bouncing. Jess did those this morning before I was even awake.
Jess who is upstairs right now. Probably in the kitchen helping Rosa. Probably looking gorgeous in jeans and a t-shirt. Probably completely unaware that I’m down here thinking about her instead of the crisis I’m supposed to be managing.
Fuck my life.
“Ready,piccola?”
Ben smiles. “Ready!”
“Wow, quite the energy today,” I comment.
She beams. “That’s because I’m brave!”
Thank you, Jess.
We head to the garage. Jag’s waiting with the Range Rover. Filepe is already positioning at the school per the advance plan.
The drive is quiet. Ben reads her lunchbox note. I catch a glimpse of Jess’s handwriting.
Keep being brave. Frederick believes in you.
Something in my chest cracks. This woman writes notes to my daughter. Teaches her to breathe. Makes her laugh. And I want her so badly it’s physically painful.
But wanting her means risking everything. The routine. Ben’s stability. My already-shaky ability to keep my shit together.
And what about the guilt? The affront to Isotta?
Not to mention the contract we both signed. The rules we both agreed to. The ninety-day buffer thatmakes sure if this ever ends, we can’t immediately fall into bed again.
But how am I supposed to live like this? Knowing she’s in my house every day being competent and kind and so damn beautiful I can barely think straight.
We pull up to school. Filepe gives the all-clear signal. I walk Ben to the door. She squeezes my hand three times before letting go.
Our ritual. Started by Jess. Now ours.
“Love you,piccola.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
She disappears inside. I watch until I can’t see her anymore.
Back in the Range Rover, my phone is blowing up. Valentina sent the updated security briefing. Kells has been flagged at all properties. Staff are being briefed on the deflection script. Filepe added a note about perimeter awareness.
Another text comes through.
Jess.
Ben forgot Frederick this morning. I’ll bring him at pickup.
I stare at the message. She’s texting about a stuffed snail. It’s completely innocent. Completely professional.
And all I can think about is her mouth on mine in the carriage house. Her hands in my hair. The sounds she made when I was inside her.
Thanks,I type back.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally:Are you okay? You seemed tense at breakfast.
