"You did what?" I ask, my jaw dropping in disbelief. "Dad, you picked out a dress for me? When did you even have time to do that?"
He pulls a garment bag from behind his back like a magician performing a trick, looking nervous and eager to please me at the same time. "I saw it in a window yesterday when I was out and I just knew it was meant for you, it reminded me of you."
He looks so nervous and hopeful that my heart melts a little despite my exhaustion. "Dad, it's fine. Let me see it."
He unzips the bag carefully to reveal a lavender dress with delicate lace details, and it is honestly the most beautiful thing I have ever owned.
"Do you like it?" he asks, holding his breath while he waits for my reaction.
"I love it," I say honestly, reaching out to touch the fabric. "Thank you, Dad. This is really sweet."
He looks like he might burst with joy, his whole face lighting up. "Wonderful! Get dressed and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes, we have a lot to do today and I want to make sure we have time for everything I planned."
• • •
An hour later, we are in the car heading into the city, and he is acting like a child on Christmas morning, pointing out every landmark and telling me about the history of the buildings we pass.
"I called ahead to every store we are visiting today," he tells me proudly, turning in his seat to look at me. "They have cleared out the other customers so we can shop in peace without anyone bothering you or recognizing who you are."
"Dad, that is so unnecessary," I say, laughing at the sheer scale of his effort. "I don't need all that, I'm fine with just walking around like a normal person."
"Nonsense," he says, patting my hand with his warm one. "You are a Miroslav, and you deserve the best of everything. Today, I am going to spoil you until you can't walk from all the shopping bags."
He keeps his word, taking me to store after store in the luxury district, buying everything I so much as glance at for more than two seconds, silk dresses and designer shoes and handbags, soon the bodyguards following us are buried under a mountain of shopping bags.
"Dad, stop," I laugh as he tries to buy a third diamond watch from the display case. "Where am I even going to put all this stuff? I don't have room in my closet for all of this."
"We will build you a new wing for your closet," he says seriously, and I realize he isn't joking at all when he pulls out his credit card again.
We eventually stop at a small, elegant café for lunch, and we sit by the window where the sunlight hits the table and makes everything feel warm and peaceful.
He orders a green smoothie and sighs when I look at his glass with a questioning expression.
"Doctor's orders," he says with a grimace, pushing the glass around on the table. "My heart isn't what it used to be, so I have to be careful with what I eat these days."
My smile fades as I look at him, noticing the tiredness in his eyes. "I didn't know you were sick, Dad. Is it serious?"
"It's just old age catching up to me," he says gently, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "But don't worry about that today, I want to tell you about how I met your mother, would you like to hear that story?"
"Yes." I reply wanting to hear his version of how they met. His face lights up as he describes meeting her in a small bookshop on a rainy afternoon, telling me how smart and stubborn she was, how she refused to take his money until he practically begged her to let him buy her coffee.
"She was too good for me," he says softly, his eyes misting over with the memory. "She was the only person who ever saw me for who I really was, not just the man with the gun and the dangerous reputation."
"She loved you very much," I tell him, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand back. "She talked about you until the very end, even when she was too weak to say much else."
He smiles, a real, beautiful smile that makes him look younger and happier than I have ever seen him. "I'm so glad I found you, Iris. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for the time we lost, I promise you that."
We finish our lunch and start walking back toward the car, but as we step onto the sidewalk, I notice a man in a hoodiestanding across the street, watching us with an intensity that makes the hair on my neck stand up.
"Dad," I whisper, grabbing his arm tightly. "I think someone is following us. Don't look now, but there is a man across the street who has been staring at us for the past few minutes."
He tenses instantly, his protective instincts taking over as he subtly scans the area. "Where? Point him out to me without being obvious."
"Grey hoodie. Across the street near the lamppost."
He looks, but it is already too late, the man pulls a handgun from his waistband and levels it at us with cold precision. "Dad!" I scream, trying to push him out of the way with all my strength.
The sound of the gunshot is deafening, and I watch in horror as my father collapses onto the pavement, blood blooming across the chest of his expensive suit like a terrible flower.
