I shrug. “I never thought about it. So… do you want me to?”
Two minutes later, she’s perched between my knees while I brush and part her baby-fine hair, weaving two neat little braids, tying them off with the pink ribbons she dug out of a drawer. She smells like strawberry shampoo and warm sun, and when I finish, she grins happily at the mirror. Then she twists around and throws her arms around my neck without warning, nearly knocking me over.
“I love them. I look so pretty.”
“Yes, I agree. You look very pretty.” I nod and feel a genuine affection for her. How Carolyn can think this little angel is hateful I will never know.
We go back to sipping our tea. I ask what else she loves, genuinely curious, and her answers tumble out. She likes watching the flowers grow in the garden, but hates the “creepy” back corner where some scary shadows live. She loves painting, but she can’t paint well. She likes making chocolate cupcakes with pink icing, but nobody will allow her in the kitchen.
“I love baking too,” I confess, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ll teach you. Proper lessons. In the kitchen when no one is around. We’ll wake up in the middle of the night and have a secret baking session together We’ll make a mess and everything.”
Her eyes go wide as saucers and her mouth forms a perfect O. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
We’re negotiating days. Tomorrow? No, Saturday? When there is a firm knock, and the door opens before either of us can answer. Blake steps in, filling the frame, sunlight behind him turning the edges of his hair gold. His gaze sweeps the room, the tea party for three, and something unreadable flickers across his face.
Surprise? Maybe something else. I cannot tell. It is gone too quickly.
Freya scrambles up, braids bouncing, and launches herself at his legs. He catches her automatically, one arm curling around her waist and hoisting her up into his arms, but his eyes stay on me, steady, intense, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle for which there is no sensible answer.
Chapter Seventeen
BLAKE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ssCL292DQA
-hungry eyes-
The scene before me is as peculiar as seeing the rainbow across a night sky.
Carolyn, in a butter-yellow sundress, is having a tea party with Freya. What on earth is going on? I have a strong sense of déjà vu, as if I’ve stepped back in time when Carolyn was still pretending to care for Freya. It never happens anymore—not in years, not since the ring slid on her finger and everything soured. She used to, back when we were dating, in those early days at the Hamptons house, pushing Freya on the swing and laughing. I really thought she was warm, maternal, the kind of woman who could heal the hole in our family. It was what made me believe she would be a good mom, but she changed—pulled away like a tide going out, dismissing children's activities as "beneath her," a waste of time for someone of her status, her voice sharpwhen Freya got too close. Now, seeing this, a pang hits me unexpectedly, a mix of nostalgia and confusion that tightens my throat.
My breath is still caught at the sight of the ribbons dangling from Carolyn’s fingers like forgotten promises. It's so out of place, so unlike the woman I've come to know, but I cover my astonishment, and force a neutral smile as Freya tries to get my attention.
"Daddy!" she calls so excitedly that she near stumbles over her words as she asks me to join them. The moment I set her back down, she’s tugging at my hand, her braids bouncing. "Please, Daddy? You must have tea with us!"
I hesitate and glance discreetly at my wrist watch. The conference call with Tokyo is ticking closer, and emails are stacking up in my inbox, but suddenly it doesn’t seem as important as what is happening in this sunny room.
The smile on my daughter’s face is genuine and unguarded, her cheeks flushed with delight as she pours make-believe tea for me, and I'm struck because it has been so long since I saw this—Freya happy around her stepmother, not flinching or hiding behind my legs. Her little body is relaxed instead of tense and suspicious. The room feels warmer for it, the sun pouring in through the windows turning her curls to gold, and the air alive with innocence and… bliss.
I turn to look at Carolyn again, really look. The sun's rays are falling on her face, highlighting the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lashes cast shadows over those blue eyes that seem brighter, more alive than I remember. She looks different, sure— her nose and her boobs fuller, straining against the sundress in a way that's distracting, stirring a heat in my gut that I haven't felt for her in years. But it’s not just those two things. Something else. Can this really be the same person? I think hard but cannot put my finger on what is off. I can't name the shift that's makingmy skin prickle, my pulse quicken as she smiles softly at Freya, her lips curving in a way that's genuine, vulnerable, drawing me in like a tide I can't resist.
Freya’s chubby hands cup my cheeks, and turn my face towards her. There is great determination in the warm, sticky palms. Her hands smell of something sweet. I stare into her face as she informs me that they’ve been having tea with Mr. Rabbit. She wants to know if I like her braids because they make her feel like a princess. In the same breath, and before I can even answer her, she tells me about a secret plan they have hatched to bake chocolate cupcakes and ice them with pink icing at midnight. Her words tumble out fast and breathless, and her eyes are sparkling with joy.
"So are you going to join us for a tea party? Please, Daddy? I’ve got a crown for you. You can be the king."
I don't have the time—the London markets are opening soon, and I have deals hanging in the balance, but how can I possibly refuse the offer of wearing a plastic gold crown and partaking in some invisible tea? Besides, I am curious about this version of Carolyn that’s got my daughter all buoyed up.
“All right,” I agree, setting Freya down gently.
“Yay,” my daughter shouts, whooping with delight, and with bossy glee pulls me towards the nest of chairs.
Freya pulls the bunny onto her lap, and I awkwardly take the newly vacated seat around the tiny table. My knees fold uncomfortably under the plastic edge, and the chair groans under my weight like it's unamused by the giant intruding on their world. A crown is unceremoniously deposited on my head, and I see amusement slip into Carolyn’s eyes. The sensual pull tugs harder as I watch her lean forward and pretend to adjust a bear's bow tie to hide her mirth. But the action makes her dress dip low enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, and the sensual pull tugs harder.
Freya directs Carolyn, clapping her hands. “Give the King a cup and saucer, please, Queen Carolyn.”
Carolyn nods, her voice totally solemn and befitting the occasion, "Of course, Princess Freya."
