She needed this. The structure. The commands. The permission to stop fighting and let someone else hold the weight.
She needed a Daddy.
Christ.
I kept my hands on her shoulders. Kept my voice steady even though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
"Better?"
She nodded. Confusion flickered across her face—like she didn't understand her own response, like her body had done something her mind couldn't explain.
Good. That was good. If she understood what was happening, she might fight it. Might retreat behind those walls again. Better that it remained instinct for now, an inexplicable comfort she couldn't name.
"What did Rosa say?"
The question was gentle. She didn't have to answer.
"Nothing." Her voice came out rough, scraped over whatever had caught in her throat. "It wasn't—she asked about children. When we were planning to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's nothing."
It wasn't nothing. But I filed it away. Children. Something about children, or the expectation of children, or the pressure of producing heirs for a family she'd been sold into. Something thathad reached past her defenses and dragged her into that dark place where the panic lived.
Later. I'd think about it later.
"Go upstairs," I said. "Take a bath. Read something you enjoy." I let my thumbs brush once across her collarbone, a small gesture of comfort. "I'll make your excuses."
She looked at me with those honey eyes. Something cracked open in her expression—the relief at being given permission. At having someone else make the decision. At being allowed to stop performing and take care of herself without having to justify it.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She turned toward the stairs. I watched her go—the careful steps, the hand trailing along the banister, the way her shoulders slowly released as she climbed.
When she disappeared around the landing, I stood in the corridor for a long moment. Breathing. Processing.
She didn't know what she was. Didn't have the vocabulary for it, probably. Didn't understand why my commands had reached inside her and turned off the panic like a switch.
But I knew.
And God help me, I wanted to give her what she needed. Wanted to be the structure, the safety, the steady voice in her ear telling her she was good, she was safe, she was mine.
I wanted to take care of her in ways I had no right to want.
Not yet. Not when she didn't understand. Not when she hadn't chosen.
I straightened my jacket. Composed my face into the neutral mask of a don handling family business.
Then I walked back into the chaos of the dinner and spent the next hour lying about where my wife had gone.
Twointhemorning,and the ledger wouldn't stop burning holes in my skull.
I'd given up on sleep an hour ago. The numbers kept rearranging themselves behind my eyelids—MV, twenty years, final payment—weaving into a conspiracy I still couldn't prove. Santo's pressure. The charity event tomorrow. The way Gemma had melted under my command at the family dinner, her body recognizing something her mind hadn't caught up to yet.
Too much. All of it, too much.
I pulled on a t-shirt and headed for the kitchen. Tea wouldn't fix anything, but it would give my hands something to do.
The light was already on.
I stopped in the doorway. Processed what I was seeing.
