She looked at me with those honey eyes—bewildered and glowing, still half-disbelieving that this was her life, that someone wanted to show her off rather than hide her away. The candlelight caught the emerald earrings, the wet gleam of her eyes, the soft curve of her mouth that was trembling between wonder and tears.
I leaned across the table.
Cupped her jaw with my free hand—gently, the way I always touched her, with intention and care and the tenderness that was becoming the defining characteristic of my life. And I kissed her.
Not a quick press of lips. Not a chaste, socially appropriate greeting between husband and wife at a public dinner. I kissed her the way I kissed her in our bedroom—slow, thorough, tasting champagne and burnt sugar. I kissed her like we were the only two people in the world, while the world watched.
When I pulled back, the room had gone quiet.
I brushed my thumb across her lower lip. Held her gaze.
"Finish your crème brûlée, little one," I murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "We have one more stop tonight."
Theneighborhoodchangedthreeblocks past the restaurant—quieter streets, lower buildings, the kind of area where money lived without advertising. Boutiques with frosted windows. A wine bar with no sign, just a single candle burning in the glass. The residential stillness of a place that had decided visibility was for lesser districts.
Gemma watched it pass through the car window. The champagne had softened her edges—not drunk, not even close, but the particular looseness that came from two glasses of Dom Pérignon and a dinner where she'd been treated like the center of the universe. Her cheeks were flushed. The emerald earrings swayed against her jaw when she turned.
"Where are we going?"
"I found something." I kept my eyes on the road. Controlled my voice the way I controlled everything, though what I was controlling now wasn't anger or strategy but a nervousness I hadn't felt in years. A gift-giver's anxiety. The terrible vulnerability of hoping you got it right. "A shop that caters to people like us."
Silence. I felt her processing—the quick intake of breath, the stillness that meant she was calculating, running through possibilities. Then, quietly:
"People like us?"
"You and me. What we are together."
More silence. I parked. Turned off the engine. Looked at her.
Her eyes were wide. Dark in the dim car, the pupils blown, the brown gone almost black. Not afraid. Something more complicated than fear. Something closer to the expression she'd worn the first time I'd called herlittle one—a wanting so acute it registered as pain.
"You don't have to go in," I said. "We can drive home right now and pretend I never—"
"No." Her voice was small but certain. "I want to see."
Little Wonders occupied a narrow storefront between a custom jeweler and a shop that sold handmade stationery. The facade was dove grey. The name was etched in gold script on a single window—discreet, almost invisible, the kind of signage that existed only for people who already knew what they were looking for. From the outside, it could have been an upscale giftshop. A children's boutique with expensive taste. Something for someone else's life.
I'd found it through Donatella, who'd found it through channels I hadn't asked about. She'd sent me the address with a single note:Trust me.
I opened the door for Gemma. Took her hand.
Inside, the air was warm and smelled like vanilla and clean cotton. Soft lighting—not the flat institutional glare of a retail space but something warmer, diffused, the kind of light that made everything it touched feel safe. The floors were pale wood. The displays were arranged with the careful aesthetic of a gallery—each object given space, given context, treated as something worth presenting beautifully.
And the objects themselves.
Stuffed animals in glass cases, made from velvet and cashmere and materials I couldn't name. Not children's toys—not exactly—but not adult décor either. Something in between. A rabbit with long velvet ears the color of champagne, its expression somehow knowing. A bear in dove grey with a silk ribbon around its neck. A fox with amber eyes made from actual stone.
Shelving along one wall held sippy cups in brushed gold and matte black. Ceramic. Heavy. The kind of thing you'd find in a design magazine, except for the soft spout, the two-handled grip, the unmistakable purpose that lived alongside the elegance.
Further in: clothing. Adult-sized onesies in silk and cashmere, hung like couture on padded hangers. Nightgowns with delicate lace and satin ribbons. Robes so soft they seemed to collapse under their own weight. Everything in muted tones—blush, ivory, sage, the occasional deep plum—nothing garish, nothing cheap, nothing that saidcostume.
And books. A whole wall of them. Picture books with sophisticated illustrations—watercolors and woodcuts and hand-drawn pages bound in linen. Stories I half-recognized:fairy tales, rewritten. Myths, reimagined. The kinds of narratives that belonged to childhood but had been elevated into something an adult could hold without shame.
Gemma stood frozen in the doorway.
Her hand was tight in mine—painfully tight, her fingers locked around my knuckles with the grip of someone who'd just been shown a door they'd believed didn't exist. Her breathing had changed. Shallow. Fast. The rhythm of overwhelming emotion held behind a dam that was barely holding.
"Breathe, little one." I stepped closer. Pressed my mouth against her temple—a small anchor, a point of warmth. "This is for you. Pick whatever you want."
