She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. The look on her face says everything. Something that makes me think that maybe, just maybe, we can pull this off.
For Livy’s sake, we have to.
TWENTY-ONE
Jenna
Something is poking my side.
Repeatedly.
I try to burrow deeper into unfamiliar sheets, but the poking continues—small, insistent fingertips that won’t stop because of my groans of protest. I crack open one eye to find Livy’s face inches from mine, her blue eyes—her father’s eyes—wide and solemn in the morning light filtering through curtains I didn’t choose.
“You’re awake,” she whispers.
“Mmm,” I manage a sound that isn’t quite agreement. “Almost.”
She pokes me again, just to be sure.
I blink, orienting myself. Guest room. Colton’s guest room. No—our guest room now, I suppose. The marriage certificate we signed yesterday at a sketchy back-door office that looked like a restaurant is probably still sitting on the kitchen counter where we left it, next to the takeout containers neither of us had the energy to throw away after we finished moving my things. It was really strange. We were so nervous that we kept holding hands the entire time. It was like we were both afraid that the momentwe let go, the paparazzi would call Mira and Goldblatt and report us for lying.
Just like that. A signature, a witness, a bored civil servant that owes Ethan bigger than big, and suddenly I’m Jenna Davis-Kirillov on paper. It still feels weird, but it was my fault and now I have to live with the consequences, which considering the huge apartment I live in now, aren’t so bad.
“I’m hungry,” Livy announces, twisting a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “Really hungry.”
I push myself upright. “Where’s your dad?”
“Sleeping.” She looks down at her mismatched pajamas—unicorn top, striped bottoms. Yeah, we had little to no energy left yesterday. “He looked really, really tired. His eyes were like this.” She pulls her lower eyelids down dramatically.
Despite everything, the surreality of waking up here, the whirlwind of the past few weeks, the weight of the real gold band on my finger that still feels foreign—I laugh.
“So, you thought you’d wake me instead?”
She nods. “I heard you say you get up early anyway. For work stuff. Even on Saturdays. And I worry about Dad… he’s always so sad, you know. He needs his sleep.”
It’s touching that she remembered this random detail from a conversation we had weeks ago. Before the custody hearing. Before the judge’s ultimatum. Before I decided that the fastest way to prove a stable family environment was to—well—marry him myself. Here we are.
“That’s true,” I tell her. “I did want to get up anyway.”
This is a lie. What I want is to pull the covers back over my head and process the fact that I’ve gotten legally married, packed up my apartment, and moved in with a man who once called me Blueface and his six-year-old daughter. But Livy is looking at me with those solemn eyes, and my bizarre new reality includesresponsibilities I’ve never had before. I’ve been single for how long? A week? Wow.
“How about pancakes?” I suggest, yawning.
Her whole face softens. That careful, guarded look she usually wears just… disappears, replaced by something open and almost awed, like I’ve just offered her a trip to Disney World instead of basic breakfast.
“Really?” she whispers. “With chocolate chips?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through my sleep-tangled hair. “Is there any other acceptable pancake variety?”
She giggles and bounces on her toes, suddenly every inch a normal six-year-old instead of the too-serious little girl who watches adults with wary eyes.
She jumps up and slips her small hand into mine without hesitation and pulls me into the kitchen. The easy trust in the gesture makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. Three months ago, she would have hovered at a distance. Now she’s leading me down the hallway like I really belong here.
But it’s all pretend, so I really have to be careful. The realization pulses in my mind as we pass Colton’s door. It’s firmly closed. I stare too long, and Livy tugs me into the kitchen. So, I push the existential crisis aside for now.
The kitchen, at least, feels like neutral territory.
All gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances that still intimidate me slightly. It’s easily four times the size of my apartment kitchenette, with a pretty white island in the center that could comfortably seat six. I knew Colton was rich but… he’s likerichrich. And then it hits me. Shit. He’s a single man. I don’t know if he even has things to cook.
