Page 90 of Pucking Daddy

Something that maintains appropriate boundaries while acknowledging that those boundaries have already been obliterated twice over.

I walk through the door to find Lily on the couch, wrapped in her dragon blanket, watching the cartoon with singing dragons that she has been obsessed with for weeks.

Zara sits beside her, reading something on her phone, but she looks up when I enter.

"Daddy!" Lily bounces off the couch, launching herself at my legs with the force of a small hurricane.

I catch her, swinging her up while she giggles. "Zara made the best waffles. I only put a little syrup."

"A little?"

"Medium," Zara corrects, rising. "We negotiated."

Our eyes meet over Lily's head.

Something electric passes between us, that same current that’s been building since the moment I walked into my kitchen and found her there—upending everything I thought I knew about my life.

"Daddy, are you going to a party tonight?"

"A gala," I say. "For charity."

"Can I come?"

"Not this time, bug." I set her down, crouching to her level. "But Mrs. Henriksen is going to stay with you, and Zara said you can stay up thirty minutes past bedtime."

Lily's face lights up like I have promised her a pony. "Really?"

I glance at Zara, who is fighting a smile. "Apparently that was also part of the negotiations."

"She drives a hard bargain." Zara shrugs. "Gets it from her dad."

Lily tugs at my hand. "Zara's gonna look so pretty. She showed me the dress."

My chest tightens. "Did she?"

"It's purple. Like the dragon in my show."

"Violet," Zara says quickly, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "And someone wasn't supposed to share that detail."

Lily claps a hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oops."

I watch Zara watching my daughter, and something clicks into place.

The way she cares for Lily is not performance. Is not obligation. It is real, bone-deep, the kind of nurturing that cannot be faked.

"Why don't you finish your show, bug," I say. "I need to talk to Zara for a minute."

Lily bounces back to the couch without argument, already absorbed in the cartoon.

I lead Zara into the kitchen, far enough to have a conversation without little ears catching every word.

“My ex has people digging into us,” I say without preamble. “Everything—our relationship, your background, whether this marriage is legit.”

Zara's expression flickers but holds steady. "I figured as much. Simone mentioned a blogger asking questions."

"This is different. This is professional, funded by Rachel's venture capital fiancé. They're going to look under every rock."

"And what will they find?"