Page 91 of Pucking Daddy

The question is not defensive. Just... honest. Like she genuinely wants to know what I am worried about.

"I don't know." I run a hand through my hair. "That's the problem. Every time I think I've got this figured out, something shifts."

She is quiet for a moment, studying me with those gray eyes that see too much. Then she takes a step closer, closing distance I had not realized I needed closed.

"What do you want them to find, Jaxon?"

Something in her voice stops me short.

"What do you mean?"

"When they dig. When they interview people. When they try to prove this relationship is fake."

She holds my gaze. "What do you want the truth to be?"

I cannot answer. Because the truth is that I want her, and wanting her complicates everything.

"I want to keep my daughter," I say instead. "That's what matters."

Something flickers across Zara's face—disappointment, maybe, or resignation.

She steps back, and the loss of her proximity hits harder than it should have.

"Then we make sure that happens." Her voice is steady again, professional. "Tonight, we present a united front. We look in love, act in love, give them nothing to use against us."

"And after?"

She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. "After, we figure out what comes next."

The conversation is over. She walks back toward the living room, leaving me alone in my kitchen, wondering how I have managed to say exactly the wrong thing.

***

Mrs. Henriksen arrives at six.

By six-thirty, Lily is settled with her approved snack and extended bedtime, and I am pacing the living room in a suit that feels too tight.

I hear her before I see her.

The soft click of heels on hardwood. A rustle of fabric. Then Zara appears at the top of the stairs, and everything else disappears.

Violet, Lily had said. But the word does not capture it.

The gown moves with her, every step deliberate, effortless, turning something as simple as walking into a quiet kind of spectacle.

Her hair is up, exposing the line of her neck, and she wears minimal jewelry—just small earrings and that silver heart pendant she never takes off.

She descends the stairs slowly, watching me watch her.

"You're staring."

"You're stunning."

The words come out before I can filter them, raw and honest in a way I usually avoid.

Zara pauses on the bottom step, which puts her almost at eye level with me. This close, I can see the slight flush on her cheeks, the careful way she is controlling her breathing.

"We should go," she says quietly. "Don't want to be late."