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“You’ve always looked like one.”
She throws both arms around his neck without warning, nearly knocking the brush from his hand. He catches her automatically, hugging her close while she buries her face against his shoulder.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
His tie still hangs loose around his neck, his sleeves remain rolled from work, and a bright pink ribbon circles one wrist where he’s forgotten to take it off.
A few hours ago he was leading meetings and making decisions that affected thousands of employees. Now he’s celebrating a successful ballet bun like he’d closed the biggest deal of the year.
Spencer would’ve solved this with money. Someone else would’ve bought the supplies, someone else would’ve learned the hairstyle, and someone else would’ve taken care of ballet because his schedule mattered more.
Bane wanted to do it himself.
He watched tutorials, bought the wrong supplies, then laughed at himself and tried again because getting it right mattered to two little girls waiting to walk into dance class feeling beautiful.
That’s the man I keep falling for.
He never acts like fatherhood interrupts his life. It is his life.
Every question the twins ask earns his full attention, whether they’re talking about dinosaurs or ballet shoes. If one of them needs a hug, he never makes them wait, and when something goes wrong, he steps in as though fixing it matters just as much to him.
He catches me watching him and smiles. “What?”
I shake my head. “I was thinking they’re lucky.”
His expression softens as he glances toward the girls. “No.” He reaches over to straighten the ribbon beneath Biddy’s bun before standing again. “I’m the lucky one.”
Before I can answer, Sprout charges through the living room with a pink ballet slipper dangling from his mouth.
Bane spots him first. “Sprout.”
The dog freezes long enough to realize he’d been caught before spinning around and racing toward the hallway with Babs screaming after him.
“My shoe!”
Biddy joins the chase with Bane close behind, already negotiating with a dog who has absolutely no interest in surrendering his prize. “I’ll trade you.”
Sprout runs faster.
“He prefers cheese,” Mara says, taking another sip of coffee without moving from her chair.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
Their voices fade toward the bedrooms and I lean against the counter listening to laughter echo through the penthouse.
A few hours ago reporters crowded the sidewalk outside Wolf Shield, shouting questions they believed deserved answers.
Standing here, watching Bane chase a spoiled golden retriever while two little girls race after him in pink leotards, the headlines don’t seem worth thinking about anymore.
Neither does Spencer.
All I can think about is the family disappearing down the hallway together. And without meaning to, I realize I stopped wondering whether I belong here a long time ago.
Now I’m wondering how I’d ever walk away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
