Sophia pushed peas around her plate.

Christiana smiled at her like the girl hadn’t just called her an intruder in the garden hours ago.

It was… unexpected.

Most people snapped under Sophia’s moods. Nannies quit. Tutors begged for reassignment. Even my ex fiancée—God, what a mistake that had been—had lasted two months before the mask slipped.

But Christiana sat there with her chin high, voice soft, patient.

“I like your drawings,” she said to Sophia, as if the compliment might melt the little wall my daughter built around herself.

Sophia scowled but didn’t storm off. Didn’t scream. That alone was a miracle.

I didn’t show it, of course. My face was a mask, carved from years of practice. But inside, I felt something twist.

Because I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Sophia blush.

…

Later, after the plates were cleared and Sophia tucked into bed for her afternoon nap, I poured myself a drink in the study.

Marcus leaned against the wall. “She handled the kid well,” he said, casual but deliberate.

“She’s stubborn,” I replied. “That’s all it is.”

Marcus’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Not everything is about stubbornness, Jordan.”

I gave him a look sharp enough to cut glass. He shut up.

But when the silence settled again, I found myself staring into the fire and replaying the lunch we had. The way Christiana leaned forward, her tone warm but firm, like she actually gave a damn about Sophia’s feelings.

It had been… different. Dangerous.

I didn’t want different. I wanted control.

Control meant safety.

Control meant no one else ended up in the ground.

But the image of her face—light brown eyes steady, lips curved into a small smile even when Sophia glared daggers at her—refused to leave me.

…

I found myself outside her door before midnight. I told myself I was checking the security locks, making sure she was safe. That’s all.

Her voice floated through the crack in the door. Soft. sad.

I pushed it open just an inch. She was curled on the window seat, knees hugged to her chest, speaking in a low murmur.

“To Mom,” she whispered. “I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. He thinks he owns me, but he doesn’t. I’m still me. I’m still yours.”

The words gutted me.

I should have turned away. Closed the door. Pretended I hadn’t heard.

Instead, I stood there in the shadows, a thief stealing pieces of her heart I had no right to.

She deserved someone better. Someone who didn’t trap her, didn’t chain her future to old debts and darker promises.

But she had me.

And I wasn’t letting go.

…

By the time I finally tore myself away, Marcus was waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed.

“You keep staring at her like that,” he said, voice low, “and one of two things will happen: she’ll hate you more, or you’ll forget how to hate yourself.”

I shoved past him. “She hates me already.”

“That’s not what I saw at dinner.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure if Marcus was right.

And the thought of it terrified me more than any enemy ever could.