His mouth tightens, but he nods once.
The dinner loosens after that because children don't allow tension to remain perfectly arranged for long. James asks whether companies can be separated with "business pliers" if the magnet gets too strong. Samuel adds a second level to his snack cabinet design. Rosalie abandons my fries for Luca's fruit and then changes her mind again. The adults move around the problem with plates and napkins and reminders to eat, giving ourselves the mercy of motion.
Later, after dishes and baths and the soft collapse of evening, I find myself sitting on the floor of Rosalie's room with a tiny comb in one hand and a pink hair tie around two of my fingers. Rosalie sits between my knees in pajamas with moons on them, her crown placed carefully on the bed beside her so it doesn't interfere with what she's called "serious princess hair." I've done battlefield triage on contracts with fewer complications than this braid.
Her hair's soft, fine, and determined to escape me.
"Hold still, little star," I murmur, gathering the strands again after the first attempt loosens immediately.
Rosalie sits very straight, hands folded in her lap. "You're not doing it like Papa."
"Papa has more practice."
"You need practice."
"I'm aware."
She turns her head to look at me, which destroys the braid entirely. "Am I pretty?"
The question hits me with more force than it should. I set the comb down and lean forward, pressing my mouth to the side of her head. She smells like soap, clean cotton, and the faint sweetness of ketchup still clinging somewhere despite the bath.
"You're beautiful," I tell her. "And smart. And loud. And kind when it matters."
She accepts this with a solemn nod, then reaches for the tiny plastic tea set arranged on the blanket beside her. Bedtime's become a negotiation involving hair, tea, two stories, and the crown being placed where it can supervise her dreams. Tonight I let it all take longer than it should. I pour invisible tea into a plastic cup too small for my hand, sit with my knees bent awkwardly against the side of her bed, and try again to braid the hair of a child who keeps turning around to make sure I'm doing it correctly.
By the doorway, Blake watches us.
He's changed into a soft sweater, too large at the wrists, and the hallway light catches the edge of his glasses. He looks fond, mouth curved in a small smile as Rosalie corrects my grip on the hair tie, but he's still pale. The day's taken too much from him. The meeting, the dinner, the effort of wanting something and mistrusting it at the same time. He holds the doorframe lightly, not leaning on it enough for Rosalie to notice, but enough for me to notice.
I notice everything about Blake when he looks like that.
Rosalie finally allows me to secure the braid. It's uneven, loose on one side and too tight on the other, but she touches it with both hands and seems satisfied enough to crawl under her blankets. I tuck them around her while she arranges her crown on the nightstand.
"No company magnets in my room," she mumbles, already half-asleep.
"No company magnets," I promise.
Her eyes close before I finish the sentence.
I stay bent over her for a moment longer, one hand resting against the blanket, letting the simple rhythm of her breathing settle something inside me that's been clenched since Victorwalked into our boardroom. Then I stand, turn off the lamp, and step into the hall with Blake.
"She's going to ask Luca to fix that braid in the morning," Blake says quietly.
"She should. I have other strengths."
His smile's soft, but it fades quickly. The silence between us isn't empty. It's full of decks, clauses, endowments, launch schedules, and the awful knowledge that good offers can still have teeth.
I touch his wrist, careful and light. "You need to eat more before bed."
"I ate dinner."
"You moved food around a container and ate three bites when Luca looked directly at you."
Blake's eyes narrow, but there's no real fight behind it. "You've been keeping count."
"Yes."
He looks down the hall toward the nest, where the others are already gathering. "They're offering the thing I don't know how to give myself."
