Page 35 of The Art of Ruin

And somehow it doesn’t.

I head home and get stuck into reading through the binder of information Adriano presented me with this morning. Her likes and dislikes, a reminder of her routine. What he deems acceptable and not—and it’s a lot. The man is a control freak.

By the time I pick Letty up, she’s talking before she’s fully through the gate.

“We did painting, and I made a dragon, but it looked like a dog. Miss Harper said it was still good, but I know it wasn’t.”

“I’m sure it was a very convincing dragon-dog.”

“It wasn’t.”

“We’ll work on it.”

“You’ll help?”

“Of course. I love drawing.”

She considers that, then nods like she’s accepting the terms. “Okay.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of crayons, snacks, and negotiation.

We spend an hour at the park behind the preschool because Letty decides the slide “needs testing properly,” which apparently involves going down it at least twenty-three times while giving me detailed performance reviews after each attempt.

By the time we get back to the house, the late afternoon sun has turned everything gold, long shadows stretching across the manicured lawn.

Inside, Letty abandons her shoes by the door with the kind of confidence that suggests someone else usually picks them up, then climbs onto one of the kitchen stools and immediately demands a snack “before starvation happens.”

I give her apple slices, crackers, and exactly six gummy bears after several intense negotiations that honestly feel worthy of legal representation.

After that, we settle at the kitchen table with crayons and paper spread between us while she draws increasingly aggressive-looking dragons and informs me very seriously that purple is an underrated color.

This child will run the world one day.

She’s a master negotiator and completely unafraid to use her cuteness to get her way. I can already see why her uncles are wrapped around her tiny fingers.

She talks constantly, filling the space with thoughts that move faster than logic. I listen, respond, redirect, and somewhere in the middle of it all, I forget to be careful for a few minutes at a time.

It feels… easy.

Too easy.

I catch myself laughing at one of her dramatic retellings of a playground betrayal involving stolen crayons and realize, with a sharp twist low in my chest, that I feel happy.

The thought unsettles me more than it should.

I forgot what this felt like.

I correct myself quickly.

This is a job. Personal connections are dangerous. They can be stolen away at the drop of a hat.

The sound of the front door opening cuts through the kitchen.

Letty’s head snaps up immediately. “Daddy!”

She’s off the stool before I can stop her, socks sliding against the hardwood floor as she runs toward the hallway.

A second later, Adriano appears, one hand loosening his tie as he steps into the kitchen, his phone still in the other.