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I take a step back, surveying the scene before me. The once-barren wall is now bursting with color, brought to life by little hands. Dare stands in the center, paint smeared across his expensive shirt. Yet he doesn't seem to mind at all.
A warmth spreads through me as I watch my husband gently guide the children. With patience and care, he shows them how to hold the brushes just so. How to mix the paints into new shades.
"Like this?" a little girl asks, seeking his approval.
Dare smiles. "Perfect. I love the purple you created."
Aunt Minnie sidles up beside me. "Well would you look at that," she says, nudging my arm. "Seems fatherhood agrees with him already."
I nod, my throat tightening. "I know. Who would've thought?"
Just months ago Dare was closed-off, sheltered. Volunteering here has coaxed out a new side of him. A gentle, nurturing side I'd never seen before.
As if sensing my gaze, Dare glances my way. The pure joy on his face makes my heart skip. In that moment I just know.
He is ready for this. Ready to embrace the changes coming to our lives.
No matter what uncertainties lie ahead, we will face them together. As a family.
During a break, Dare comes over. His eyes shine as he looks at the mural taking shape.
"Dare, if we foster Solana, what happens to the next child who comes to Hope House needing care?"
Dare blinks, seeming confused.
"I know you've grown close to her," I continue. "But our role here is to help whichever child needs us most. We can't play favorites."
Dare falls silent. Solana hops down and tugs his hand, ready to paint again. As he allows himself to be led back to the wall, Dare turns back.
"I just want to help," he says at last. "However I can."
I smile softly. Rising up on my tiptoes, I plant a kiss on his cheek.
"I know," I whisper. "Just something for you to think about."
His eyes search mine. After a moment he nods, squeezing my hand.
We return to the mural, side by side. There is still so much work to be done. But we will face it as a team.
ChapterTwelve
DARE
"Standards, boy. Morgan men must have standards." Remy spews crumbs with each word, flecks of saliva catching in his white mustache. "You've gone soft. Knocking up the first piece of trash you—"
The aroma of truffle oil and rosemary assaults my senses as Magda lays the final course before Remy. His liver-spotted hands tremble around the silverware, years of greed and entitlement etched into the deep lines of his face.
"Enough." The word comes out harsher than I intend, but I won't have him speaking of Talia that way. I may have doubts about our marriage, about the way she's changed me, but Talia is no whore.
Remy's eyes narrow, peering at me through thick glasses. "You forget yourself. I built this empire from nothing, and I won't have it crumble because you chose to saddle yourself with dead weight."
My fingers curl into fists beneath the table, the leather of my gloves creaking. He's always been cruel, but age has sharpened his barbs. "The company is secure. Our profits are higher than ever. When will it be enough for you?"
"It'll be enough," Remy sneers, "when we have it all. When every rival is crushed beneath our heels. You're too soft for what needs to be done, too distracted by that woman and the brat she's carrying."
"Talia is my wife." Even as I say the words, doubt flickers. Have I truly let Talia soften me, as Remy claims? Our marriage was one of convenience, a means to an end, but now...
I shake off the thought, meeting Remy's gaze. "The company will be mine, with or without your blessing. I've proven myself, and it's time for you to step aside."
