Page 39 of Bossh*le Daddy
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn't deflect the praise like I once would have. I had done this. Hours of research, carefully crafted arguments, budget projections that accounted for every penny. The girl who'd survived on toast and stubbornness had somehow become someone who could direct millions toward changing lives.
"I want to visit the first school personally," I continued, momentum carrying me forward. "See their faces when they open the boxes. Mrs. Brooks from P.S. 84 cried when I called her. Actually cried. She's been using the same classroom set of books for eight years, held together with duct tape and prayer."
Damian moved around the kitchen with economical grace, pulling plates from cabinets, checking the oven, all while listening with that complete attention that still undid me. He asked questions—about distribution logistics, author selections, metrics for measuring success—that showed he'd been paying attention to every detail I'd shared over weeks of planning.
"We're calling it 'Pages of Promise,'" I said, watching him plate our dinner with the same aesthetic precision he brought to everything. "Because every book is a promise that someone believes in your potential."
"I’m so proud of you," he said, setting the plate before me. Coq au vin with roasted vegetables arranged like art, fresh bread still warm from the oven. A meal that belonged in a five-star restaurant.
I ate without thinking now, savoring each bite with appreciation rather than anxiety. My body had learned to trust abundance, to accept nourishment without the old fear of scarcity. The first few weeks, he'd had to remind me, sometimes feed me himself when old habits crept back. Now I cleared half my plate while still talking about fundraising possibilities, my fork gesturing dangerously close to his pristine shirt.
"Careful," he warned with amused affection, catching my wrist gently. "That's Italian cotton you're threatening."
"Sorry." But I wasn't, not really, and we both knew it. This version of me—animated, passionate, unguarded—was what he'd been cultivating with patient hands and careful rules.
We finished dinner in comfortable rhythm, conversation flowing between bites. He told me about the Singapore deal'scomplications, the board member who'd tried to stage a coup, the satisfaction of outmaneuvering corporate sharks who'd underestimated him. I shared gossip from the foundation board, the petty drama of charity politics that seemed absurd compared to actual impact.
When plates were empty, we moved together to clear the table. He washed while I dried, our movements synchronized through repetition. Such a simple thing, doing dishes together, but it felt profound. Three months ago, I'd been alone in my studio apartment, making a single bowl of ramen last two days. Now I dried crystal wine glasses while discussing million-dollar charitable initiatives with my fiancé.
"I want to show you something after dinner," he said, and that particular note in his voice made my stomach flutter with recognition. The tone that preceded transitions, that marked the boundary between our public and private dynamics.
"A new stuffie came today," he continued, watching my face carefully. "A bunny. Bigger than your old one. I thought you might want to meet her."
The words were casual, but the weight behind them wasn't. My old bunny waited in the nursery, carefully placed among the growing collection of comfort items he'd selected. This new addition meant something—another layer of care, another sign that he was still building our life together, still thinking of what his little one might need.
My body responded before my mind could catch up, that familiar warmth spreading through my core. The space between my public self and my little self blurred, edges softening as I nodded. "Yes, Daddy," I whispered, already slipping into that softer headspace where I didn't have to be the competent foundation director or the confident fiancée. Where I could just be his little one, safe and small and held. "I'd like that very much."
His eyes darkened with satisfaction and something else—anticipation, maybe, or planning. He had that look that meant tonight would be special, that the new bunny was just the beginning of whatever he'd orchestrated.
"Good girl," he murmured, and those two words completed my transition. "Let's go see what Daddy found for you."
*
The private elevator descended with whispered efficiency, carrying us down to the secret heart of our life together. My hand felt small in Damian's, fingers interlaced with the kind of casual intimacy that still made my chest tight with wonder. I'd changed after dinner—soft pink pajamas covered in little clouds, nothing like the power dress I'd worn to battle Henderson. The transformation always felt like shedding armor, like coming home to myself.
"Excited to meet your new friend?" Damian asked, thumb stroking over my knuckles in that soothing rhythm he knew calmed my nerves.
I nodded, already feeling younger with each floor we passed. The nursery called to parts of me I'd hidden for so long, the little girl who'd whispered secrets to stuffed animals when the world got too big. Now I had permission—more than permission, encouragement—to be that girl again whenever I needed.
The familiar hallway greeted us with its soft lighting and cream walls. Other doors lined the corridor—storage, Damian had said, though I suspected he had plans for those spaces too. He was always planning, always thinking ahead to what I might need before I knew to want it.
The nursery door opened to reveal my wonderland, and I gasped softly at the changes. He'd been busy. A new bookshelf sat low against one wall, filled with picture books I recognized from childhood and others I'd never seen. A playmat coveredpart of the floor, soft and inviting, with sensory toys scattered across its surface. The closet door stood partly open, revealing hanging clothes in soft pastels—dresses and overalls and things that would make me feel perfectly small.
But my attention locked onto the rocking chair, where an enormous pink bunny waited with patient button eyes. She was perfect—bigger than my old bunny, big enough to properly cuddle, with fur that looked impossibly soft and ears that flopped just right. A silk bow around her neck matched the pink of my pajamas, because of course Damian had thought of that detail.
"Oh," I breathed, reverting to that younger voice that only emerged here, high and sweet and wondering. The sophisticated woman who'd managed million-dollar charitable funds vanished, replaced by someone simpler, truer. "She's beautiful, Daddy."
"Go say hello," he encouraged, releasing my hand with a gentle push toward the chair.
I practically skipped across the room, bare feet silent on plush carpet. The bunny was even softer than she looked, fur like silk clouds under my eager hands. I lifted her carefully—she had good weight, substantial enough to feel real when I hugged her. Her head fit perfectly under my chin, and she smelled new but also somehow safe, like Damian had prepared her specially for me.
"Hi, bunny," I whispered, already making her real. "I'm Isla. I'm gonna take real good care of you, promise."
I turned back to Damian, clutching my new friend, and found him settled in the adult-sized armchair he'd had specially made. He looked like a king on a throne, if kings wore charcoal slacks and watched their subjects with fond indulgence. His arms opened in clear invitation, and I climbed into his lap without hesitation, bunny and all.
"What will you name her?" he asked once I'd gotten comfortable, my head on his shoulder, the bunny secured between us like a pink, fluffy chaperone.
I studied her seriously, this important decision requiring proper consideration. Names mattered. My old bunny was just Bunny, chosen when I was too young for creativity. But this one needed something special, something that meant something.
