Page 112 of Under His Control
The living room is big but cozy. Wood floors, exposed beams, natural light pouring in through high windows. The kitchen has marble counters and a huge farmhouse sink. There’s a window above it that looks out over the backyard, toward a tire swing hanging from the old oak tree.
Upstairs, there are five bedrooms. One is perfect for Charlotte, already painted in soft peach.
Another is a blank canvas. Taylor lingers in the doorway, then looks over her shoulder. “Think we’ll fill this one, too?”
I move behind her, arms circling her waist. “We’ll see.”
She leans back into me.
“This house,” she whispers. “It feels like our future.”
“It is.”
Six months later…
I wake to sunlight and the sound of tiny feet racing down the hall.
Taylor groans beside me, tugging the sheet over her head. “Not it.”
“I’ve got it,” I mutter, already reaching for my robe.
I find Charlotte in the kitchen, standing on a chair she definitely wasn’t supposed to move. She’s proudly pouring dry cereal onto the floor next to her empty bowl.
“G’morning, Papa!”
I sigh. We’ve talked about the difference between a bowl and the hardwood.
She beams up at me, her curls wild and her nightgown inside out. “I made cereal!”
I chuckle despite myself and scoop her up. “You’re going to be trouble today, aren’t you, birthday girl?”
“I’m three!” she says with supreme confidence, holding up five fingers.
Close enough.
A little while later, Taylor shuffles out onto the porch in a worn T-shirt that used to be mine, hair braided down one shoulder. She hands me a mug of coffee and curls into my side on the swing with a happy sigh.
Charlotte is already in the dirt, digging with a plastic spoon.
This is it.
This is everything.
I was born into a legacy I never asked for. I inherited power that came with knives behind every smile. I spent years building an empire to protect it.
But in the end, it wasn’t the empire that saved me.
It was them. My wife. My daughter. My peace.
The back gate creaks open, and I look up to see Chris walking in, a grocery bag under one arm and a bubble wand sticking out of his hoodie pocket. Behind him is Charles, carrying a container of ribs and wearing his usual expression of calm amusement.
A few steps behind them, Mrs. B sweeps in like she owns the patio, her heels clicking decisively on the stone path, a neatly wrapped gift balanced in one perfectly manicured hand. Igor, well-dressed as ever, follows with a cooler slung under one arm and a birthday cake in the other.
They all flew in together on my private jet, part of the small but loyal crew showing up for Charlotte’s birthday weekend like it was a state affair.
Mrs. B glances around, instantly clocking every detail, and then zeroes in on me. “Where do you want the cake? And don’t say ‘wherever,’ Taylor. We’re not savages.”
I grin. “By the lemonade, General.”
