Page 138 of Beauty and the Daddy
"Princess," I tell Sofia, "I've negotiated arms deals with Russian oligarchs and sat across from Sicilian dons who eat their enemies for breakfast. I think I can manage Mickey Mouse pancakes."
"Famous last words," Belle mutters, but she's grinning as she says it.
Twenty-five minutes later, the kitchen looks like a flour bomb detonated in a chocolate chip factory.
Leo has somehow managed to get pancake batter in his hair, adding to the peanut butter and crown situation we've completely given up trying to resolve. He looks like he's been dipped in breakfast and rolled in chaos.
Elena has transformed her high chair tray into an abstract art installation using chocolate chips, creating what she insists is a "masterpiece" that we're not allowed to clean up until she's finished explaining it.
Sofia sits at the counter documenting the disaster with Belle's phone, providing running commentary like she's narrating a nature documentary. "And here we see the alpha male in his natural habitat, completely out of his depth and covered in pancake mix."
Belle stands at the stove performing actual miracles, somehow managing to flip perfect Mickey Mouse pancakes while simultaneously preventing Elena from launching herself out of her chair and stopping Leo from adding more peanut butter to his already impressive collection of breakfast accessories.
I watch her orchestrate this beautiful madness, this woman who transformed my fortress into a home, my silence into symphony. She negotiates toddler demands with the same diplomatic precision she once used to defuse family politics. She mediates sibling disputes like she's brokering international peace treaties. She makes chaos feel like music.
"How do you do it?" I ask, sliding my arms around her waist from behind.
"Lots of coffee," she says, leaning back against my chest. "And the knowledge that they'll eventually tire themselves out."
"Eventually being the key word," I murmur against her ear, breathing in the scent of vanilla and home that always clings to her skin.
"I love watching you be their mother," I tell her quietly, meaning every word.
She turns in my arms, flour dusting her cheek, exhaustion and joy warring in her green eyes. "Even when I look like I've been in a food fight?"
"Especially then."
The morning continues in controlled chaos. Breakfast is eventually consumed, though a significant portion ends up on the floor for Bruno to dispose of with the efficiency of a four-legged vacuum cleaner. Children are dressed for school, thoughElena maintains her stance that princess dresses and combat boots are appropriate for all occasions, and Leo absolutely refuses to remove what he's now calling his "Crown of Victory."
Sofia, having outgrown such childish accessories, settles for the diamond earrings that mark her transition from little girl to young woman. She's still my baby, but she's growing up in ways that make my chest tight with pride and terror.
As I watch Belle braid Elena's hair while simultaneously packing Leo's lunch and reminding Sofia about her piano lesson, something shifts in my chest. Not the familiar tightness of fear or the sharp edge of vigilance that's been my constant companion for decades. This is something else entirely.
Gratitude. Pure, overwhelming, knee-buckling gratitude.
This woman didn't just marry me or give me children. She gave me a reason to be more than the Beast everyone feared. She made me a man worth coming home to, worth staying alive for, worth changing for.
The school run is its own adventure in logistics and patience. Leo chatters about his upcoming art project, something involving glitter that I'm already dreading. Elena provides the soundtrack with an enthusiastic but off-key rendition of every Disney song ever written. Sofia texts her friends while maintaining a running commentary about how embarrassing her family is and how she can't wait to be old enough to drive herself places.
At the school gate, I catch another father's gaze lingering on Belle a beat too long, taking in the way her jeans hug her curves and how her laugh lights up her entire face. My hand tightens on the steering wheel, and Belle immediately places her palm over mine.
"Down, boy," she says softly, not even looking at me. "He's probably just wondering how I manage to look this good after wrestling three children and a peanut butter crown."
"He's wondering more than that."
"Good thing I only have eyes for one overprotective mafia don."
After depositing our offspring at their respective educational institutions, we drive home in comfortable silence. Belle's hand rests in mine, her wedding ring catching the morning light. The simple platinum band holds a diamond bigger than most people ever see, but it's the thin titanium band beneath it that means everything. The one I slipped onto her finger six years ago when she was bleeding and scared and still chose to say yes to forever with me.
"What's going through that complicated head of yours?" she asks as we pass through the estate gates.
"Just thinking about how different everything is," I tell her honestly. "Six years ago, if someone had told me I'd be making cartoon pancakes and mediating crown disputes and seriously considering whether combat boots are appropriate school attire..."
"You'd have had them committed to a psychiatric facility," Belle finishes with a laugh.
"After having them thoroughly investigated for surveillance purposes," I agree. "Best delusion that ever came true."
Back at the house, we have exactly fifty-seven minutes before the afternoon chaos begins. Elena's playdate with the neighbor's equally destructive three-year-old, Leo's soccer practice where he spends more time picking flowers than kicking balls, Sofia'spiano lesson where she's learning to play pieces that make me think of Belle's fingers on ivory keys.
