The play center looked like Willy Wonka threw up on a Lisa Frank folder—loud, chaotic, and aggressively colorful. It smelled like feet, frosting, and despair.
"This is Sophie’s party!" Lily beamed, clutching the robot kit like it was sacred treasure.
Just before she ran off to join the ball-pit mayhem, she turned to me with those too-wise eyes.
"Thanks for helping me pick the perfect gift," she said softly. "I hope we’ll see each other soon."
And just like that, the kid short-circuited my defenses.
Fuck. When did kids learn emotional manipulation? Was there a class? A YouTube tutorial?
"Yeah, kid. Me too," I managed, my voice only slightly strangled.
Raphael's hand brushed my lower back as we walked Lily inside—subtle, barely there, but enough to remind me that I was currently living in some kind of reverse harem fever dream where I helped CEO's daughter pick birthday presents on weekends.
The gaggle of mothers near the entrance locked onto Raphael like heat-seeking missiles. You could practically see their thoughts: Single dad. Hot. Rich. MINE.
One particularly bold specimen—bottle blonde, yoga pants that cost more than my rent, smile that belonged on a shark—approached with the confidence of someone who'd never been rejected.
"Are you staying for the party?" She aimed the question at Raphael but her body language screamed 'please father my second child'. "We're having wine for the adults. Well, 'juice' in coffee cups." She actually winked.
Raphael's entire demeanor shifted faster than a gear change in a Ferrari. Gone was the soft father who'd watched his daughter debate toy choices. In his place stood the CEO—cold, distant, utterly unattainable.
"I have business to attend to," he said, with the kind of polite finality that could freeze hell and make the devil reconsider his life choices. "Thank you for including Lily."
Bottle Blonde retreated like she'd been slapped with a frozen fish. The other mothers suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Or maybe claiming him right there in front of the juice box station. Both seemed inappropriate.
Back at his obscenely expensive car, Raphael's CEO mask dropped like it had never existed. He turned to me with an expression so unexpectedly soft it made my chest do that thing I was really going to need to get checked out.
"What do you want to do?"
The question hung between us, loaded with more subtext than a Shakespeare play. What I wanted involved significantly fewer clothes and possibly breaking several public indecency laws, but that seemed like the wrong answer in a children's party parking lot.
"Coffee?" I suggested, because when in doubt, caffeinate.
We ended up at one of those bougie coffee places that charged twelve dollars for beans that had been through a civet's digestive system.
Raphael ordered his coffee black, because of course he did. I got something with enough sugar to induce diabetic shock, because if I was going to have an emotional breakthrough, I needed chemical support.
The waterfront was doing that annoyingly picturesque thing New York did sometimes—sun breaking through clouds, water sparkling like someone had thrown diamonds at it, couples walking dogs and looking disgustingly happy.
We claimed a bench facing the water, close enough that our thighs touched but far enough that we could pretend it was accidental.
"Lily's amazing," I said, because apparently I'd decided to dive straight into the deep end. "Like, genuinely cool for a tiny human."
"She's the best thing I've ever done," Raphael said simply. "The only thing I've gotten completely right."
"Pretty sure building a multimillion-dollar architecture firm counts as getting something right."
He shook his head. "That's just business. Strategy. Lily... she's pure. Untainted by my failures."
And there it was—the crack in the armor I'd been waiting for.
"Ex-wife?" I guessed.
"Victoria." He said her name like it tasted bad. "We met in college. Got married young because that's what you did. Had Lily because that's what came next. Built a life that looked perfect from the outside."
"Let me guess—she fucked your high school best friend."
His startled laugh was worth the crude summary. "How did you—"
"It's always the best friend. Or the personal trainer. Or the pool boy, if you're feeling clichéd."
"The best friend," he confirmed. "Found them in our bed on a Tuesday afternoon when I came home early with Lily. She was two."
"Jesus."
"The divorce was... brutal. Got most of all. But when it came to Lily..." His hands clenched. "She signed away custody without blinking. Said a child would interfere with her new life."
The fury that rose in my chest surprised me with its intensity. Who the fuck walked away from their kid? From Lily?
"She's in Switzerland now," he continued. "Married to a pharmaceutical executive. Sends Lily a card on her birthday. Sometimes."
"That's fucked up."
"That's what Stephen said. With more creative profanity."
"Good for Stephen." I took a sip of my sugar bomb coffee. "So you've been single dad-ing it for five years?"
"Four and a half. And yes. Just me and Lily and a rotating cast of nannies she terrorizes with dinosaur facts." He paused. "Until recently."
The weight of 'recently' settled between us like a third presence on the bench.
"I haven't brought anyone into her life since the divorce," he said quietly. "Haven't wanted to. Haven't trusted myself to choose better. But lately..."
"Lately you've been making spectacularly bad decisions with your brothers' knowledge and participation?"
Another surprised laugh. "Something like that."
"For what it's worth," I said, staring at the water because eye contact felt too intense, "I don't do kids. Like, at all. They're sticky and loud and ask too many questions. But Lily's... different. Special. And not in that bullshit way parents say all kids are special. She's genuinely cool."
"She liked you immediately. She doesn't do that."
"Smart kid. I'm very likeable."
"Dakota." His voice dropped to that serious register that made my spine tingle. "What are we doing?"
And wasn't that the million-dollar question? What were we doing? What was I doing? Fucking three brothers, catching feelings for a seven-year-old, sitting on a bench having the kind of conversation that changed things?
"I have no fucking idea," I admitted. "This wasn't in my five-year plan. Hell, it wasn't in my five-week plan. I'm supposed to be focused on proving myself, inheriting the firm, building my career. Not..." I gestured vaguely between us.
"Not sitting on a bench with a damaged single father talking about feelings?"
"Exactly. This is very off-brand for me."
He turned to face me fully, and the vulnerability in his eyes was devastating. "I'm not good at this. At opening up. At trusting. At anything that isn't work or Lily."
"Join the club. We have jackets. They're emotionally unavailable but very stylish."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. About the jackets."
He caught my hand, and the simple touch felt more intimate than anything we'd done that night with his brothers. "I need you to know what you're getting into. I'm not... easy. I have baggage. I have a daughter who comes first, always. I have trust issues that need their own zip code. I'm difficult and demanding and—"
"Raphael." I squeezed his hand. "Shut up."
He blinked.
"You think I don't know all that? You think I looked at you and thought 'oh, here's an uncomplicated situation with zero emotional landmines'? I'm not an idiot."
"But—"
"But nothing. We're all walking disasters pretending to be functional adults. At least you're honest about it." I took a breath. "And for what it's worth? The way you love Lily, the way you've built your life around protecting her? That's not damage. That's fucking beautiful."
The kiss came out of nowhere—sudden, desperate, full of things neither of us knew how to say. He tasted like black coffee and possibility, and when we finally broke apart, we were both breathing like we'd run a marathon.
"This is complicated," he said against my lips.
"Everything worth doing is," I replied, and realized with dawning horror that I actually meant it.
We sat in the fading light, trading quiet confessions too raw for guarded moments. He told me about late nights with Lily, about building an empire from spite, and the fear he’d ruin her like his parents ruined him.
I told him about growing up as Bruce Freeman’s failure, and the fear I was proving him right.
By the time we left to get Lily, something had changed. This wasn’t just sex anymore.
And that scared me more than failing ever had.