Page 32 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
Eloise's dark eyes searched my face.
"You would tell me if something was really wrong, wouldn't you?"
"Of course." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "Miss Quinn is dealing with some family issues, but I'm sure everything will work out."
"Good." She settled deeper into her pillow. "I don't want anything bad to happen to her. I really like her."
I kissed her forehead and turned off the lamp, leaving only the small nightlight that cast gentle shadows across the room.
"Sleep well."
I stood in her doorway longer than usual, watching her breathing settle into the deep rhythm of approaching sleep.
At nine years old, she had already experienced more loss and uncertainty than most children twice her age.
Her mother's abandonment, my father's death, the constant awareness that her life existed at the intersection of two worlds that didn't quite fit together.
The board's letter had made clear what I already knew.
My time was running out.
But looking at Eloise now, peaceful and trusting in her bed, I felt the full weight of what failure would mean.
Not just losing the school or the inheritance, but watching her world shrink again, seeing her lose the stability I had worked so hard to build.
I closed her door quietly and went downstairs.
The bourbon I kept in the kitchen cabinet was a good one, a gift from a client who'd been pleased with a project I'd completed ahead of schedule.
I poured two fingers into a glass and carried it out back to the enclosed patio.
January evenings on Cape Cod reminded me why I'd chosen to stay here despite everything.
The air was crisp and the sound of waves reached us even from our distance inland.
I sat on the old wooden bench and dialed Juan's number.
"Harrison." His voice carried the warmth of genuine friendship. "How's the domestic life treating you?"
"Could be better." I took a sip of bourbon and felt it burn pleasantly down my throat. "The board made their move today."
"Legal action?"
"Full challenge to the will. They're claiming the marriage clause is unenforceable and I'm unfit to inherit."
I described the letter's contents while Juan listened without interruption.
"Timeline?" he asked when I finished.
"Next Friday. I have to present a viable marriage plan or they vote to strip my succession rights."
Juan was quiet for a moment.
In the background, I could hear the sounds of his own evening routine—his wife calling to one of their children, a television playing softly.
"Eight days?" he said finally.
"Eight days."
