Boundries

Alex

I turned to my computer, trying to focus on work, but my mind kept drifting. I found myself typing Ava's name into a search engine, scanning recent articles about her. Most focused on our engagement, but some highlighted her business achievements, her journey as a young widow raising a child while running a tech empire.

One photo caught my eye—Ava at what appeared to be a school function, crouched down to Emilia's level, both of them laughing. There was such joy in their expressions, such genuine connection. It made something in my chest ache with a longing I couldn't quite identify.

I closed the browser quickly, unsettled by my own reaction. This was getting too personal, too complicated. I needed to refocus, to remember why we'd started this charade in the first place.

Business. It was all about business.

So why couldn't I stop thinking about Ava's smile, or the way Emilia's eyes had flashed with defiance in my car, or the looming dinner with George Silver that Ava had texted me about?

My phone buzzed with a new message:

From: Claire Russo Emily's contact info attached. Also, found this article about helping children deal with new parental figures. Thought it might be useful. You're welcome. xo

I stared at the message for a long moment, then clicked the link. As I read through the article's advice—patience, honesty, respecting boundaries—I felt a strange sense of purpose taking root.

I knew nothing about being a father figure, temporary or otherwise. My own father had been distant, demanding, more interested in grooming his heir than raising his son. The thought of connecting with Emilia, of earning her trust or even just her tolerance, seemed impossible.

But as I continued reading, taking notes despite myself, I realized I wanted to try. Not because it would enhance our business charade, not because it would persuade Ava to trust me more—though those were convenient justifications.

But because something about that little girl's defiance, her fierce protectiveness of her mother, her stubborn belief in a father who wasn't coming back... it had gotten under my skin. She deserved better than to be collateral damage in our adult games.

I closed the article and opened a new tab, searching for bookstores in Seattle that specialized in children's literature. If I was going to have dinner with Emilia and her grandfather tomorrow night, I should at least come prepared.

"Janet," I called to my assistant through the intercom. "Clear my afternoon. I have an errand to run."

Two hours later, I stood in Rainy Day Books, one of the city's oldest independent bookstores, staring in bewilderment at shelves of children's and young adult titles. The salesperson approached cautiously, eyeing my suit with the wary respect Seattle reserves for corporate types.

"Can I help you find something?"

"I need books," I said, then internally winced at the obvious statement. "For a nine-year-old girl. Smart, science-oriented, into puzzles and space."

The woman's expression shifted from caution to interest. "Your daughter?"

"No," I answered quickly. "She's my... it's complicated."

Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Stepdaughter? Or soon to be?"

I didn't correct her. "Something like that. I want to get her something special. Something that shows I'm trying."

The salesperson smiled, warming to the task. "Let me show you our science fiction section for younger readers. There's a new series that just came out that might be perfect..."

Thirty minutes and several hundred dollars later, I left with a stack of books, including a signed first edition of "Starstruck," which the clerk assured me was popular with "smart, space-loving kids." I also had a bagful of advanced puzzles from the hobby shop next door.

As I loaded my purchases into the car, I felt strangely satisfied. This wasn't part of the business plan, wasn't necessary for our charade to succeed. But it felt right.

Few hours later, my phone had buzzed with a text from Ava:

Your gifts for Emilia were a hit. The school situation was rough, but she's okay. We're having dinner at my father's on Thursday. Business casual. Don't be late.

I felt an unexpected warmth spread through my chest at the news that Emilia had liked my initial offerings. I typed back quickly:

Looking forward to it. I'll bring wine. For us, not Emilia. I'm learning kid boundaries, slowly but surely.

I stared at the screen for a moment after sending, surprised at my own eagerness. This was supposed to be a business arrangement, a means to an end. When had I started caring what Ava Silver's daughter thought of me? When had I started looking forward to family dinners?

"Getting too deep, Russo," I muttered to myself, starting the car. "Keep it together."

But as I drove back to the office, the books and puzzles safely stowed in the trunk, I couldn't shake the feeling that this fake engagement was evolving into something far more complicated than either Ava or I had bargained for.

And strangest of all, I wasn't sure I minded.

* * *