Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I hate that more than anything.
With the morning light barely seeping through tall windows, the hallway is dark. I pause outside Camille’s door, hand on the knob, and shoulders rigid. I need to gather my bearings, because when I enter her room, the possessiveness and hunger that belongs to Lucia must be left at the door.
Camille didn’t inherit her receptiveness from her mother.
She got all her finer points from me.
When I push the door open, both Valentina and Camille stir. Camille is in a bed far too big for her frame, and Valentina is sleeping in an oversized recliner I’ve napped in many times in the preceding six months.
I mouth, Thank you, to Valentina when she slips out of Camille’s room just as Camille senses my presence. Her lashes flutter, and when her eyes meet mine, her sleepy confusion fades to a welcoming smile.
The floorboards creak when I cross the room. Last night was the first time we’ve been apart since she arrived at the compound, and I’ve missed her.
I increase my speed when she pushes up on her elbows, still half asleep.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
When I ruffle her hair, she instinctively leans toward me. Her nose crinkles when she squashes her face to my shirt. Then I freeze in shocked amusement when she gazes up at me with a blunt honesty only a child has.
She glares at me, wordlessly demanding I return her favorite toy, which I have apparently stolen.
An odd mix of hope and embarrassment swells within me. Well, I think those are the emotions flooding me, but what do I know? It’s the first time I’ve felt them.
Not wanting to explain why I smell feminine and sweet, I brush my hand over Camille’s dark hair, smoothing the sleep-tangled strands, then ask, “Ready for breakfast?”
Her brows shoot up high as energy floods her tiny frame. She leaps out of bed, her bare feet hitting the floor with a loud thump. Usually, she races ahead, but today she pauses.
While looking at me, her eyes bright and trusting, she slips her hand into mine.
I won’t lie. Moisture burns my eyes. This is huge, and although it is the simplest of gestures, it’s a part of fatherhood that could wholly undo me. I’d give every dollar I have to hear my daughter call me Daddy, but to be loved by her… fuck.
I’d take over the world just to experience every minute gesture she’s willing to share with me.
I guide Camille to the dining room where the staff has prepared a feast fit for kings. Camille swings our hands in rhythm to the melody she only ever hums loudly enough for herself to hear.
When we enter the dining room, the slew of nannies I hired but can’t stomach leaving unattended with Camille gesture for her to join them near the main buffet. They fill her plate high with pancakes, blueberries, and a wedge of lemon before guiding her to the dining table.
I smile when she climbs onto the chair at the king’s end of the table, unfazed that the only person to sit in that chair before her was my father. She’s the queen in a castle of kings, and strong enough not to wilt under pressure.
As memories of a stubborn blonde stabbing her finger into my chest weeks ago surface, I serve myself a mug of coffee before filling a plastic cup with apple juice for Camille. By the time I join her at the table, she’s already eaten two pancakes and colored in half of a Disney princess coloring sheet a nanny gave her.
Of course, the princess in this story has glowing blonde locks and is wearing a sequined minidress.
Camille peers up at me with big bright eyes when I ask, “Which Disney princess is that?”
Her disgruntled huff is silent, but it makes me smile.
“It’s not a princess, is it?” When she pulls a duh face, I continue acting daft. “Then who is she?” I know who it is, but even nonverbal conversations are important.
Camille’s lips twitch, dying to speak, but instead, she pulls a gray crayon from a carefully ordered line sorted by color before she commences drawing a stripper pole next to the blonde goddess.
“Oh…” My dramatic murmur returns her eyes to me. “It’s the dancer from the story last night.”
A curl falls over her forehead when she nods. Then she gets back to work perfecting her drawing. When I notice her yellow crayon is half the size of the others, golden blonde her preferred color for the last couple of weeks, I tell her I’ll be back with new crayons in a minute.
She waves me off without looking up from the image she’s manipulating so she can add a much shorter princess to the mix.
“Bring her to me if she finishes before I’m back,” I tell the chief nanny.
She nods, then folds her hands meekly in her lap.