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“This is serious, you guys,” she says, face scrunched in mock concentration. “We only get one shot at the perfect water balloon ambush.”

A chorus of “Right!” and “Yeah!” follows.

One of the boys—tall, lanky, and clearly the strategist of the group—adjusts his glasses. “So, just to confirm, we hit the grown-ups after they’ve eaten?”

“Exactly.” Chloe nods. “They’ll be slow. Full. Vulnerable.”

A younger girl, maybe eight, clutches her balloon tightly. “What if they get mad?”

“They won’t,” Chloe assures her. “We’ll target the ones who look like they can take it. My dad? He’s fair game.”

“Ohhh,” the group murmurs, delight flashing in their eyes.

I bite my lip, watching from the sidelines. I should probably intervene. Tell them that dousing the host in freezing cold water at his own party might not be the best idea.

But, honestly?

I’d kind of like to see how it plays out.

Nearby, a small squad of girls sit cross-legged on a picnic blanket, braiding each other’s hair and comparing friendship bracelets. Every now and then, they cast sneaky glances toward a different group—the older kids, a collection of too-cool-for-school preteens who are half-heartedly kicking around a soccer ball, pretending they aren’t invested in the rest of the party.

Chloe, to my surprise, is bouncing between all three groups like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One second, she’s scheming a full-scale water war, the next she’s showing off a cool fishtail braid, then, before I even realize she’s moved, she’s jogging over to the older kids and casually stealing the soccer ball right out from under them.

“Hey!” one of the boys groans. “You can’t just take it, Chloe.”

She spins the ball on her finger. “Why not? You weren’t even using it right.”

A competitive glint flickers in his eyes. “Wanna bet?”

“Yeah,” Chloe challenges. “Let’s make it interesting. If I win, you guys have to join our water balloon ambush.”

The boy smirks. “And if I win?”

Chloe pauses, then shrugs. “I dunno. You get to feel proud?”

His friends howl with laughter, and Chloe grins, tossing the ball back toward them. Within moments, they’re fully engaged in a scrappy, fast-paced game, shouting insults and making daring passes that narrowly avoid flying off into the river.

I can’t help but shake my head.

She’s good.

Not just at soccer—but at fitting in everywhere.

I glance at Dan, who’s still deep in conversation with an old friend, completely oblivious to the mini-diplomatic empire his daughter is building out here.

Chloe might still be figuring herself out, still growing into who she’s going to be, but she’s already a force to be reckoned with.

And I don’t think she even realizes it yet.

The caterer catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up, signaling that everything is in place. I nod back, scanning the yard for Dan. The ice sculpture glistens, the champagne is chilled, and the guests are mingling happily. Perfect.

I weave my way through the crowd, pleased to see everyone has a drink and a smile. The energy is electric, a testament to the impact Dan has had on so many lives, and a clear sign that this party is long overdue.

I spot Chloe by the refreshment table, her eyes wide as she takes in the elaborate spread. I make my way over to her, snagging a couple of canapés en route.

“Having fun?” I ask, handing her a napkin.