Page 110 of Under His Control

Beside her, our daughter, Charlotte, squeals with pure, unfiltered joy. She’s two now, and already too damn smart for her own good.

She’s wearing light-up sneakers that flash blue and pink every time she kicks, shouting, “Higher, Mama, higher!” with a voice that carries like a megaphone.

Taylor grins, pushing gently. “I can do higher, sweetie. But I can’t launch you into space.”

Charlotte giggles like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

For a moment, I just let myself be here.

No meetings. No headlines. No legacy wars. Just the warm desert sun, the creak of the swing set, and the two hearts who made mine beat again.

Then I reach into my pocket.

The keys are warm from my palm, dangling from a simple leather keychain. I had a photo of Taylor and Charlotte printed onto a charm—something small, something I can touch when the world starts to tilt. I run my thumb over it, then walk toward them.

“Need a break?” I ask, slipping behind the swing.

Taylor eyes me, smirking. “That obvious?”

“Only a little.” I step in and take over, gently pushing our daughter.

Charlotte screams with glee. “Faster, Papa!”

“Great,” Taylor mutters. “You’re making her competitive.”

“She was born competitive.”

“Also your fault.”

I nudge the swing again, letting it arc a little higher. Charlotte kicks out her legs like she’s flying. My heart swells with something sharp and sweet. I lean closer to Taylor.

“I have something for you.”

She straightens, one brow raised. “You’re not about to pull out jewelry in a park, are you? Because I swear, if you propose again?—”

“No proposals.” I grin. “Just a surprise.”

Taylor tilts her head. “I love surprises.”

I hand her my phone. “Go ahead. Scroll.”

She gives me a look—suspicious, intrigued—but taps open the gallery.

I watch her expression shift as she swipes through the photos—exposed wooden beams, a wide wraparound porch, with sea-glass lanterns, white shutters glowing in soft sunlight. Lavender blooms spilling over a picket fence. There’s a massive oak in the backyard, a weathered swing already hanging from the branch.

“A house?” she breathes. “You bought ahouse?”

“It’s not final yet,” I say quickly. “I wanted you to see it first.”

She keeps scrolling, blinking like she’s not sure it’s real. “Where is this?”

“Playa del Rey,” I say. “It’s right outside L.A. It’s quiet, near the beach.”

She cocks her hear. “L.A.? That’s far.”

I shake my head. “A forty-five minute flight in the jet.”

She looks up at me, eyes searching mine. “Why there?”