30 "Da-da-da-da!" Little Lucas chanted, toddling across the lawn with determined steps, heading straight for his father, who knelt with open arms to receive him. "That's right, buddy," Lucas laughed, scooping our son up and spinning him around, eliciting delighted squeals. "I'm your dada. You're getting so good at that word." I watched from the patio of my father's estate, a complicated mixture of emotions swirling as I observed the bond that had formed between father and son in just a few short weeks. Lucas had been nothing short of devoted since discovering our child's existence-rearranging his schedule to visit daily, absorbing every detail of our son's routine and preferences, researching developmental milestones with the same thoroughness he applied to business acquisitions. "He's a natural," my father commented, joining me with two glasses of iced tea. "Bailey, I mean. With the boy." I accepted the tea gratefully. "Yes, he is." "Surprised?" I considered the question. "A little. I didn't expect him to take to fatherhood so... completely." My father studied me over the rim of his glass. "You thought he'd be a weekend dad? Drop by when convenient, leave the real parenting to you?" "Maybe," I admitted. "Or that he'd lose interest once the novelty wore off." Across the lawn, Lucas was now showing our son a butterfly that had landed on a nearby flower, his voice carrying faintly as he explained about colors and wings and gentle touches. Little Lucas watched with rapt attention, his small face serious as he absorbed this new information. "He's making up for lost time," my father observed. "Can't blame him for that." The comment stung with its accuracy. Lucas had missed so much-the first smile, the first word, the first steps. Milestones I'd documented meticulously in photos and videos but that could never be truly recaptured "That's my fault," I said quietly. "I kept them apart." My father shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "You did what you thought was necessary at the time. No point beating yourself up about it now." Before I could respond, Lucas looked up, catching my eye across the lawn. He said something to our son, then headed toward us, little Lucas perched comfortably on his shoulders, tiny hands clutching his father's hair for balance. "Mind if we raid the kitchen?" Lucas asked as they reached the patio. "Someone has informed me that it's snack time." "Cookie!" little Lucas declared, his limited vocabulary always expanding to include his favorite foods. "You spoil him," I said, though there was no real reproach in my tone. Lucas grinned, unrepentant. "That's what fathers are for, isn't it? Besides, we worked up an butterflies." appetite chasing My father stood, setting his glass aside. "I'll show you where Mrs. Parker keeps the good cookies. The ones she hides from me because she thinks I don't know about my cholesterol numbers." As they disappeared into the house, I found myself smiling despite the lingering guilt. In the month since Lucas had reentered our lives, things had settled into an unexpected harmony. He visited every day, sometimes joining us for dinner, always focused primarily on bonding with his son but unfailingly respectful of my boundaries. He hadn't pushed for more, hadn't tried to leverage his relationship with our child to pressure me into rekindling what we'd once had. Instead, he'd simply shown up, day after day, proving through actions rather than words that he meant what he'd said about being part of our lives. They returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, little Lucas happily clutching a cookie in each hand while Lucas carried a plate with more sensible snacks-apple slices, cheese cubes, the healthy options I insisted o to balance the inevitable treats his father provided. 'Your father got a phone call," Lucas explained as they rejoined me. "Something about a shipment in Singapore." I nodded, unsurprised. Even in semi-retirement, my father remained deeply involved in Shepherd Shipping's operations. "He'll be on that call for hours." Lucas settled our son in his booster seat at the patio table, efficiently wiping sticky hands and arranging the snacks within reach. "I've been meaning to ask you something," he said, his tone casual though I sensed the question was anything but. "Would you consider letting me take Lucas overnight sometime? At the penthouse, I mean." The request caught me off guard, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Of course Lucas would want more time with his son, would want to establish their relationship beyond these supervised visits at my father's estate. "I've set up his room exactly as you described from Paris," Lucas continued when I didn't immediately respond. "The crib is the same model, the stuffed animals arranged the same way. I thought keeping his sleeping environment consistent would make the transition easier." The thoughtfulness of the gesture-recreating our son's familiar surroundings to minimize disruption- touched me unexpectedly. It was exactly the kind of detail I would have considered important but hadn't expected Lucas to prioritize.. "You've really thought this through," I observed. Chapter 30 Fatter wod Son "I've had a lot of time to think," Lucas replied, a hint of sadness coloring his tone. "A lot of time to Imagine what it would be like to finally meet him, to be a real father to him." Our son, oblivious to the emotional undercurrents, happily munched his cookie, occasionally offering a soggy piece to either of us with generous magnanimity. "Alright," I said, making the decision almost before I realized I'd reached it. "This weekend, maybe? Friday night to Saturday afternoon? We can see how he does with one night first." The joy that transformed Lucas's features was almost painful to witness. "Really? You mean it?" I nodded. "He should know his father's home too. It's important for him to feel comfortable in both places." "Thank you," Lucas said, his voice thick with emotion. "I promise I'll follow his routine exactly. Bedtime at seven-thirty, no sugar after five, Mr. Bear goes on the left side of the crib..." I couldn't help smiling at his earnestness. "I'll write everything down, but honestly, you probably know his routine as well as I do at this point. You've been paying attention." "Of course I have," Lucas said simply. "He's my son. I want to get this right." The straightforward declaration, free of pretense or calculation, reminded me of what Phoebe had said during our unexpected conversation-that what Lucas and I had was built on something real, something substantial that had been there even before we recognized it ourselves. Looking at him now, patiently helping our son manage his cookie without making too much of a mess, I foun myself wondering if she might have been right. If the connection between us had always been there, buried beneath misunderstandings and timing and the complications of our arranged marriage. "There's something else," Lucas said, interrupting my thoughts. "I've been looking at properties closer to your father's estate. Homes with good yards, safe neighborhoods. The penthouse is fine for now, but it's not really ideal for a child long-term." I raised an eyebrow. "You're moving?" "Considering it," he clarified. "It would be more convenient for everyone if I lived closer. Less driving time for visits, easier to coordinate schedules." He hesitated, then added, "And it would mean more stability for Lucas as he gets older, having both parents in the same area." The implication was clear-Lucas was planning for the long term, establishing roots near his son, committing to being a permanent presence in his life regardless of what happened between us. "That makes sense," I acknowledged. "The commute to Bailey Enterprises would be longer for you, though." Lucas shrugged. "Worth it. Besides, I'm delegating more these days. The company runs itself for the most part now that we've removed the... problematic elements." I knew he was referring to the cousins and uncles who had once sabotaged his earlier ventures. With William Bailey's support and his own strategic acumen, Lucas had finally secured his position at the helm of the family business, exactly as he'd planned when we first married. "How is your grandfather?" I asked, realizing I hadn't inquired abo I William's health since our lunch together. "Better than expected," Lucas replied. "The doctors are surprised by his resilience. He asks about you and the baby often." I felt a pang of guilt at that. William Bailey had always been kind to me in his own gruff way. "We should visit him sometime. He should meet his great-grandson." Lucas's expression brightened. "He'd like that. He's mellowed considerably since the stroke, believe it or not. Less controlling, more focused on family." Our son, finished with his snack, began squirming to be released from his booster seat. Lucas freed him with practiced efficiency, wiping sticky hands and face before setting him down. 'Pa-pa-pa-pa!" little Lucas declared, tugging at his father's pant leg with clear intent. 'I think he wants to play again," I translated unnecessarily. Lucas checked his watch. "I have a conference call in an hour, but until then..." He scooped our son up, settling him comfortably on his hip. "What do you say, buddy? Should we see if those butterflies came back?" As they headed back toward the garden, our son chattering excitedly in his mixture of real words and enthusiastic babble, I found myself contemplating the transformation in Lucas since I'd first known him. The cool, reserved teenager had become a controlled, ambitious young executive and now, improbably, a devoted *ather who rearranged business calls to chase butterflies with his son. People do change, Phoebe had said. Sometimes slowly, sometimes in an instant when truth reveals itself. Watching Lucas point out flowers to our enraptured son, his expression softened by a love so palpable it was almost visible, I allowed myself to consider that perhaps the change in him was genuine. That perhaps the man who now visited daily, who remembered every detail of our son's routine, who was looking at homes closer to us for the sake of stability, was the real Lucas Bailey-the man he'd always had the potential to ɔecome, once freed from family expectations and his own misconceptions. And perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't too late for us to discover who we might be together-not as an arrangement or a convenience, but as two people who had found each other across time and circumstance, who had created a child from one honest night together, who might still build something lasting if we were brave enough to try. For now, though, I was content to watch father and son together, making up for lost time one butterfly chase at a time.