The Warm One Wins

MONTE CARLO, MONACO - FIVE YEARS LATER

Monte Carlo feels way too quiet for a house this big. The sun is just starting to peek up, its light slamming into the floor-to-ceiling windows that for some reason always make me feel like I live inside an expensive aquarium.

The formal dining room with its twelve-seater table, which sits 90% empty most of the time, sounds even louder than usual because of one tiny creature who thinks normal human volume is boring.

“I told you I don’t like eggs! Its looking at me like it wants to eat me back!”

I stare at the four-year-old girl in the high chair giving the plate a dramatic glare, arms crossed, hair a total disaster, bangs covering half her face like a failed ninja.

“Poppy,” I chew my toast, “that’s a boiled egg. Not a Dementor.”

“Dementors are bad, Mommy.” She narrows her green eyes (my eyes) and pulls that crinkled-up expression she uses whenever she disapproves of something... which unfortunately... is copy-paste from one person whose name alone could probably toast this bread into coal from pure rage.

Yeah, Sebastian Romano. Congratulations. You created a tiny breakfast terrorist.

Salma chuckles from across the table. She is the woman who used to work as the Belskys’ maid in Moscow and now has evolved into something like half-mom, half-bodyguard, half-riot squad for Poppy.

“Let her fuss, Jazz. She will get hungry later.”

“I am not hungry, I am reconsidering my life,” Poppy flicks the bread on her plate like it is the most embarrassing thing anyone has ever served her.

“I am putting that quote on your T-shirt later,” I mutter, getting up for a second cup of coffee. Because this child? There is no way I can deal with her on a single shot of caffeine. I need two. Maybe three. Or an espresso IV straight into my veins.

My hand reaches for the mug that says Mother of Drama Queen, a birthday gift from Hazel who understands this universe a little too well, and I walk past the big windows facing the back garden, a yard way too large for a four-year-old who always thinks the pool is a place to test gravity.

Poppy is still rambling, now about why watermelon is better than men. “... because watermelon is sweet, round, and it doesn’t disappear when you already love it!”

I spray a little coffee.

“Where did she learn that?” Salma looks half panicked.

“Hazel. Or Rhea. Or YouTube. I have surrendered. We just live by faith now.”

Poppy looks at me like a frustrated professor. “Mommy, I need a new bag. Pink, glitter, and it has to sing. The old one isn’t sparkly anymore. I can’t go to school like this. People will think I’m poor.”

“Poppy, you go to the French Academy. Everyone there wears blazers and tartan pants. Whether your bag sings or not, you all still look loaded.”

“Mommy,” she rolls her eyes, “I need glitter. For my mental health.”

I look at Salma.

Salma shakes her head. “Do not look at me. I am team glitter.”

Of course she is.

I sit back down and sigh. “Okay. We will go to the store later. But on one condition”

“I eat the egg?”

“No. You do not run around the Chanel boutique like last time. The sales associate is still traumatized.”

“I just wanted to know why a bag that expensive can only fit a lipstick!”

“Because the world is full of injustice,” I answer flatly.

Poppy pouts. But her hand starts moving toward the spoon. So... a small win for me this morning.

I look at her, hair a mess, expression more dramatic than a telenovela lead. She is sitting in a high chair that might be older than a few European countries, with a sulky mouth and a cheese toast she previously called “an insult to children’s gastronomy.”

I love her so much it hurts.

She is the only reason I get up every morning and decide to keep living, to stay sane, to keep facing a world that still smells faintly like Sebastian Romano’s aftershave. And even though I hate that man, I cannot regret a single second that led me to Poppy.

She is my favorite little catastrophe.

“Mommy?” Poppy looks at me while chewing, a smear of cheese on her cheek. “Can I bring a sandwich to school later?”

“Why?”

“I want to give it to Liam.”

I frown. “Who is Liam?”

“He’s my friend. He’s cute. He looks like Baby Shark, but with hair. I am going to marry him.”

My eyes go wide. “Sweetheart, I am only going to say this once, okay? Do not marry someone who looks like Baby Shark.”

“But he said he likes my cheeks!”

“Because your cheeks are like marshmallows, Poppy. Everybody likes marshmallows.”

She shrugs. “Fine. But if he asks me to marry him, I have to say yes, right?”

I sip my coffee, look at my daughter, and answer calmly, “You say, ‘can you pay the electric bill?’ If he can’t, send him back to the sandbox.”

Poppy nods wisely, like she has just received life advice from a monk in Tibet.

I stand up, grab my laptop from the console table, and open it on the dining table.

I had a few hotel interior design projects in Cannes I needed to review today. One was a proposal from a big fashion brand that wanted me to design its flagship boutique in Paris, and the other was an invitation to a charity gala dinner next week that... ugh, would definitely be filled with men in expensive suits who thought I needed them to save me.

Heavy footsteps came from the back door, followed by the small creak of the old iron handle that could easily be replaced... if my grandfather did not keep saying it was “historic.” Yeah, historic for who, Gaudí?

I did not need to turn around to know who walked in. The smell of Colombian coffee and sandalwood cologne was something even Poppy could detect from underwater.

And sure enough... a split second later, the four-year-old with a revenge mission went stiff.

“Morning, my girls.”

I lifted an eyebrow, watching Poppy twist her body a full 180 degrees.

Literally.

She turned her body away from the sound of his voice, then folded her arms across her chest with her cheeks puffed out. She’s really... drama. I kept wondering where she got that from. Because it was definitely not from me, I’m not a drama queen.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart...” Adrian walked closer, his hand brushing the small of my back before landing on Poppy’s shoulder. “You have not even seen my face yet.”

“Because Daddy’s face make me remember what disappointment feels like,” Poppy answered, still facing the table.

Adrian let out a quiet laugh. “You are mad because I worked late again?”

Poppy nodded... still with her back to us. “So now Daddy loves the computer more than me!”

“Poppy...” Adrian crouched beside her chair. “The computer cannot hug Daddy. You can.”

“I also cannot make Daddy come home at night.”

Uh-oh.

Adrian glanced at me.

I just lifted a shoulder.

“I sent you a voice note last night,” he explained, still patient. “But I think you were already asleep.”

Poppy stayed silent. Only one of her shoulders moved a little. A bit too dramatic.

Adrian touched her hand, then kissed the back of it. “I’m sorry. I’m wrong.”

Suddenly, that shoulder moved again. This time slower. And Poppy’s voice came out, small and hesitant. “Can I have two glitter bags? One for school....One for sulking?”

I let out a sigh.

Adrian laughed and said, “Three, if you hug Daddy right now.”

And like a reset button got pushed, Poppy spun around and jumped from her chair into his arms. Bread still in her hand. Cream cheese stuck to her cheek. But she hugged Adrian like he had just come back from a world war. Damn. Even I had never gotten a hug that over the top.

“I thought you already ran away!” Poppy squeaked against his shoulder.

“To where? Programmer heaven?” Adrian laughed, lifting her up and spinning her around.

I watched them. Those two. My favorite creatures and the ones who drove me crazy.

Adrian still handsome like usual, still in his slightly rumpled leather jacket and his favorite watch that was nearly a fossil. His dark brown hair was as messy as ever, and his eyes... always calm. Always warm. Never trying to make me bow. Or be scared. Or lose my pride.

He was the first man who did not make me feel like I had to prove anything just to be loved.

“So,” he murmured to Poppy, “what do you want for breakfast? Daddy can make waffles. Or pancakes. Or buy a cake palace. Just point, Princess.”

“Waffles! As big as Mommy’s face!”

“Uh, excuse me?” I stared at them. “My face is a masterpiece. Do not use it as a food unit.”

“But your face is big. So it can hold a lot of toppings.” She grinned. Little menace.

Salma chuckled again. “She is your daughter, Jas. Only you could give birth to this combination of cruel and adorable.”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

Adrian set Poppy down, kissed the top of her head, then headed into the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling out flour. Waffle time, apparently.

Poppy still stood beside me, her cheeks flushed from laughing and her small mouth full of cream cheese. I touched her bangs, brushing them away from those green eyes.

“If you get any better at this drama thing, I’m going to have to enroll you in acting school.”

“If I become an actress, I can buy five glitter bags.”

“God help me.”

Poppy sat down again. Adrian stirred the batter while whistling. And I... I watched them.

Five years ago, I walked out of an apartment with one suitcase, a shredded heart, and a baby in my belly. Today I was sitting in an old mansion full of ridiculous history, with a little girl who talked like a young politician and a man who knew how to stay.

Sometimes, life had a strange sense of humor. But for this morning, I would take it.

With coffee and waffles. And a little glitter, if Poppy allowed it.