The first time I walked into this house, she had been wailing in the nanny's arms. I rushed over instinctively and scooped her up. She had gone quiet the moment she touched my chest. Her tiny head leaned into me like I was her whole world.
Sara had stood beside me that day, letting out a quiet sigh.
"You're Francis' brother and Elise is your niece by blood. Looks like she really trusts you."
That moment had melted something in me. From then on, I became her father—for ten whole years.
When she had a fever, I sat by her bed all night, clutching her hand and adjusting the cold compress every hour. When she was picky with food, I cooked meals shaped like flowers and stars, coaxing her to eat just a little more. When she cried after a fight at school, I held her hand and walked to her classmate's house, standing up for her like a real father would.
And each time, I told her, "Dad will always be on your side."
But in the end, all those memories led here—to this moment, where she stood screaming that I'd stolen her father's place, destroying my clothes with a blade in her hand.