Page 57 of Pucking Daddy

I lean back slightly, considering it, then shake my head. “Yes, Lily would be your main focus. But I don’t want your role in this household to stay that of an employee.”

Her brows lift. “Even under these new circumstances, it would still be my job.”

“Right,” I admit. “But it shouldn’t feel like you’re on the clock. Or like your compensation depends in any way on how well you’re doing a job. What you’re being compensated for is marrying me, living with Lily and me during that time, divorcing amicably, and staying in our lives after. It’s not tied to anything else.”

She studies me carefully. “So what about the day-to-day?”

“You and I share the responsibility for Lily,” I say. “And we have Mrs. Henriksen to support us. She’ll keep handling things when we’re busy—helping with Lily, the apartment, meals, whatever we need. And if it becomes too much, we bring in more help.”

“More help?” she echoes.

“I’m serious,” I say. “Additional support. Cleaning, errands—anything that takes pressure off. I don’t want you stretched thin. This isn’t meant to add to your workload. It’ll be different. And better compensated.”

Silence settles again, but it’s no longer tense.

“You trust me?” she asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard. But the answer doesn’t. “Yes.”

Her gaze holds mine. “Why?”

“Because you’ve earned it,” I say simply.

Something in her expression shifts.

Softens.

“And you?” I ask. “Do you trust me?”

She hesitates.

“I think I do.”

Not a yes. But not a no. And somehow, that feels more real.

“There’s another aspect to this you might not have considered.” I shift slightly, uncomfortable. This is the part I like least.

She tenses, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Oh?”

“With my job comes a certain level of media attention and scrutiny. That’s just how it is. And for this to hold up in court, our relationship needs to be visible. Verifiable.”

Zara doesn’t look happy about it. Not even a little.

It’s sinking in now—this wouldn’t just be a signature on paper. Not some private agreement behind closed doors.

This would be public.

Her arms fold loosely over her middle, like she’s holding herself together.

“Media,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

Her lips press together. “So this wouldn’t just be… us knowing.”

“No,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It has to hold up under scrutiny. Reporters. Photos. Questions. If it looks staged, it won’t help.”

“If it looks fake,” she murmurs.