[DAMIEN]
Estelle lived in a charming brownstone in Brooklyn—a quiet neighborhood far from the chaos of her past life.
She didn't need to work; as a well-off heiress, she had more than enough to live comfortably. But Estelle wasn't one to sit still.
She built her own na from the ground up, founding several businesses that, while now successful, didn't require her constant presence. They ran smoothly under trusted managent, leaving her with the freedom to focus on what mattered most.
Her priority was Ely.
Estelle was a full-ti mother by heart. She picked up her daughter from preschool every afternoon without fail, always there with a gentle smile and open arms.
Their weekends were sacred—mornings at the park, afternoons filled with stories, art projects, and simple monts that wove into mories.
She was present in every way that counted, shielding Ely from the noise of the world and giving her the kind of mother she had once longed for.
To outsiders, Estelle seed to have it all together. But inside, she was a woman who had built a life of strength and softness, shaped by heartbreak, motherhood, and a determination to never let her daughter feel the kind of abandonnt she once knew.
Her life wasn't glamorous—but it was peaceful, quiet. Built with love and careful intention.
Damien learned that Estelle loved jasmine tea now. That she still humd under her breath when she worked. That Ely had a peanut allergy and loved picture books with talking animals.
Details that shouldn't have been secondhand.
Every scrap of knowledge felt like both a gift and a punishnt.
The more he discovered, the more painfully aware he beca of how much he had missed—and yet, the more determined he beca to earn a place in their world.
He found himself walking past her street so evenings, just to catch a glimpse of the warm light glowing from her window.
Once, he even saw Ely through the glass of a playhouse—bouncing on the couch, holding a stuffed rabbit, laughing with the kind of joy that tightened his throat.
He didn't approach. Not yet.
This ti, he wouldn't charge in recklessly. He'd hurt her once by disappearing without answers—he wouldn't risk doing it again by forcing himself back in without a plan.
No, this ti, he was going to do it right.
He started small. Sent gifts anonymously—things only soone who truly knew her would know she needed. Her favorite pastries. Art supplies for Ely. A book Estelle once ntioned in passing years ago.
Every item carefully chosen to say, I rember you. I still know you.
Damien was a man who once thought power ca from wealth and influence. But now he knew: real power was in presence. In showing up. In being there.
And this ti, he was ready to fight—not with force, but with consistency. With patience. With love.
He'd lost years—but he wouldn't lose them forever.
Not if he could help it.
====
Damien didn't just knock on the door of Estelle's life—he kicked it wide open with a diamond-studded, top-tier apology wrapped in sheer persistence and ridiculous charm.
It started small . . . well, small for Damien.
A custom toy house worth hundred thousands, delivered straight to Ely's preschool, complete with a handwritten note that said, "For the little princess I never got to spoil." Teachers thought it was a donation.
Estelle almost had a heart attack.
Then ca the dog.
A miniature Samoyed, hand-delivered by a professional pet butler, wearing a ribbon that read, "You can say no to , but not to this face." Ely nad it "Fluffy." Estelle nad it "Mistake #147."
But Damien wasn't done.
Every morning, the brownstone's doorstep transford into a magical altar of ridiculous grand gestures—fresh pastries from Paris, custom organic fruit baskets, tickets to Broadway shows Ely couldn't even pronounce, and once, an entire mini-carousel installed overnight in the park near their ho. Just for the weekend. Yes, he had permits.
He started bumping into them "accidentally" everywhere. At the grocery store? "Wow, what a coincidence!" (He bribed the cashier for her shopping schedule.)
At the museum? "Didn't know you liked art!" (He bought the museum's wing just to host a private exhibit of Ely's doodles.)
And then there was the nanny interview incident.
One day, Estelle found Damien wearing an apron, a stuffed bunny tucked under one arm, waiting in her living room. "I heard you were looking for help," he said with a grin. "I co with references. One of them's from our daughter." (Ely, of course, had scribbled "I like him. He's funny. Let him stay.")
Despite Estelle's efforts to keep her walls up, they began to crack—not because of the grandeur, but because of the quiet in-betweens.
Damien showing up when Ely had a fever, holding her hand through the night. Damien staying late to help clean up after painting disasters. Damien learning how to braid hair, badly, but trying anyway.
He wasn't just throwing money—he was showing up. Again. And again.
Estelle was furious. Flustered. Deeply annoyed. And maybe . . . just a little touched.
Still, she glared at him over dinner one night and muttered, "This doesn't an I've forgiven you. If Eve could forogive Cole for their Little Bean then I will do this for Ely. she needs a father."
Damien grinned. "That's fine. I've got ti. And also a helicopter tour of Manhattan scheduled for tomorrow. Ely wants to see clouds."
"No." Estelle glared at him.
Damien had waited for the right mont—not too soon to scare her off, but not too late to lose her again. It ca one lazy afternoon on the park bench, Ely fast asleep in her stroller, a half-eaten ice cream still dripping onto Damien's pants.
He leaned back, exhaled, and said casually—too casually, like he was comnting on the weather, "Just so you know . . . there's no Stacey anymore."
Estelle didn't react right away. She blinked once, then slowly turned her head. "Excuse ?"
He nodded, hands clasped in front of him, his voice a low rumble. "We broke up. Over a year ago. It was official. I just . . . didn't get the chance to tell you."
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