Thursday arrived with rain that turned the sidewalks slick and the sky the color of wet concrete.

I wore the blue shirt. It was the only one that still looked decent after two years of daycare pickups and weekend laundry. Bee had ironed the collar herself that morning, tongue between her teeth, and then asked if the “work lady” was nice. I’d told her Cᴀssandra was my boss and that we were having dinner with some of her family. She’d accepted that the way she accepted most adult explanations—curious, but willing to wait for more.

Cᴀssandra’s house in Kitsilano was bigger than I’d pictured and quieter than I expected. No staff. Just her, standing in the doorway in a dark dress that looked expensive and slightly uncomfortable. She took my coat without comment and led me into a dining room where the table was already set for four.

Malcolm Voss was already there. Late sixties, silver hair, the kind of posture that came from decades of ᴀssuming rooms would arrange themselves around him. His son, Grant, sat beside him—mid-thirties, watch too large for his wrist, smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Joel,” Malcolm said, standing to shake my hand. His grip was firm and ᴀssessing. “Cᴀssandra tells me you’ve been seeing each other for eight months. Quietly.”

“We didn’t want it to complicate things at the office,” I said. The line came out smoother than I’d practiced.

Grant poured wine he hadn’t been asked to pour. “And you have a daughter. Seven, is it?”

“Bee. Yes.”

“Must be an adjustment,” Malcolm said. “Bringing a child into a house like this. Cᴀssandra’s never been particularly… domestic.”

Cᴀssandra’s fork paused halfway to her plate. She set it down carefully. “Joel and I have an understanding about that. Bee’s life stays stable. I travel. He handles the day-to-day. It works.”

Malcolm studied her, then me. “And after the wedding? The board will expect to see a family. PH๏τographs. Events. People notice when a CEO’s new husband and stepdaughter never appear.”

I met his eyes. “They’ll see us when it makes sense. Bee has school. Friends. A life that doesn’t revolve around shareholder meetings. I’m not going to rearrange that so someone can take a picture.”

The table went quiet. Grant smirked into his glᴀss. Cᴀssandra didn’t look at me, but her hand rested on the tablecloth near mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it.

Malcolm leaned back. “You’re direct.”

“I have a seven-year-old who asks better questions than most adults. I’ve gotten used to answering them.”

Something almost like approval crossed his face. He didn’t smile, but he stopped pressing. The rest of dinner moved through safer topics—shipping delays, a property in Victoria, Grant’s opinion on a development Cᴀssandra had already rejected. When Malcolm and Grant finally left, the house felt larger again.

Cᴀssandra closed the door and stood with her hand on the knob for a second longer than necessary. Then she turned.

“You didn’t have to say that.”

“I did.”

She walked past me into the kitchen and started clearing plates even though there was a dishwasher. I followed and took the ones she couldn’t reach.

“He’ll still try to find a crack,” she said. “He always does.”

“Then we don’t give him one.”

She set a plate in the sink and looked at me. For the first time all evening the precise, controlled expression she wore at the office was gone. She just looked tired.

“Bee asked about you this morning,” I said. “I told her you were my boss. She wanted to know if you liked beavers.”

Cᴀssandra blinked. “Beavers.”

“She has a whole cardboard forest. She’s very serious about it.”

A small, surprised sound escaped her—almost a laugh. She covered it by turning on the tap. “I don’t know anything about beavers.”

“Neither did I until last year. You learn.”

We finished the dishes in silence. When I reached for my coat, Cᴀssandra walked me to the door. The rain had slowed to a mist. She stood with her arms crossed against the cold, not quite looking at me.

“The blue shirt was the right choice,” she said.

“Bee ironed it.”

“Tell her thank you.” She paused. “And Joel… if she asks again, you can tell her I’m the person who’s going to make sure her dad doesn’t have to choose between overtime and her school play. That’s true enough.”

I nodded. The porch light caught the edge of her face. For a second neither of us moved.

“Thursday went better than I expected,” I said.

“Don’t get used to it.” But the corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly, before she stepped back inside and closed the door.

I walked to the car with my hands in my pockets and the taste of expensive wine still on my tongue, thinking about a seven-year-old who built forests out of cardboard and a woman who had just crossed out a clause so my daughter wouldn’t have to lose someone else. The two-year clock had started. I wasn’t sure yet what it was counting down to.