The private dining room of Robert's Manhattan penthouse glowed with the warm light of a dozen hand-blown glass chandeliers, their reflections shimmering across the polished mahogany table. Robert adjusted the cufflinks of his navy Brioni suit—a concession to Erica's insistence that he "dress for the occasion"—as he surveyed the meticulously arranged place settings. The scent of truffle-infused butter and dry-aged ribeye wafted from the kitchen, where his personal chef had been laboring since noon.

Erica perched on the arm of his chair, her crimson Valentino dress pooling like spilled wine against the upholstery. She tapped freshly manicured nails against her champagne flute, the diamonds on her tennis bracelet catching the light with each restless movement. "You're doing that thing again," she murmured, leaning close enough for her floral perfume to momentarily eclipse the aroma of dinner. "The squint. Like you're calculating quarterly earnings instead of introducing me to your kid."

Robert exhaled through his nose, catching the way the silk of Erica's stocking brushed his wrist as she stood. Thirty years ago, he'd have balked at such opulence—Elizabeth had preferred takeout on the couch, their children's laughter drowning out the hum of their first startup's servers. Now, he traced the stem of his water glass, watching condensation bead against the Baccarat crystal. “First impressions matter," he said, though his gaze flicked toward the elevator bank.

A server materialized to refill Erica's glass just as the chime announced Juliette's arrival. Robert straightened his posture—not enough to be obvious, but enough that Erica shot him an amused glance. He'd rehearsed this moment in his head a dozen times: the casual embrace, the carefully curated anecdotes to put everyone at ease. Yet when the elevator doors slid open, his fingers tightened around the napkin in his lap. The stakes were different here. Not a boardroom negotiation, not a press junket. Just a father, his new partner, and the child who'd watched their carefully constructed world fracture and reform into something unrecognizable.

"Perfect timing," Robert said, rising with deliberate calm. The ice in his voice had melted into something warmer, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. „Erica was just telling me about her absurdly overpriced vineyard proposal." He gestured between them, the movement fluid from decades of boardroom diplomacy. "Juliette, this is Erica. Erica, my child, Juliette." The omission of descriptors hung in the air—no "brilliant" or "stubborn," no "favorite" or "problematic." Just space. Just enough room for Juliette to step into.