Slade arrived exactly on time.

That alone was suspicious.

He leaned against the doorframe instead of knocking again, helmet tucked under his arm, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely intentional. The kids were already halfway to him, bags in hand, excitement obvious.

He smiled at them first—soft, genuine. That part was real.

Then he stayed.

Too long.

He asked questions he already knew the answers to. Commented on the house. Noted a change in the furniture like it mattered. Let the silence stretch just enough to be irritating.

“You repaint?” he asked casually, eyes tracking the room like he was on recon instead of a custody pickup.

The ex-wife’s patience thinned by the second. Slade noticed. Of course he did.

He crouched to adjust a strap on one of the bags, unhurried. Checked homework folders. Made sure jackets were packed. Responsible. Attentive. Impossible to rush.

When he finally straightened, he glanced at the clock—pretending to notice time for the first time. “Huh,” he said. “Didn’t realize how late it got.”

He absolutely did.

Slade ushered the kids toward the door, pausing just once more at the threshold. “Same time Sunday,” he added, tone easy. “Unless plans change.”

They didn’t need to.

He left with the kids laughing and his ex-wife glaring holes into his back.

Mission accomplished.

For a man who thrived on control, this wasn’t about conflict.

It was about reminding her—politely, persistently—that Slade never did anything quickly if it annoyed the right person.