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It began innocently enough, or at least it would have looked that way to anyone else.

Your daughter stood in the drawing room in her newest gown, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright with the kind of fluttery hope only fifteen year old girls in the early stages of infatuation could ever possess.

“Papa,” she said with a shy smile, “Leo is calling today with his parents. He asked if he might show me the new sketchbook he has been working on. May we sit on the terrace if Mama approves?”

Anthony’s teacup froze halfway to his lips.

You did not need to see his face to feel the tension erupt through the room.

The cup clinked back onto the saucer so hard you feared it might crack.

“Absolutely not,” Anthony said.

Your daughter blinked. “Papa, we would not be alone. Mama said she would accompany us.”

“I did not agree to such a thing,” he snapped.

Your daughter glanced at you in confusion. “But Mama, you said only yesterday that you would chaperone if Leo came to call.”

Anthony turned sharply. His voice was quiet, but it was the quiet that preceded storms. “You agreed to this without consulting me.”

You set aside your embroidery. “Anthony, she is merely sitting on the terrace with a boy whose family has been calling on us for years.”

“He is not sitting with her on any terrace,” Anthony said, rising to his full height. “He is not sitting with her anywhere. I knew allowing him in this house was a mistake.”

Your daughter stiffened. “Papa, that is unfair.”

Anthony’s eyes flashed. “What is unfair is a fifteen year old girl believing she is old enough to entertain suitors when she is still a child.”

The word child hit her like a slap.

“I am not a child,” she said quietly.

Anthony scoffed. “You most certainly are.”

Your daughter’s voice wavered. “Papa, I only want to talk to him. It is not as if he is proposing.”

Anthony slammed the saucer down this time. “He will not be proposing. Ever. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Silence fell like a shroud.

She stared at him, lips trembling, eyes shining. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” Anthony said, and there was no hesitation. “You are far too young and far too naive to understand the intentions of boys your age. He will not court you. He will not speak to you without myself or your mother present. He will certainly not see you alone, and he will not be permitted to pretend you are anything more than a child who has convinced herself she is in love.”

Your daughter’s breath caught on a sob so small you almost missed it.

Then she turned and ran from the room, skirt brushing the floor in a rustle of panic and heartbreak.

The moment the door slammed upstairs, you looked at him. Really looked at him and you were furious.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” you said slowly, “you were cruel.”

He turned to you as if insulted. “I was honest.”

“You were heartless,” you corrected.

He paced across the room, dragging a hand through his hair in agitation. “She is too young. She is not ready. I will not have her falling for the first boy who pays her attention. I have seen what men like him are capable of. He is too eager. Too charming. Too interested.”

You stood. “He is fifteen, Anthony. Not a rake on the prowl.”

Anthony pointed sharply toward the stairs. “He looked at her with the eyes of a boy who believes he has a right to her.”

“He looked at her with admiration,” you countered, stepping closer. “You of all people should know the difference.”

Anthony stopped pacing. His chest rose and fell with uncontrolled emotion. “She is my daughter.”

“And she cannot stay a little girl forever.”

Anthony’s expression hardened. “She is not ready to be anything else.”

Your breath left you in frustration. “Anthony, listen to yourself. You cannot freeze her in time simply because you are afraid of what comes next.”

His eyes snapped to yours. The fear in them was wild and raw, the same fear he had the night she was born, the fear of a man who believed that love was a battlefield he could not win.

“You do not understand,” he said quietly.

“I am trying to,” you replied. “But you are making it very difficult.”

Anthony rubbed both hands over his face with something close to anguish. “She is my first daughter. My little girl. The thought of her being courted, of her being touched, of her being looked at the way I looked at you in our youth, it makes my blood run cold.”

“And that is natural,” you said, softening slightly. “But what you did was not protective. It was controlling. And it hurt her.”

He clenched his jaw. “Better she be hurt now than devastated later.”

You closed the distance between you, your voice low and tight. “Anthony. She came to you with excitement. She came to you with trust. And you shattered it.”

He looked at you, wounded. “You think I do not know that?”

You exhaled slowly. “Then go to her.”

Anthony shook his head. “She does not wish to see me.”

“Then go anyway,” you insisted, stepping closer, gripping his forearm. “Go up those stairs, open her door, and talk to her. Explain. Apologize. Be her father, not her warden.”

Anthony’s eyes softened, but not enough. “You would let her be courted?”

“I would let her grow,” you answered. “And I would chaperone, and guide, and protect. But I would not imprison her.”

Anthony’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And if this boy hurts her?”

“Then she will have her father,” you said, brushing your thumb across his hand. “A father who loves her enough to let her choose.”

Anthony trembled for a moment, emotion working through him with almost physical force.

Then he nodded and exhaled, the fight draining from his posture.

“I am not ready for this,” he admitted.

You cupped his cheek. “You never will be.”

He leaned into your palm like a man starved for reassurance.

Then he turned toward the stairs.

When he reached the doorway, he looked back at you with that same helpless, adoring expression that always undid you.

“Will you come with me?” he asked quietly.

You smiled gently. “Of course.”

Together, you climbed the stairs toward your daughter’s room.

Toward reconciliation.

Toward the next impossible stage of parenthood.

Anthony reached for your hand halfway up.

You squeezed his fingers in silent support.

He squeezed back.

A father preparing to apologize.

A husband leaning on the only person who understood his heart.

A man doing the hardest thing he knew how to do.

And the two of you walked the rest of the way together.

————

Your daughter’s door was closed, but the sound of quiet, hitched breathing was unmistakable. She had always cried softly, as if even her tears tried not to burden anyone. The sound pierced Anthony straight through the chest. You felt his hand tighten around yours, the pressure sharp and desperate, as if he needed physical grounding to prevent himself from turning around and fleeing from the very conversation he knew he had caused.

You knocked gently.

There was a pause, then a faint, trembling, “Come in.”

Your daughter sat on her bed with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her eyes red, cheeks blotchy, hair slightly mussed in the way it always was when she cried. She looked so heartbreakingly young in that moment, and so much like Anthony when emotions overwhelmed him, that you felt a deep ache bloom behind your ribs.

Anthony froze in the doorway.

For a moment, he simply stared, as if he could not reconcile the fact that he had caused this. His shoulders sagged with shock and shame. He seemed to shrink, not physically, but in the same vulnerable way he did whenever the weight of his emotions threatened to crush him.

“Sweetheart,” you murmured, moving to sit beside her and smoothing a hand over her back.

Anthony took a step forward.

She flinched.

It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony caught it instantly, and the pain that crossed his face was so raw that you felt your throat tighten.

“May I speak with you?” he asked quietly.

Your daughter wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You will only say that I am a child again.”

Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, visibly collecting himself. When he opened them, there was nothing defensive in his posture. Only remorse. Only helplessness. Only the fierce, overwhelming love that had shaped every inch of this man since the moment he became a father.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Your daughter’s chin quivered. “You are only saying that because Mama told you to.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Your mother told me nothing I did not already know. I was cruel. I was frightened. And I took that fear out on you.”

She blinked, surprised. “Frightened of what?”

Anthony moved closer, pausing as if giving her the opportunity to stop him. When she did not, he knelt beside the bed, lowering himself so he was not towering over her. His voice softened into something almost fragile.

“Of losing you,” he said.

She frowned. “You are not losing me. I only wanted to speak with Leo.”

Anthony let out a shaky breath. “When I saw how you looked when you mentioned his name, when I saw the way your cheeks flushed and your eyes lit, I realized something. You are growing. You are becoming a young woman, and your heart is opening to new things. And I am not ready for that.” He paused and glanced toward the floor as if ashamed of the truth. “It feels as though time is moving faster than I can bear. One moment you were taking your first steps. The next you are asking about boys.”

Your daughter softened just a little, though her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “Papa, growing up does not mean I will stop loving you.”

Anthony looked up at her with that same devastated tenderness he sometimes wore when looking at you. “It feels that way,” he admitted. “It feels as if each new phase of your life takes you further away from me. And I am foolish enough to believe that if I hold on tightly enough, none of it will happen.”

You touched his shoulder, proud of him for saying what he had never once said aloud.

Your daughter uncrossed her knees, letting her feet dangle from the bed. “I like Leo,” she whispered. “He makes me laugh. And he listens when I speak.” She bit her lip. “But that does not mean I want to marry him.”

Anthony exhaled with relief so powerful that his shoulders slumped. “Thank God,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Your daughter let out a small, watery laugh.

Then her expression sobered. “Papa, I do not want to hide things from you. I want to be able to tell you when I like someone. I want you to trust me.”

Anthony reached for her hand. He hesitated, waiting for permission. She offered it to him.

He held it gently, as if afraid she might break. “I do trust you,” he said. “I simply do not trust the world around you. You are precious to me. The most precious thing I have ever been given besides your mother. And I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt.”

She sniffed. “You hurt me today.”

Anthony’s voice cracked. “I know. And I swear to you I will spend every day making certain I never make you feel that way again.”

Your daughter studied him quietly for a long moment, as if weighing his sincerity. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Anthony froze, overwhelmed.

Then he clutched her to his chest, burying his face in her hair, holding her with a trembling intensity that spoke of both apology and fear and love so deep it defied words.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again. “My darling girl, I am so sorry.”

She hugged him tighter. “I know, Papa. I forgive you.”

You watched the two of them, your heart swelling at the sight. This was the part of Anthony most people never saw. Everyone knew his strength, his authority, his fierce protection. But very few understood the boy inside him who feared losing the people he loved. The boy who had lost too much, too young, and who clung too tightly because he did not know any other way to love.

You approached the bed and brushed a tear from your daughter’s cheek. “Now,” you said softly, “shall we discuss what a chaperoned visit looks like?”

Your daughter nodded eagerly, glancing at Anthony cautiously.

Anthony cleared his throat. “If your mother accompanies you, and if you remain within sight, and if he understands that any improper behavior will result in his removal from this house, and if he never calls you darling, sweetheart, or any other ridiculous endearment, then perhaps we might consider it.”

Your daughter laughed. “Papa, he only calls me by my name.”

“Good,” Anthony said sharply. “He may continue doing so.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Anthony. She is not marrying him tomorrow.”

He huffed. “I am aware.”

You pressed a kiss to your daughter’s forehead. “You are a young lady now, my love. And your father and I will guide you. Together.”

Your daughter beamed. “Thank you, Mama.”

She looked at Anthony.

He squeezed her hand again. “You may see him.”

You saw the relief and excitement light her entire face, and it warmed you from within.

Anthony stood slowly, looking as if he had aged and grown younger at the same time.

When the three of you stepped out into the hallway, your daughter hurried downstairs, eager to send a note to her potential suitor.

You and Anthony remained at the top of the steps.

“You were wonderful,” you whispered.

Anthony let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours. “I felt as though my heart was being torn out of my chest.”

“That is fatherhood,” you said gently.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if grounding himself in the one person he trusted to teach him how to navigate the things that terrified him. “Promise me you will never let me make a fool of myself in front of her again.”

You smiled against his cheek. “I make no such promise.”

Anthony laughed softly and kissed you, slow and grateful, before lowering his voice to a murmur.

“I am still not ready for this,” he confessed.

You cupped his jaw lovingly. “You never will be. That is why she has both of us.”

He kissed your hand in that earnest, devoted way that always melted you. “Thank God for that.”

—————