"I'm well aware of that."
You." His voice is flat with disbelief. "Family law pays better than I thought."
"I have access to funds. A trust. I'd do it anonymously. I don't want anyone on the board or the staff to know it was me."
Pope studies me, curiosity sharpening his gaze. "This isn't just about outreach, is it?"
I don't answer that. I can't. He can read between the lines if he wants to.
"Would it work? If I create an endowment to replace the Bransons, would that save the program?"
He nods slowly. "For now."
"Then I'm in."
Fuck. I swore I'd never touch that money. That tainted Carter fortune, built on my father's ruthlessness, was off-limits. Yet here I am, ready to dip into it for the first time—for Janie, for Beckett, for us.
"I'll need account details," I say. "I can get the trust set up and move money today. And this stays between us."
"Understood." Pope's expression shifts from surprise to something like respect. "You really care about her."
It's not a question, so I don't answer.
I balancethree plates on my forearm like a waiter from my college serving days, careful not to tip the milk in Beckett's cup as I navigate to the table.
"Dragon incoming!" Beckett waves a crayon drawing overhead, nearly knocking spaghetti sauce everywhere.
"Whoa, easy there, pilot." I catch his elbow just in time, steadying the artwork with my free hand. "Mission control suggests a safe landing zone."
"But it's not a pilot, it's a dragon-rocket-ship!" His hazel eyes, with an intensity that knocks me sideways every time, widen with the injustice of my misclassification.
"My mistake." I set down the plates and lean closer to inspect his masterpiece. "Tell me about this... dragon-rocket-ship."
Beckett launches into an elaborate tale involving space travel, fire-breathing, and what sounds like a pit stop on Jupiter for ice cream. The story makes absolutely no logical sense, yet I find myself nodding along, completely absorbed.
Janie glances over her shoulder from the stove, a small smile playing at her lips as she stirs the pasta. Something shifts in my chest, a dangerous warmth I can't afford to acknowledge spreading through my ribs like wildfire.
"And then the dragon went WHOOSH and the rocketwent ZOOM!" Beckett demonstrates with explosive hand gestures.
The front door opens without warning.
"Hello, hello!" Margaret's voice rings through the house. "I've brought dessert!"
The warmth in my chest crystallizes into ice. I straighten instantly, moving away from Beckett.
Margaret bustles into the kitchen, arms full of Tupperware. "Chocolate chip for the little astronaut, and those coconut ones you like, Warren." Her smile is genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she sets everything down.
"Thank you, Mrs. H." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
"Oh please, stop being so formal. You're thirty-seven. It's time you start calling me Margaret. You're making me feel old." She waves off my formality.
The words hit like a sucker punch. I focus on arranging napkins to hide my expression.
"Beckett's lucky," she continues warmly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Having you around. Janie, you're lucky too."
I glance up to see Janie's knuckles whitening around the wooden spoon. She tries to play it cool, to not give anything away, but she looks constipated instead. I laugh to myself.
"We certainly are," she manages.