Lily was two when Declan asked.
We were on the balcony, watching the sunset paint the city gold. She was asleep in her room, worn out from a day of chasing Evelyn around the penthouse. The foundation was thriving. The company was stable. Life was good.
Quiet. Peaceful. Almost perfect.
"Olivia."
I turned. Something in his voice made my heart stutter.
"Mm?"
"I want to ask you something." He took my hands. "Something I've been thinking about for a while."
"Okay."
He was quiet for a moment. Gathering words. I'd learned to read his silences this one was nervous. Hopeful.
"I want to adopt."
I stared at him.
"A child. Another one." He squeezed my hands. "There are so many kids who need homes. Who need families. Who need someone to choose them. And we have so much to give."
"Declan"
"I know it's a lot. I know we're busy. I know Lily is still young." He kept going, words tumbling out. "But I keep thinking about it. About giving someone else what we have. About being the father I never had. For another child. For as many as we can handle."
I was quiet for a long moment.
"You want another baby?"
"I want to give a child a home." His eyes held mine. "I want to be someone's choice. The way you chose me."
I thought about it. About Lily. About our life. About the love we'd built.
"Yes."
He blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes, let's do it. Let's adopt. Let's give someone everything."
He lifted me, spun me around. I laughed, and he laughed, and the city glittered below us like it was celebrating too.
We talked about it all night.
The process. The waiting. The uncertainty. The possibility of rejection. The possibility of heartbreak.
"It won't be easy," I said.
"Nothing worth doing ever is."
"And there are no guarantees."
"I know." He pulled me close. "But there's us. There's our love. And if we can give that to one more child " He stopped. Swallowed. "It's worth the risk."
I kissed him. "I love you."
"I love you too. Let's do this."
The next morning, we called Margaret.
She listened without interrupting. When we finished, she smiled ,real smile, not her professional one.
"It's about time."
"You knew?"
"I've known Declan for twenty years. I've watched him become someone I never thought he could be." She looked at me. "You did that. And now he wants to share it. It's beautiful."
She pulled out a notebook. "Now. Let's talk about what this involves."
The process was overwhelming.
Paperwork. Home studies. Interviews. Background checks. Months of waiting, of hoping, of preparing.
We turned the nursery into a bigger room. Bought new furniture. Read books about adoption, about trauma, about helping children transition.
Lily helped. In her two-year-old way, she helped. Picking out stuffed animals. "Helping" paint. Asking endless questions about the baby who was coming.
"When will they be here?"
"Soon, baby. We're waiting for them."
"Why?"
"Because they're far away. But they're coming home."
She nodded seriously. "I'll share my toys."
I cried. Declan pretended not to, but I saw him wipe his eyes.
Months passed.
Diana helped with the search she had contacts in the foster system, in adoption agencies, in places we couldn't access. She found possibilities. Dead ends. More waiting.
Some nights, I woke up scared.
"What if we're not chosen?"
"Then we try again."
"What if we're not good enough?"
"We are." He held me close. "We are good enough. And we'll keep trying until we prove it."
The call came on a Thursday.
Margaret's voice on the phone. "They have a match. A little boy. Eight months old. Are you interested?"
I couldn't speak. Handed the phone to Declan.
"Yes," he said. "Absolutely yes."
We met him three days later.
Small. Dark hair. Brown eyes. He was in a foster home, waiting, hoping, needing someone to choose him.
When he saw us, he reached out.
Literally reached out. His small arms stretching toward us like he knew.
"He knows," Declan whispered. "He knows we're his."
I held him first. He settled immediately. Curled into my chest like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment.
"Welcome home, little one," I whispered.
We named him Marcus.
After my mentor. After the man who'd believed in me first. After the hope that had carried us through.
Marcus Hayes Kane.
Perfect.