The blender’s low hum fades as I set down my post-workout smoothie. The kitchen smells faintly of vanilla protein powder and fresh-cut banana. Pen shuffles in, her oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, hair still messy from sleep. She drops onto a stool at the island, rubbing one eye.

“Dad,” she says through a yawn, “how far is Mariposa Beach?”

It’s an odd question for six a.m. on a Monday. “Considering it’s in California,” I say, glancing over my shoulder, “and this is New York—pretty far.”

From the garage comes the deep, mechanical growl of the Lamborghini, its engine note swelling as the door yawns open. Cold morning air spills in, tinged with the faint tang of exhaust.

Josie steps inside, framed by the rising garage door light. A Max Mara black wool-cashmere overcoat drapes effortlessly over a Victoria Beckham tailored black midi dress, the clean lines softening as she moves. A discreet medical work badge glints from the lapel, purpose tucked into elegance. Christian Louboutin black patent pumps click against the tile, sharpening the silhouette, while a Hermès Birkin 35, carried as a work bag, swings lightly at her side with quiet authority. Her blonde hair, smooth and refined, catches the light as she leans down to kiss Pen on the crown.

She sets her bag and keys on the marble with a practised clink, shrugs off the overcoat, and closes the gap between us. Her perfume—citrus with a clean, sterile undertone from the hospital—meets the sharper scent of metal and oil that clings to her. She slips her arms around my waist, lips pursed in expectation.

I lift a brow, but I meet her halfway, brushing my mouth against hers—just enough for her to taste the smoothie.

“How are the new paddle shifters?” I ask.

Her smile starts small, then blooms into something unrestrained, brighter than the kitchen lights. She cups a hand to her mouth and stage-whispers, her voice rich with satisfaction:

“Fucking amazing.”

I lean in again, brushing another quick kiss across her lips, tasting the faint sweetness of her espresso lipstick. Then I glance over my shoulder with a grin. “Pen wants to go to Mariposa Beach.”

Josie’s brows lift as she moves toward the espresso machine. “Mariposa Beach? Why there? You know we could be in Positano by Friday.”

Pen props her chin on her hands. “I saw it in a movie. The water looked pretty.”

“Sweetheart,” Josie says, a smile tugging at her lips as she steams the milk, “the water looks pretty in half the world. We could have Javier bring the Asteria out to Saint Barth’s, anchor off Gouverneur Beach. You could swim until your fingers wrinkle, and then we’d have fresh grilled lobster on deck.”

I lean on the counter, swirling my glass. “Or,” I say, “we sail down to the Grenadines. Bequia. Tobago Cays. Sea so clear you can see the shadows of the turtles grazing beneath you.”

Pen’s eyes flick between us, weighing the options like it’s a hospital board decision. “Do they have smoothies there?”

I laugh. “I’ll make them for you myself. Mango, papaya—nothing from a freezer bag.”

“Or…” Josie says over her shoulder, “we do Mallorca. Beach by day, dinners in the old town at night. I’ll have Javier plan the route.”

The quiet rhythm of the morning is broken in an instant, when Oliver bursts through the arch, lacrosse stick in one hand, helmet dangling from the other, practice jersey half-tucked. His hair is damp from the shower, the faint scent of turf grass and body wash trailing behind him.

“Saint Barth’s,” he declares without preamble, striding straight for the counter. “Mallorca’s nice, but Saint Barth’s is better for photos. Coach says our team page needs to look good this season.” He grabs a protein bar, tears the wrapper with his teeth, mutters something about being late, and vanishes just as quickly as he arrived—the thud of the front door the only proof he’d been there at all.

Josie exhales a laugh, setting her coffee down. “One vote for Saint Barth’s.”

I glance at Pen. “Two against one. Unless you’d like to bribe the captain for a detour?”

She smirks, pretending to think it over. “I’ll think about it.”

The Lamborghini cools in the garage, espresso steam curls lazily into the morning light, and somewhere in the background, the first outlines of summer are already being drawn.