A Game of Chance
18+ account - minors do not interact
titus danforth x f!reader Word Count: 10.8K Rating: E
Summary: You get invited to an unexpected wedding.
Warnings: (SMUT MDNI 18+), professor reader, idiots in love, mentions of death (not super descriptive), obscene wealth, alcohol, feelings, mutual pinging, yearning, sexual tension, jealousy, (both reader and titus), sorta mean/pissed off titus, pet names, some fingering, oral sex (69ing so f & m receiving), lite spanking, dirty talk, praise, unprotected p in v, possessive sex?, hallmark ending (HEA <3), don't want to spoil too much about the ending
A/N: No spoilers! Anything that happens in this is not in the 2nd movie. Creative liberties galore! GIF found HERE by @sammy-bryant. dividers as always by @saradika-graphics
Thank you for reading!! if you reblog with commentary i love you so much <3.
BREAKING NEWS
An anchor spoke with hushed urgency usually reserved for national crises:
"The entire Le Domas family, heirs to the Le Domas Dominion board‑game empire, have been discovered dead inside the ancestral estate of patriarch Tony Le Domas. And at the center of it all is one name—Grace MacCaullay, the bride who married into the dynasty just hours before the massacre. Authorities are calling this a murder‑suicide, one of the most shocking in recent memory. Grace MacCaullay, 28, was found dead on the estate grounds with a gunshot wound to the head, and a gun in her hand. She was still wearing her wedding dress."
They replayed the police body‑cam footage—officers approaching a blood‑spattered bride sitting on the mansion steps, smoke still rising from the ruins behind her. When the officers asked her what happened, she gave only one chilling word:
"In‑laws."
The anchor continued, "They arrested Grace that day and rushed her to the hospital, where she was being held after her arrest. She was placed under police hold, sedated, and monitored, but somehow, she escaped the hospital and made her way back to the estate—back to the scene of the slaughter and killed herself."
The anchor closed the segment with a practiced, solemn tone:
Why would a woman with no prior history of violence destroy an entire family? Investigators argue the most straightforward explanation is: either she harbored a long‑standing vendetta against the family or that she suffered a sudden, catastrophic mental breakdown.
You exhaled in your apartment, almost laughing at the neatness of it all. Because you knew what the anchors didn’t. One of the families from the high council had clearly killed her, taken her body, and brought her back to the Le Domas estate themselves. They placed her exactly where she needed to be for the narrative to hold. They arranged the scene so investigators would find her in the perfect position, with the perfect weapon, wearing the perfect dress for a tragedy the public would swallow whole.
You whispered the final line along with the anchor, but with a knowing edge:
"Murder‑suicide."
You couldn’t help but wonder: Had Titus and Ursula won the seat back?
You were walking across the Columbia University campus, the early October sun casting long shadows across the quad, your bag slung over one shoulder. Midterms were looming, and your mind was halfway through your upcoming lecture when a voice cut through your thoughts and called out your name after the word 'professor.'
The voice was smooth, and you turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His shoes were polished cordovan leather. His hair was dark, neatly combed, with just a hint of silver at the temples.
He smiled, a practiced but warm expression. "I'm sorry to interrupt. I was told I might find you here."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
He extended his hand. "Conrad Harrington. I'm Ursula's—" He paused when he saw your own eyes widen before you could stop them. "I'm Ursula's fiancé."
"Fiancé?" The word came out sharper than you intended. Hadn’t they called off their engagement years ago?
"I know this must be confusing." He glanced around at the students streaming past, the noise of the quad. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Just a few minutes."
You nodded, not trusting your voice. He pointed to a wrought-iron bench under a large tree, mostly empty in the afternoon lull. You both walked over and sat down. The iron was cool through your skirt. Conrad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I'm sorry about your mother, by the way. She was nothing but kind to me when she worked at the estate," he said with complete sincerity.
A slow pressure gathered in your chest. "Thank you. She only had wonderful things to say about you."
He nodded, seeming to take comfort in that.
"Ursula and I got back together," he said. "About 3 months ago. We've been quietly... reconnecting."
Your first instinct was bitter: Why didn't Ursula tell you they had gotten back together? You knew you were being a hypocrite. And…the last time you'd seen her, she'd been calmly murdering her father. Not exactly a heart-to-heart moment. Hardly the occasion for catching up. Yet you would have expected something. A cryptic comment maybe. Instead: nothing. Her silence felt deliberate.
"And you're engaged now? Just like that?"
"Just like that." He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I know how it sounds. But I've wanted to marry that woman since the first night I met her. She was the one who kept saying no when we were dating. Kept pushing me away." He looked at you directly. "Maybe you know why."
He was clearly gauging how much you knew.
"I know enough," you said.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "Well… she never wanted to put me through that…the chance of drawing the wrong card. She thought she was protecting me by breaking up with me."
"Then why did she change her mind?"
He looked away, across the quad, his eyes unfocused for a moment.
"I don’t know…but I’ve always told her I'd take the risk. I don't care."
"So you're willing to play? To possibly draw the card and end up—"
"I'm willing to take the chance," he interrupted, turning back to face you. "I’m madly in love with her. And in fairness, there are other games. Multiple. Not just hide and seek. The odds aren't as bad as you'd think."
"And you’re willing to give your soul if you survive?"
"I would do anything to be with her."
Damn… Ursula must have some magic pussy, you thought.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "We're getting married. October 24th. In Aix-en-Provence."
You stared at the envelope, not taking it. "October 24th? That's barely 2 weeks away. Are you serious?"
"I've waited 9 years for this. I'm not waiting any longer." He pressed the envelope into your hand. "I was in town for business. Ursula told me you teach at Columbia. I thought... I thought I'd bring this to you myself."
"Wait." You looked up from the invitation. "Does Ursula know you're here… or that you’re inviting me?"
Conrad's smile had a nervous edge. "No."
You felt the sting even though you didn’t want to. Ursula was getting married, and you weren't part of it. And that was fine, logically. People didn’t invite everyone to everything. That was normal. Except it didn't feel normal. It felt like you were standing outside looking in, and there was a whole version of Ursula you weren't going to get to know. You realized that maybe the 12 years of ignoring Danforth’s had done more damage than you thought.
"You want me to show up unannounced?" you frowned.
"It will be a surprise. A good one."
"Ursula hates surprises."
"I know." He said it softly, almost like a confession. "But look—" He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I don't know what happened between you and their family. I know there was some rift…but Ursula loved your mother. She was devastated when she died. And with her father passing recently... she's trying to put on a strong face, but I think she would like it if you were there. I really do."
You looked down at the invitation. The gold lettering shimmered in the afternoon light. For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then a memory surfaced, unbidden. You were 19 again, sitting on the edge of Ursula’s bed at Danforth’s English estate. She was brushing her hair, telling you about her favorite place in the world.
"Aix-en-Provence", she’d said. The house there is the only place I have ever felt completely myself." You had never made it out there. You had visited the other estates—the sprawling manor in the English countryside, the villa on Lake Como, the chalet in the Swiss Alps, the schloss in Austria…but never Aix.
"I'll consider it," you finally said.
Conrad stood, smoothing his jacket. He looked relieved. "That's all I ask. The invitation has all the details. If you can make it... I think it would mean more to her than she'd ever admit."
He started to walk away, his shoes clicking on the cobblestones. You stood up, the invitation crushed against your palm.
"Conrad," you called out. He turned, and you lowered your voice, even though no one was close.
"Did they win the seat?"
He held your gaze. The easy smile faded. His eyes went flat for just a second, the mask slipping. Then he said, quietly, "If you come to the wedding, you can ask them yourself."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the stream of students heading toward the library. You pocketed the invitation and started walking, the crunch of leaves beneath your shoes grounding you in the present. The news report replayed in your mind like a loop you couldn’t shut off.
Grace MacCaullay.
The Le Domas family.
Massacre.
Murder suicide.
You pulled out your phone, checked your calendar, and booked a flight to Marseille, connecting through Paris. The ticket was refundable. You told yourself you could always cancel.
But you knew, even as you typed in your credit card number, that you wouldn’t.
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
The hotel was charming in that way only a French boutique hotel could be—aged stone walls, wrought-iron balcony, the faint scent of lavender drifting in through the open window. You had barely slept. The connecting flight from Newark to Marseille had been delayed, and by the time you had checked in and collapsed onto the crisp white sheets, it was nearly midnight. The rehearsal dinner had been long over.
Now, at 1 pm, you stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, the black dress hanging from the closet door. You had bought it 3 days ago, something about the cut drawing you in with the high neckline, and the way it skimmed the collarbone. You liked that it left the shoulders bare in that subtle, architectural way, and that the slit ran just high enough to be alluring without being obscene. You slipped it over your head, the material cool against your skin. It zipped up the side (a hidden zipper that you managed on the third try), and turned to face the mirror to stare at your reflection.
What the fuck were you thinking? Ursula might actually kill you for this.
You reached for the glass of wine you'd poured ten minutes ago from a local Côtes de Provence rosé you'd grabbed from the minibar and took a long sip out of nerves. You picked up the invitation, reading the instructions for the hundredth time:
Arrival strictly between 2:30 PM and 3:15 PM. Present this invitation at the first checkpoint. Follow the drive to the second gate. A valet will direct you.
You grabbed your clutch, which was a small black satin pouch, just big enough for your phone, lipstick, and a compact. The invitation went in last, and you checked the room one more time, then grabbed your room key and headed out. The hotel concierge called you a taxi, a clean white Mercedes that pulled up to the curb. The driver was an older man, maybe sixty, with a thick mustache and a shrug that seemed permanent. You gave him the address from the invitation, and he raised an eyebrow.
He pulled away from the curb, navigating the narrow streets, and suddenly the city gave way to countryside with rolling hills covered in vineyards, clusters of stone farmhouses, the occasional glimpse of a distant chateau. The road wound upward, the vegetation becoming denser, more wild. After about 40 minutes, he turned onto a private road marked only by a small stone pillar with a wrought-iron gate. A guardhouse appeared. A man in a black suit stepped out, clipboard in hand. You rolled down the window and handed him the invitation. He examined it, glanced at you, then at a list on his clipboard. He nodded, handed it back, and the gate swung open.
"Ils ne rigolent pas," the driver muttered. This is some serious security.
"Apparemment," you replied. Apparently
The drive continued for another mile, winding through a forest of olive trees. The second gate was even more imposing, with iron bars at least twelve feet high, flanked by stone walls that disappeared into the trees. Another guard, another check. This one took longer. He scanned the invitation with a device, then made a phone call. After a tense minute, he waved you through.
The driver let out a low whistle. "Putain. C'est un château, pas une maison." Holy shit. That's a castle, not a house.
"Je sais…" you whispered in awe. I know
The house emerged from the trees slowly, deliberately, as if revealing itself on purpose. It was a sprawling limestone manor, three stories tall, with a mansard roof of blue-gray slate and tall French windows that caught the afternoon sun. Wisteria climbed the eastern facade, its purple blossoms hanging in heavy clusters. A gravel courtyard opened before it, already filled with ultra‑luxury European vintage cars. A fountain in the center of the courtyard featured a stone nymph, water cascading from an urn she held.
The driver pulled up to the entrance, slowing as clusters of elegantly dressed guests drifted toward the doors. He turned to you, his eyes wide.
"C’est un marriage," you said, forcing a smile. It’s a wedding.
He shook his head, muttering something about the rich as he helped you out. You handed him a generous tip (30 euros), and he tipped his hat.
"Merci, madame."
"Merci."
You stood on the gravel, the crunch of stones under your heels echoing loudly in the quiet. The front door was ajar, a butler in uniform was standing patiently nearby. You took a deep breath and stepped inside, your heart pounding in your chest. The foyer was a symphony of marble and light. A grand staircase curved upward, its banisters wrought iron with gold leaf accents. A crystal chandelier hung from a two-story ceiling, casting prisms across the walls. To the left, a salon opened up, filled with guests, champagne flutes in hand. The murmur of conversation washed over you, punctuated by occasional laughter.
As the gathering buzzed around you, a waiter appeared, offering a tray of champagne. You accepted a flute, grateful for something to hold, and glanced around at the familiar faces. Hazel, Ursula’s aunt, caught your eye first. She was a gaunt woman dressed in a navy silk dress, a string of pearls resting against her collarbone. Her husband, a portly man with a flushed face, stood beside her, engaged in conversation with someone you didn’t recognize. She seemed to notice you, her eyes flickering with recognition and surprise behind her gaze, as if they hadn’t expected to see you after all these years.
A few more familiar faces began to emerge from the crowd, and thankfully, you recognized a couple of Ursula's friends from that Nantucket trip. More people started to notice, and others who recognized you started to come over and strike up conversations. The usual barrage of questions had begun to flow, predictable, shallow, and almost anthropological in their curiosity. But what really got you was the look on their faces when you mentioned you lived in Harlem. It was as if they’d forgotten that Columbia University was in Morningside Heights, just next to Harlem—yet, here they were, acting as if the neighborhood were some distant, unfamiliar place. It was a curated ignorance that only the affluent could afford.
You noticed another family cluster: the Wainwrights, cousins of the Danforth’s, notorious for their real estate empire. The younger son, a man in his forties with a receding hairline, stared at you for a while before turning away. You took another gulp of champagne. Then another.
And then, across the room, you saw fucking Kip.
He was leaning against a marble pillar, a scotch in his hand, talking to two women in pastel dresses. Kip, who looked like a grinning predator in a tailored suit. You hadn’t seen him since his 'wedding,' which was fine because he had always found ways to corner you and whisper things that made your skin crawl during prep school. He was a piece of shit. He looked up, and his eyes met yours. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
You turned on your heel and walked in the opposite direction, weaving through the crowd, putting as many bodies between you and him as possible. You found a quiet corner near a window overlooking the gardens and pressed your back against the wall, your champagne flute now empty.
Your hands were shaking, and you set the flute on a passing waiter's tray and grabbed another.
Where was Titus?
You scanned the room, the clusters of guests, the winding staircase. No sign of him. Was he with Ursula? Getting ready? You fidgeted, adjusted your earrings, and smoothed your hair. You felt exposed, vulnerable, like a rabbit in a field of wolves…so you kept drinking, the champagne a thin shield against the rising tide of panic. Then the wedding coordinator stepped into the center of the foyer and clapped her hands twice. The murmur died down.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please. The ceremony will begin in five minutes. Please proceed to the garden through the south doors. Guests are requested to be seated." The crowd began to move, a slow tide of silk and cologne toward the open doors at the end of the hall. You followed, the champagne glass still in your hand, and set it on a small table as you passed.
The garden was breathtaking.
The aisle wasn’t strewn with petals; instead, a long strip of dark stone, polished to a mirror sheen, cut through the grass like a blade. At the end of it stood an archway of blackened iron twisted with deep‑red amaranth and dark olive leaves. The arch was set against a backdrop of the Luberon valley, the hills rolling in shades of green and gold under the late afternoon sun. Chairs (black iron with deep wine‑colored cushions) were arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle. A string quartet was already playing, something soft and classical. The temperature was perfect. Maybe 66 degrees, the air carrying the scent of lavender and earth. The sky was a clear, endless blue.
You took a seat in the middle row, on the end of the left side, so you could be close enough to see but far enough from the aisle that you wouldn't be caught in the wedding party's sightline. You clasped your hands in your lap, your fingers cold despite the warmth. The officiant, a man dressed in a simple black robe, walked down the aisle and took his place beneath the arch. Almost abruptly, Conrad followed and walked down the aisle with his parents—they walked him to the altar, his father shaking his hand, his mother kissing his cheek, and then they stepped to the side, taking their seats in the front row. They hadn’t bothered with a wedding party, which you loved. No bridesmaids fussing with hems, and no shitfaced groomsmen. It was just Conrad, standing under the arch, his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes fixed on the house.
Then the quartet paused. The officiant cleared his throat.
The first notes of Bittersweet Symphony began to play, the strings carrying that iconic melody. The guests stirred. The officiant raised his voice.
"Please stand for the bride."
Everyone rose as the chairs scraped against the gravel, and you stood with your heart in your throat when the doors of the house opened, revealing Ursula emerging.
She was a vision in red. The dress was a deep wine, almost burgundy, with a fitted bodice that flowed into a full skirt. The fabric caught the light, shimmering like liquid fire.
"Wow, look at her in that dress," someone murmured nearby. "It's like she stepped out of a dream." Her hair was pinned up, with a few curls escaping to frame her face, and she wore a circlet of dark metal that caught the light, each garnet glimmering like drops of blood with every step she took as she moved.
But it wasn't only the dress that made your breath catch.
It was the man walking beside her.
Titus.
He looked devastating, wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and with a deep red pocket square that matched Ursula's dress. His arm was linked through hers, guiding her down the aisle. Your eyes burned, and as you blinked, a tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, so you brushed it away quickly, hoping no one saw.
Ursula looked beautiful. Stunning. And the fact that it was Titus walking her down the aisle, her twin brother, her other half—it made something ache deep in your chest. You wished Chester could have seen this moment. And, the most beautiful part, was Conrad's face. He was watching Ursula with an expression you had only seen in books or in movies. Complete and total awe. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, and there was a softness in his gaze that bordered on reverence. He wasn't looking at his bride. He was looking at a miracle.
Titus led Ursula up to the arch, then paused and turned to face Conrad. For a moment, the three of them stood in a small triangle before Titus took Ursula's hand and gently placed it in Conrad's. That’s when you noticed he was wearing his father’s ring. You smirked, because you realized that it meant the twins had secured their seat back on the High Council.
Titus was about to take his seat when he paused, his eyes catching sight of you. Your heart stopped with them because there was something in his expression—something darker, something that made your blood run cold. He wasn’t happy to see you, and without a word, he looked away and took his seat, as if dismissing you. Regret flooded your mind…it was a mistake to come here. You sat there, rooted to your spot, your hands clutching the edge of your chair, feeling the weight of his displeasure press down like a heavy stone.
The words echoed quietly in your mind as the ceremony continued, the officiant's voice a distant drone, the lavender-scented air suddenly suffocating. You kept your eyes fixed forward, but all you kept thinking was:
You were not welcome here. Not by Ursula. And certainly not by Titus.
The ceremony ended in a blur. You stood when everyone else stood, clapped when they clapped, smiled when they smiled. But your body moved on autopilot while your mind churned in a dark spiral, replaying the look Titus had given you.
You needed a drink.
The bar was tucked in a corner of the ballroom (because of course this house had a ballroom), all dark wood and brass, staffed by a man who looked like he'd seen a hundred broken hearts and knew better than to ask questions. You ordered a whiskey, neat, and knocked half of it back in one swallow. The burn was grounding.
Ursula and Conrad were making their rounds, stopping at tables, accepting congratulations. You watched her from a distance, the way she moved through the crowd with practiced grace, her dress trailing behind her. You also noticed her look of complete shock when she noticed you.
She started heading straight for you, and your stomach dropped.
Ursula didn't slow down. She weaved through the guests with a smile fixed on her face, but her eyes were locked on you. She reached the bar, grabbed your wrist with surprising strength, and pulled you away before you could protest.
"Ursula—"
"Not a word," she hissed, dragging you through a side door, down a narrow corridor, and into a study lined with bookshelves.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
You let out a breath, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Congratulations. You look stunning. The dress is—"
"Explain yourself."
You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Your husband invited me."
She looked ready to combust. "I'm going to kill him."
"You really shouldn't make jokes like that," you said, raising an eyebrow. "You know. Considering."
For a heartbeat, she stared at you. Then, despite herself, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
You pressed your advantage while you had it. "Look, I know why you didn't invite me. I wouldn't have invited me either." You held her gaze despite the way your heart was hammering. "But I didn't want to miss this. And I know my mother would have loved being here."
Ursula's expression shifted—the anger draining from her face like water through cupped hands. She turned away from you, her shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
"Don't," she finally said, her voice tight. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use her as a distraction." She spun back around, and her eyes were glistening now, though her jaw was clenched hard enough to break teeth. "You don't get to—you can't just—"
"I'm not," you said quietly. "I'm telling you the truth. She would have been here if she could. And since she can't be, I wanted to be. For the both of us."
Ursula's hand came up to her face, and she turned toward the bookshelves, her shoulders trembling slightly.
"I can’t believe I’m married." You let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her shoulders gradually still. When she finally turned back around, her eyes were red-rimmed but dry since Ursula had clearly decided tears were not on the agenda.
"Neither can I," you said softly, and despite everything, she let out a short, surprised laugh. "Conrad seems like a really wonderful person. I can tell he’s madly in love with you.”
She studied you for a moment, then nodded. "He is. He looks at me, and it's like he already knows exactly who I am and loves me anyway." There was something almost vulnerable in the admission, like she was surprised by it herself. "He's... a much better person than I am. Which, granted, isn't a high bar, but still," she smiled sadly. "I love him so much it scares me. I'm still waiting for the universe to correct its mistake."
"It's not a mistake," you said firmly.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arched in that signature way of hers. "Are we done with the feelings portion of the evening, or...?"
"Are you afraid?" you whispered.
"Of what?" She turned back to the mirror, smoothing down her dress with deliberate precision.
"Of what might happen tonight."
She was quiet for a long moment. "He won't pull the Hide and Seek card," she said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because Titus made sure he wouldn't."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. What did that mean? Your mind raced.
"I have to go," she said. "Smooze with people. Total buzzkill."
"Good luck. Try not to commit any felonies."
"No promises." She rolled her eyes. "I also need to go find the wedding planner and tell her that some absolute nightmare of a person showed up uninvited, so she needs to hide you in the back somewhere near the kitchen.
You grinned. "I appreciate that."
Ursula was already moving toward the door, mentally preparing herself for the social minefield of in-law pleasantries.
"I'm happy you two won the seat back," you said, lowering your voice. Ursula paused at the doorway, turning back with a knowing smile.
"That was all Titus. He made sure of it. Made sure a lot of things happened the way they needed to."
For a moment, she looked like she might say something more, but then the sound of voices drifted down the hallway. She gave you a quick wink before disappearing past the door.
The ballroom had transformed into a glittering maze of conversation and champagne. You'd spent the last 10 minutes circling through clusters of guests, your eyes perpetually scanning for Titus. You hadn't seen Titus since the ceremony. Part of you hoped he'd disappeared entirely, that you could slip away before dawn and pretend this whole night never happened. But you knew better. The weight of his stare from the aisle still clung to your skin like a brand.
You finally found him on the terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade that overlooked the gardens, a glass of wine in his hand. He was watching the sunset paint the valley in shades of amber and rose, his profile sharp and unreadable in the golden light. For a moment, you just stood there, taking him in.
Then she appeared.
She was young—couldn't have been more than 22, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and better skincare. She had red hair, the kind of shade that caught the light like it was made for it, and she was wearing a champagne-colored dress with piercing blue eyes. She materialized at his side like she'd been summoned, her hand already reaching out to touch his arm.
"Titus, darling," she cooed, her accent distinctly British, upper-crust. "I've been looking for you all evening. You simply can't hide away like this. It's terribly unfair to the rest of us."
"Hello, Margot," you overheard him say.
Of course her name was Margot.
You watched her laugh—a tinkling, practiced sound that probably worked on approximately 98% percent of the male population. She leaned closer, her fingers still on his arm, and you felt something hot and acidic crawl up your throat.
"I'm starting to think you're avoiding me."
"Hard to avoid someone who keeps finding me," Titus said, a slight smirk playing at his mouth. "Though I'm not complaining."
"Well, I'm terribly persistent when I want something,"
"I've noticed," Titus said.
Margot laughed again (that same crystalline sound that made your molars ache). You realized that your nails were digging crescents into your palms. What infuriated you most wasn't that she was beautiful. It wasn't even that she was young and effortless and everything you'd expect the average man to want. It was that Titus was engaging with her. That he wasn't stepping back. That he was considering it, you could see it in the way his gaze lingered on her face, in the way he didn't immediately shut her down.
You moved toward them before you could think better of it. "Excuse me," you said directly to Titus, your voice cutting through the evening air like a blade. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Titus turned to you, and his expression shifted…and not in the way you wanted. His eyes, which had been warm moments before, went cool and distant, that familiar wall slamming down between you two. Margot’s head whipped around, her expression shifting from flirtation to indignation in half a second. She looked you up and down, dismissively, as if cataloging your outfit choice.
"We’re sort of having a private conversation," she said coolly. "Shouldn't you be tending to the bar?" she asked, her tone dripping with rudeness. "Or did someone send you to collect glasses?
What a cunt.
"Isn't it past your bedtime? Us adults need to have a little chat," you smiled, sweet as poison.
Her face flushed crimson. For a moment, she looked like she might say something cutting.
"I'll find you later," Titus said, his gaze already shifting away from you, and towards her. "We just need to have a quick chat.”
Her hand found his shoulder, her lips brushing against his cheek in a kiss that lingered. "Don't take too long," she murmured against his skin, her eyes flicking toward you with unmistakable triumph.
Titus didn’t look at you right away. He just exhaled, and when he finally turned, his expression was carved from stone.
"I don’t really actually have time to chat," he muttered, already stepping away from you.
You followed him, pulse hammering. "I would’ve thought you’d be happy to see me."
"Why?" he shot back instantly, not even glancing over. "Since when is that the dynamic?"
He didn’t wait for your answer. He just kept walking, long strides carrying him back toward the house. As he moved, he slipped seamlessly into host mode—nodding to guests, offering clipped greetings, shaking hands. Each polite smile he gave them only highlighted how little warmth he had for you.
You trailed behind him, feeling like a ghost tethered to his shadow.
"Titus," you hissed, trying to keep up. "Why are you being this way?"
He stopped mid‑stride, turned his head just enough to look at you over his shoulder.
"What way?" he asked, voice flat. "You’re going to have to be more specific."
This was the man who once had looked at you like you were something dangerous and precious in equal measure. Who had touched you like he was afraid you'd shatter. Who had said your name like it meant something. You wanted to scream. Instead, you grabbed his wrist and tugged him down a side hallway that was currently empty, quiet, and far from the party’s hum. He let you pull him, but only barely, like he was indulging a child.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you demanded, keeping your voice low. "You've been cold since the ceremony, and now you're—"
"I'm being what?" he interrupted, his tone deliberately measured in that way that made your skin crawl. "Honest?"
"You're being cruel."
He laughed—a short, bitter sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Cruel would be telling you what I actually think right now." He turned away from you, running a hand through his hair, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might break. "So I'm being merciful, actually. You should thank me."
"Thank you for what? For ignoring me? For flirting with that vapid—"
"Don't." His voice cracked like a whip. He spun back around, and his eyes… God, his eyes were furious. "Don't you dare sit there and act territorial when you've been fucking that linguistics professor."
"How did you—" you started.
"Does it matter?" He stepped closer.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" you hissed, because you hadn’t told anyone about David. The only way he could know was if he was keeping tabs on you with the Danforth’s private investigator.
"I’m not. Kindly get the fuck out." He stopped himself, jaw working, clearly trying to regain control. "I can’t believe you’ve been letting him touch you. He’s beneath you. You could do so much better."
Suddenly, it all made so much sense. This was why he had been ignoring your phone calls and texts.
"I'm not—" You felt heat rise in your chest, exasperation mixing with something else. Something that felt dangerously like guilt. "First of all, we slept together once. I haven't done anything physical with him since I came to visit your father in Newport. And you don't deserve to hear this, but the only reason I slept with him was that I was trying to get over you. I ended things with him weeks ago." Titus went very still. "It's 2026," you continued, your voice shaking slightly. "A woman having casual sex is completely reasonable. Men do it all the time. I'm not going to apologize for it."
He scoffed, and your hand caught his jaw to stop him from turning away. Your fingers pressed into the sharp line of his cheek, guiding his face back toward yours.
"Titus," you said, breath unsteady. "Look at me." You stepped closer, closing the distance he'd been so carefully maintaining. Your hand was still on his jaw, but this time you didn’t stop there. Your other hand found his—the hand, the one with his father’s ring. His fingers twitched under your touch, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or hold on. "I'm happy you won your seat back. I'm happy the bride is dead if it means you're where you belong. I don't care how that makes me sound. I only care about you."
"That's—you can't mean that."
"I do. I'm in love with you, Titus. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know how to be with someone like you. I don't know if I'll fit into your world or if I'll burn it down trying. But I want to try. I want to be with you. If you'll let me."
Silence stretched between you, thick and trembling.
"I can't focus. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, I taste you," he murmured.
"Then stop trying to think."
He stared at you, his hazel orbs searching yours for any hint of a lie. Finding none, his mouth crashed into yours, and he kissed you like he was drowning, and you were air. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, pressing you against the wall behind you. His hips pinned yours, and you felt the unmistakable hardness of him straining against his trousers.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your hands sliding up his chest, fisting the lapels of his suit jacket. He groaned, low and guttural, and hitched your leg up around his hip. The fabric of your dress rode high, exposing your thigh
"I don't deserve you," he gasped against your lips, and then his mouth was on your throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. You moaned, tilting your head back, giving him more access. His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, gripping your ass through the thin material of your dress.
"I don't recall asking what you deserve."
He kissed you again, his mouth slanting over yours again and again until you were both breathless. Then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. Titus grabbed your hand, and you let him pull you out of the corridor, through the grand foyer, past clusters of guests who barely registered as a blur of jewel tones and curious glances. His grip was firm, his pace urgent, and you followed without hesitation.
At the base of the grand staircase, you saw her. Margot stood near the bar, a glass of champagne frozen halfway to her lips, her eyes locked on you and Titus, and you saw the exact moment her composure cracked. Her jaw tightened, her knuckles whitened around the stem of the glass, and behind her carefully painted smile, something ugly and furious writhed.
You paused on the landing, met her gaze, and winked.
The fury that flashed across her face was almost violent, a mask slipping just long enough for you to see the raw, possessive rage beneath. You hated admitting that the taste of her jealousy was exquisite. You turned away, letting Titus pull you up the stairs, your heart soaring. He led you down a corridor lined with oil paintings and sconces casting warm pools of light, past doors closed and open, until he stopped at one near the end. He pushed it open and guided you inside.
His room stole your breath.
It was a vision of French European elegance with walls paneled in cream with delicate gold filigree, a crystal chandelier catching the dying evening light and scattering it like stars across the ceiling. The bed was massive, a four-poster draped in ivory silk and velvet, the sheets crisp and inviting. French doors opened onto a small balcony, the sheer curtains billowing in the breeze. A marble fireplace, unlit but stunning, dominated one wall, flanked by armchairs upholstered in pale rose damask.
Titus turned to you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached for the zipper of your dress, and you let him, your breath catching as the fabric loosened and slid down your shoulders. It pooled at your feet, and you stood before him in nothing but your heels and the delicate lace of your underwear.
"You're…" he made a low guttural sound, "the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." You looked at him…his eyes wild with want, his lips swollen, his composure shattered. The man who had guided his sister down the aisle with such grace now looked feral with need.
"Show me," you begged, taking off your panties and heels.
He shed his clothes with rough, urgent movements—jacket, shirt, trousers, all discarded in a trail behind him. His body was lean and hard, muscles shifting beneath freckled skin, his cock already thick and straining, the tip glistening. He stepped toward you, his hands finding your waist, and he backed you toward the bed until your knees hit the edge. He pushed you down onto the mattress, the silk cool against your bare skin, and followed you, his body covering yours. His mouth found your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. When his lips closed around your nipple, you gasped, your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Titus—"
"Say my name again." He suckled harder, his tongue flicking the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks through your nerves. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, his hand sliding between your thighs. His fingers found you slick and ready, and he groaned against your skin.
"I missed you," you cried out.
"Me too, Angel."
He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and your vision went white at the edges. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand, and he watched your face with feral satisfaction.
"Please—I need—"
"What do you need, darling?" His voice was honey and gravel. "Tell me."
"I want to put my mouth on you."
And you did, you had been dreaming about it for months. He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. Then he lay back on the bed, settling against the pillows, his cock standing thick and proud.
"Come here," he said, his voice rough. "I want to eat your pussy at the same time."
You crawled over him, straddling his chest, facing his cock, and then shifted forward. You lowered yourself slowly, feeling his breath hot against your cunt, and when his mouth latched onto you, you moaned—loud and fucking shameless. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his stomach, taking his cock in your hand, guiding the tip past your lips. His tongue found your clit immediately, circling, flicking, while his hands came up to grip your ass. He spread your cheeks, pulling you tighter against his face, and then—slap.
The first spank made you gasp around him, your eyes watering. The sting bloomed hot across your left cheek, and you felt him smile against your cunt.
"That's it, good girl," he murmured, the vibrations traveling through your core. "Take it. Take all of it."
You swallowed him deeper, your throat relaxing, taking him to the base. His cock hit the back of your throat, and you hummed, loving the way he groaned in response. His hands kneaded your flesh, then slap again—harder this time, on your right cheek. The slap sent a jolt of pleasure-pain through your body, his tongue working your clit with the same rhythm. You were drowning in sensation...the thick length of him filling your throat, the sting of his palm against your ass, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your pussy.
Your hips began to rock, grinding against his face, taking him deeper down your throat. He groaned against you, the sound muffled but satisfied, and his tongue pressed harder, faster, circling your clit with devastating precision.
"Fuck, missed the taste of you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to speak. You moaned around his cock, your eyes rolling back, your thighs trembling. His tongue grew more erratic, matching the building tension in your belly, each suck pushing you closer to the edge.
"Titus," you panted, "Fuck—"
"Come on my face," he commanded, his voice ragged.
The knot in your belly snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and blinding, your walls clenching as waves of pleasure wracked your body. You screamed around his cock, your throat convulsing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop—he lapped at you through it all, drawing out every pulse, every shiver, until you were limp and gasping above him.
He pulled you off gently, guiding you to lie beside him, and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breathing ragged. "I don't want to come in your mouth," he said, his voice strained, thick with need. "I want to watch your perfect face and see your eyes when you come." Titus flipped you onto your back before you could recover, positioning himself between your legs. His cock pressed against your slick, swollen entrance, and he pushed inside you in one smooth motion, making you both gasp. Titus filled you so perfectly, stretching you, claiming you. He set a rhythm that was deep and slow, his eyes never leaving yours. Suddenly, he lifted your legs, placing one ankle on his shoulder and tucking the other in the crook of his arm.
The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails on his skin. "Look at you," he breathed, his pace quickening. " You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Whose pussy is this?"
"Yours. It's yours, Titus. Only yours."
He grunted, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. "And that fucking professor? Did he ever make you feel like this?" Titus wanted to own every part of you.
"No one has ever made me feel like this. No one. Just you."
His control snapped.
He fucked you harder, deeper, his hips slamming against yours, his breathing ragged, his sweat glistening on his chest. The room smelled of sex—salt and musk and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal mingling with his. The air was thick with it, with the sounds of your moans and his grunts, the wet, obscene sound of him driving into you again and again.
"I'm close," he growled. "Fuck, I'm so close. I need to feel you come again.”
The pressure built again, coiling tight in your belly, your walls clenching around him. You came with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks, your body convulsing, your face contorted with the intensity of it. The pleasure was too much, too intense, a beautiful agony that left you gasping, your vision blurring. Titus watched you fall apart, his eyes locked on yours, his expression almost reverent. God, you were fucking gorgeous. His thrusts grew erratic, his breath coming in harsh pants, and you could feel him pulsing inside you, his peak approaching.
"I-I’m gonna pull out," he said, his voice breaking.
"Don't. It's safe. Stay inside me. Come inside me."
He groaned, a sound torn from somewhere deep, and you felt him release—hot, thick, and completely flooding you. His face twisted with pleasure, his eyes rolling back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry. His body shuddered above you, his hips pressing deep, holding himself there as he emptied into you. Titus collapsed on top of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat, the air around you heavy and warm.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his spend trickle down your thigh. He disappeared into the attached bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned you gently, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, and your belly as he worked.
You checked your watch and sighed.
"Cocktail hour is almost over. We need to go back down."
Titus lay beside you, pulling you into his arms, his chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Just a few more minutes. I want to hold you a little longer."
You nestled into him, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath your ear, his arms wrapped around you like a shield.
"Titus?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tightened around you, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"I love you too."
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, a promise neither of you fully understood but both of you desperately wanted to keep.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face in the darkness of the room. His eyes were closed, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his chest still rose and fell with controlled breaths.
"Titus?"
"Yes?"
"Why is Ursula so sure that Conrad won't pull the hide and seek card?"
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on your back. "When the bride was killed," he began, his voice low and measured, "Mr. Le Bail’s lawyer let us know that because we'd re-won the seat, we were allowed to adjust our family contract. The terms, the rules, all of it. Ursula and I had made a deal that whoever killed the bride would be the one to make whatever adjustment we pleased."
Your heart was already beginning to race, sensing where this was going.
"I requested," he continued, his arms tightening around you since he was still afraid that confirming that he killed her would make you look at him differently, "that our family continues to participate in the hunts. We're bound to this. To the High Council. To Mr. Le Bail. That's not something that can be undone, and I wouldn't ask for that. But I did ask that the hide and seek card...the game itself be removed from possibility. For future spouses. For spouses of future Danforth children. For generations to come in our immediate family."
He’d done what?
Titus paused, letting the enormity of it settle. "Ursula deserved to marry Conrad today without the fear of his possible immediate death.”
Your eyes burned. You pulled back to look at him fully, seeing the weight of what he'd done written across his features.
"You did that for Ursula," you whispered.
"She’s my sister. I would do anything for her… but I also did it for me," he said quietly, and the admission hung between you like a confession. You understood immediately what he wasn't saying outright—what he couldn't quite say, not yet. By removing the hide and seek card, he had secured something far more precious than Ursula's peace of mind. He'd secured the possibility of a future where he could have a wife without the constant shadow of that particular death sentence looming. Children who wouldn't grow up knowing their future spouses might be hunted down on their wedding day.
"I'm not asking for anything right now," he said quickly, reading what he thought was panic in your silence. "I'm not saying this to... I'm telling you because you asked."
But that wasn't quite the whole truth either, was it? You could see it in the way his eyes finally opened, in the way they searched yours. He was asking for something. Not explicitly, not with words...but with the architecture of his choices. He'd restructured his family's future, rewritten the rules of their darkest game for Ursula… and for you?
"You killed the bride," you said slowly, "and made sure that if you ever had someone to protect, you could actually keep them. That makes a lot of sense to me."
He didn't say anything.
All the fear, all the darkness of this world you'd been pulled into, and here was Titus, this man bound by blood and obligation to a cult of monsters, using the only leverage he had to carve out a small sanctuary for the people he loved.
You emerged from the room together, your dress re-zipped, your hair smoothed back into something resembling order. Titus had a faint mark on his neck that you'd left with your teeth... which was a small claim staked in the landscape of his skin. Neither of you bothered to fix it.
The evening had shifted outdoors again for dinner. Long tables had been arranged in a horseshoe formation across the manicured grounds of the Danforth estate, strung with lights that transformed the darkness into something ethereal. A jazz trio played from a pavilion, their music drifting across the gardens. The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the rich aroma of the meal being served.
Titus's hand found the small of your back as you descended the stone steps; his touch was proprietary in a way that made several heads turn as you passed. The family table was positioned at the center of the horseshoe, and Ursula sat at the head, with Conrad on her right. His parents occupied the seats beyond him—his mother beaming with the particular radiance of a woman who'd just watched her son marry a woman she clearly found fascinating, his father nodding approvingly at something one of Conrad's siblings was saying. Titus guided you to the empty seat to his left, pulling it out for you and kissing your shoulder as you sat.
"Well, this is interesting," Ursula murmured, leaning forward slightly so only you and Titus could hear. Her eyes glinted with amusement, and Conrad grinned openly, as if he'd just won some private bet with himself.
Conversation flowed around the table with that easy rhythm, and you watched Ursula look so happy. Marriage seemed to suit her, or perhaps it was simply the absence of fear. Knowing that Conrad wouldn't be hunted, wouldn't be forced into a game where the stakes were his life, had carved away some essential tension from her shoulders. By the time dessert arrived (a decadent chocolate confection with edible gold leaf served under the stars), the evening had taken on the quality of a dream. The kind where terrible things existed in the margins but couldn't quite touch the center of the frame.
After hours of dancing, the other guests departed as the night deepened, taxis picking people up and cars winding down the long drive away from the estate. But the Danforth family remained—not just Ursula and Titus, but their uncles, aunts, and cousins, scattered across the grounds in small clusters, lingering over drinks and conversation. Tradition, after all, demanded their presence.
Pernella appeared with the ornate wooden box, setting it in front of Conrad with ceremonial precision. The room fell silent. Everyone knew what this meant. Or at least… they thought they did.
"The final tradition," Pernella announced. "A game must be played before the evening concludes." Conrad reached toward the box, and his fingers hovered over the cards printed with various games.
He drew a card, and his face went carefully blank as he looked at the card. Around him, the family leaned in with the hunger of wolves scenting blood.
"Chess," he said quietly, as if the word itself was a curse. "We have to play chess. You're going to destroy me."
"Almost certainly," Ursula agreed, her eyes glinting with the promise of violence barely concealed beneath civility. The family settled into chairs around the board while Ursula and Conrad took their seats. You moved to stand near Titus, your hand finding his, and his fingers closed around yours, anchoring you.
Conrad played competently, his strategy sound, his defense solid…but he was outmatched. You could see it in the way he began to frown slightly, the way his fingers lingered on pieces before moving them, as if he could somehow alter the outcome through sheer force of will.
It took 37 moves.
Ursula's final move was elegant: a bishop sweep that left Conrad's king with no escape routes. Checkmate. The word hung in the air like a benediction, and the assembled family erupted in applause. Conrad laughed, shaking his head in admiration, and reached across the board to kiss Ursula's hand.
Titus pulled you close as the family began to disperse, heading back to their hotels or respective homes. Ursula and Conrad were jetting off to the Danforth St. Tropez hotel tonight to begin their honeymoon. His lips brushed against your temple.
"Don’t go back to your hotel," he whispered. "Stay the night. Don't leave."
You turned to face him, seeing the vulnerability beneath the demand, the fear that you might vanish like some fever dream.
"Okay," you said simply. "I'll stay."
His exhale was relief incarnate.
FIVE YEARS LATER – MANHATTAN, NEW YORK
Titus sat propped against the headboard, his 3-year-old son nestled against his chest, completely absorbed in the story of Max and his wild rumpus.
The copy of Where the Wild Things Are (gifted by Auntie Ursula) was being read for what had to be the thousandth time. The original gift was a first edition copy for 'display only,' currently sitting on a custom-built walnut bookshelf with a note inside from Uncle Conrad that read: "If he spills juice on it, we’ll simply buy another. Childhood should not be constrained by scarcity." Your son, blissfully unaware of the book’s value, had once used it as a ramp for his toy firetruck.
"Again!" his son demanded as Titus closed the book, his small fists clenching with the desperation only a toddler could muster.
"You have school tomorrow, buddy. It's past your bedtime."
His son's face crumpled in protest—a perfect mirror of your stubborn expression, down to the exact furrow of the brow. Titus lasted approximately 6 seconds before caving completely.
"One more," he sighed, already flipping back to the beginning. "Just one."
Twenty minutes later, after a second book (a pop-up version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar), Titus finally managed to extract himself from his son's room. He kissed the boy's forehead, whispered goodnight, and quietly closed the door. He found you sitting up in bed, re-reading the De Occulta Philosophia libri III by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, hand resting on the swell of your belly. Titus found it intoxicating…the way you could lecture on ethics and consequence one moment, then move through the woods during a hunt with lethal grace the next. Your mind, your courage, your refusal to be intimidated by the world he'd been born into. There was something deeply, inexplicably sexy about it: the woman who taught the world about morality while living in its margins. The contradiction itself was arousing—the duality of you. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve you, and he suspected he never would.
The moment he entered, you looked up at him with an expression that could have frozen the Hudson River solid.
"Don't," you said flatly.
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to do something. I can see it on your face."
Titus held up his hands in surrender as he changed into sleep clothes.
"Storytime was longer than usual," you observed.
"I read him one more book. He gave me your eyes and deployed them as a weapon. I'm a weak man."
"You're a pushover," you corrected, turning a page with perhaps more force than necessary.
He slid into bed beside you carefully because these days, he moved around you like you were made of spun glass. Pregnancy had been harder on you this time with more aches, more exhaustion, more hormones. The family doctor had made the fatal mistake of using the phrase 'geriatric pregnancy,' and you had nearly killed him on the spot when he suggested you stay at home during this pregnancy. You had never wanted the traditional role. Titus had known that from the beginning. No staying home, no surrendering your career or your autonomy. But…Titus had begged you to start maternity leave at 4 months this time. After losing his mother in childbirth (who had been around your age), he was hyper‑vigilant, protective to the point of paranoia, and absolutely unapologetic about it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I'm carrying a small person who has taken up kickboxing as a hobby," you said tersely. "In my ribs."
"She’s spirited," he said proudly. "Very Danforth of her."
You shot him a look that suggested his attempt at levity was not appreciated. Titus didn’t even blink at the look you gave him. He never did anymore. If anything, he seemed almost amused by it…like he’d long ago accepted that your hormones were a force of nature he would simply endure with gratitude.
Why wouldn’t he? You’d given him everything. Your loyalty, your brilliance, your son, and now your daughter. If the price of that devotion was absorbing every hormone-fueled barb you hurled his way, he would endure them all without complaint. Because you had surrendered your very soul to Mr. Le Bail and the traditions of the High Council, which most people would flee screaming from.
You had chosen him. You were his wife.
His.
And Titus would never forget that.
"You know what Ursula and Conrad sent for the nursery?" he tried, pivoting strategies. "A hand-carved Italian crib. From the 1800s. Apparently, it was blessed by a cardinal."
"Those two are ridiculous," you sighed, accepting the privileges that came with being his.
"Completely ridiculous," Titus lied, because it was totally the type of gift he would give. He was Ursula’s twin after all, and excessive generosity ran in their blood. He reached over to gently place his hand on your belly. "But they're happy. In Paris. No kids. Just art and wine and each other, playing chess at midnight."
His sister had never wanted children. However, she adored being an aunt far too much. Spoiling your son was her sport of choice, and she played it with Olympic‑level dedication.
"Must be nice," you murmured. "Why did we decide to do the whole kid thing again?"
Titus's mouth quirked into that familiar smirk...the one that had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
"Well," he said, leaning closer, "the making them part is fun. Very fun, if I recall correctly. Especially how we made our daughter..."
"I seem to remember you being pretty enthusiastic about the idea," you teased.
"Yes. I take full responsibility for participating in the act you initiated," he grinned, giving you a smug look.
You shot him a look… but it was true, because you had begged for his cock that night during a vacation in Mendoza. Your daughter was conceived (accidentally) from an orgasm that had crashed through you without warning, a sharp, blinding wave that tore a cry from your throat while Titus filled you up, moaning your name after a wine-filled dinner.
He reached out, placing a warm hand on your belly. Your daughter responded immediately with a firm kick.
"You’re going to spoil her just like you spoil him," you exhaled, half‑annoyed, half‑fond.
"Oh, absolutely," Titus said. "I plan to be intolerable about it."
He leaned over carefully and kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your perfect belly. "Goodnight, my princess. Go easy on your mother." From inside, there was another kick against his palm. She loved his voice.
"She says no promises," you translated dryly.
"Let’s get you a nice massage tomorrow."
"The one from that woman in Tribeca?"
Titus's smirk was slow and deliberate. He knew exactly which one you meant. The therapist who charged $1200 per session and whose hands were legendary among Manhattan's elite.
"The one you said was 'obscenely expensive' last month?" His voice was warm with amusement.
You felt heat creep up your neck. "My back is killing me, and she's supposed to be the best for pregnant women. I've heard—"
"Say no more." He was already reaching for his phone. "I'll have it arranged for tomorrow afternoon."
"Titus, you can't just—"
"Already done." He set the phone down, that satisfied smile still playing at his lips. "3 o'clock."
You wanted to argue. You should have argued. There was a time when you would have. When you had practically cried moving out of your Harlem apartment, when you had fought him tooth and nail over every luxury he tried to press into your hands. You wanted to earn your life, not have it handed to you like some kept woman.
So he compromised. He sold his Upper East Side penthouse and let you pick the neighborhood—the charming $15 million brownstone in Greenwich Village you fell in love with at first sight. He let you design every room, choose every detail. Titus let you make it yours. And somewhere between fighting him and building a home with him, you had stopped seeing his generosity as weakness and started seeing it as devotion.
"You're getting soft," he murmured, watching you with those beautiful eyes of his. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "My queen, accepting her crown at last."
"I'm being practical," you corrected, but there was no heat in it. "My back hurts. The massage is medical."
"Of course it is." His hand drifted down to rest on your belly again, right where your daughter was growing. "And tomorrow, after your 'medical massage', we're having dinner at that new place in SoHo you mentioned.
That place was impossible to get into. "Titus—"
"Already booked." He kissed your temple. "You're carrying my child. You get whatever you want."
You should have protested. You should have reminded him about normalcy… but instead, you leaned into him and let yourself enjoy the feeling of being taken care of by a man who would move mountains for you and your children.
"You're going to ruin me," you whispered. He already had, but he didn't need to know that.
"Absolutely," he agreed. "That's the plan."
Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | You're reading the final part
Thank you for following me on this journey! <3 I really struggled with this "finale", so I hope it delivered! I ended up using a scene I deleted and archived weeks ago. The writing process is a struggle.
BONUS: DAD TITUS! LOOK AT HIS SMILEY FACE <3. Thank you @wesandresons for these cutie shots of my husband.
