Hello, I'm Drew! Welcome and thank you for stopping by. You may know me from my main @itsdrewharrison (formerly @drewharrisonwriter) This is my new side-blog where you’ll find all my old and new stories gathered in one place.
Some of my writing may contain explicit 18+ scenes, so please read mindfully and only engage with content you’re comfortable with. Everything here comes from my own imagination and passion for storytelling, and while I do my best, I’m still learning and growing with every post.
Your kindness and respect mean the world to me, and I’m grateful to have you here. 💜
Header & Dividers I used are from @saradika-graphics
Dieter Bravo
Friends Without Benefits - (One-Shot) Even if you don't believe it, Dieter Bravo is actually capable of having platonic friendships.
Life Well Loved - (One-Shot) Dieter Bravo’s life proves that plans are overrated—and he’s never been more right about not having one.
Lifeline - (Series, rewriting) After basically being dropped and rejected by every PR agency in Hollywood for being such a huge liability, Dieter Bravo must work on resetting his public image in the most unexpected ways.
A Better Man - (One-Shot) Dieter goes back to a place he knows so well just to get a glimpse of a life he could have had.
Friend with Benefits - (One-Shot) Dieter finally fesses up to his long-time best friend about his feelings.
Joel Miller
Softer - (One Shot) Marriage has been good to Joel—he’s happier, softer, and maybe a little pudgier.
On The Mend - (Mini Series, Finished) You were having a really, really bad day in the midst of the scorching Austin summer, and seeing your ex boyfriend, Joel Miller, is the last thing you need.
Our Little Life - (One Shot) Set in a small Texas town during the 1940s, Joel Miller, a grieving widower and father, is thrust into a marriage of convenience with the Reverend's pregnant daughter, Dorothy.
Dave York
Overtime - (One Shot) Preparation for an investor presentation kept you and your boss Dave York working overtime.
Javi Pena
What Matters - (One Shot) A late-night errand to the convenience store forced you to confront everything you thought you'd left behind
Please be advised that this story contains mature themes and explicit content. I do not own the characters, core themes, or the world of "Heated Rivalry".
Summary: Joel teaches you a different kind of sex.
Warnings: 18+. FIRST TIME ANAL, NO ONE LOOK AT ME!!!! Need all my backdoor baddies behind me on this one, both literally and figuratively. Unprotected p-in-a. Daddy kink. Breeding kink. Assplay. Salad tosser!Joel. Olive oil used as lube because this is, unfortunately, the apocalypse, and all sex shops are out of business.
Note: Any and all characters written in this story are adults. Reader is described as having grown up in isolation, without access to formal education, and as such, her understanding of the human body and sexual reproduction is limited. This is not a reflection of her intelligence or her ability to learn the topics.
Another note: This is a semi-sequel to Birds & Bees :-)
One more note: I’m on Instagram now (kinda), come say hi!
Word count: 6.3k
This was always the most difficult time of the month.
For Joel, anyway, it was pure misery day in and day out
Why? No reason other than it being the hardest to resist you. When you’d wake up all fidgety and hot and wanting him, and that burning sensation wouldn’t subside until long past your bedtime. Even in your sleep, to the man’s teeth-gritting dismay, that body lying next to his would inevitably wind up moving just as needily grinding up against him, and he’d feel powerless to its charms. He would have to relent.
Capitulation wouldn’t bother him so much if it didn’t mean you were ten times more likely to get pregnant.
“Ovu-la-tion,” you’d sounded out for him one morning, lips forming the most perfect ‘o’s and ‘u’ while you did.
It was in moments like those that Joel regretted teaching you sex at all. Giving you knowledge about your biological makeup and function certainly had its purpose, to be sure, but when he’d gone so far as to show you—how fucking sweet you’d looked peering up at him, then murmuring, ‘Show me where it goes?’—well, he’d just as well have gone out back and shot himself in the foot. The act probably would’ve been less painful and left him with fewer places scarred than what he endured each time he had to turn you away.
“Done told you about a hundred times now, honey, that kinda lovin’ leads to babies if we ain’t careful this time of month. Y’think we need a new mouth to feed?”
It killed him to say it.
Hell, deep down, there wasn’t a thing in the world he wanted to see more than a couple of rugrats with your pretty eyes and smile crawling around, pestering him.
But this wasn’t the time for that.
You’d pout and you’d clamp your legs together, tell him he was so mean, and why’d you even bother teachin’ me this stuff if we can’t do it when we both really want to? Joel would smile and smooth a hand over the crown of your head. He’d kiss your cheek and remind you he had fingers and a tongue, too, and more often than not, you would begrudgingly accept that offer.
Today, you were considerably more hardheaded and ornery. Everything seemed to be making you mad since you’d set off from Jackson an hour ago, and there wasn’t a lick else for Joel to do other than to—
“Fuck you,” you cursed, kicking a stump.
You’d almost just tripped over it.
Joel was leading the way home after a successful supply run in town and a visit with Tommy and Maria, and you appeared to be even more upset to leave than you normally were. You’d all but torn a tree limb the length of your body off of a nearby offending oak just fifteen minutes ago, and your impatience with nature was evidently only growing the longer you walked on.
The old man smothered a smile as he turned to you.
“Alright there, sweet pea?” he said.
“Nope,” you huffed at him, low.
Joel turned back to the path and pretended not to hear you threaten the life of some shrubbery by the wayside
He might’ve carried on like this for another two hours, at least. Surely the forty-five minutes that were left in your journey home would’ve been a cakewalk—and more than a little entertaining to him, despite the sharp pang of need he felt, too. When he was outdoors, and he was moving, and he didn’t have to stare for too long at your face or your body or the little swishing movements of your dress as you walked, he was fine. Or OK, anyway, and able to play it cool.
“I wish you’d bought me a bigger dildo.”
As soon as you said it, Joel choked.
Alright, so he wasn’t perfect.
“Hon, what did I say about—”
“Yeah, yeah. You told me don’t say nothin’ too ‘graphic’ about our sex life when we’re not at home, but that doesn’t really matter out here, does it?” You stopped in place, and that made him stop, too. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. I can say I get fucked every day—”
“Baby.”
“—except when you’re scared of knockin’ me up!”
It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t also painfully true.
If Joel wasn’t currently watching you shrug off your knapsack, drop the thing to the forest floor like a bag of potatoes, and glare at him as if he were maybe the single meanest man alive, he might’ve even laughed.
Then you dropped to your knees. Right there in the middle of the clearing the two of you had just been trying to cross, you went and reached inside your bag.
He’d bought it as a precaution—this…gadget.
On the nights that he knew he’d have to spend away from home for patrol or a hunt or just some emergency run to Jackson that he couldn’t have you join him on, Joel had bought you a little toy to keep you company.
Especially in times like these, when you were horny and heated as you’d ever been, it had seemed ideal.
He just wished you hadn’t chosen an open field almost an hour away from home as the first place to pull it out.
“Sweetheart,” Joel said, tone now appreciably firmer. “You ain’t gettin’ down in the dirt and…and…playin’ with yourself with that brand new toy daddy got, OK?”
But it was too late.
You’d already taken it out.
The man deserved to be punished a little bit.
What, did he think he could just open up a whole new universe of debauchery and pleasure and then shut you out of it whenever he damn well pleased? Of course, Joel had taught you about consent and how each party to ‘playtime’ between adults needed to give it enthusiastically in order for their actions to be considered sex at all, but you weren’t asking him to participate if he didn’t want to. You weren’t begging for permission, either. You just wanted to act on the natural impulses you felt inside yourself and not be treated like some kind of freak for wanting relief.
So you would fuck yourself, plain and simple.
Only it wasn’t so simple, really.
Joel had instructed you on intercourse, giving and receiving head, touching your partner in their erogenous zones, and knowing how and when to cum—many, many times since he’d first taught you in the spring—but he hadn’t shown you how to fit this thing.
You were slicker than an oil spill between your legs. The skirt of your dress was flipped up, and the pale ivory material was spilling out over the ground beneath you. Your panties were off, and your cunt was on full display.
Joel was perched between your knees, hovering.
A sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow, and you could see the moisture beading at his temples before they slid down, rolling slow to reach his beard where a sea of silver and black consumed each droplet. Lined and weathered and pathetic was the face peering down at that treasure inside you. Brown eyes blinked slow, as if in a trance, and a tongue darted out to wet his lips every now and again.
If this wasn’t power, you weren’t sure what was. Smiling sweetly, you moved the tip of the bright pink toy down your seam and wriggled your hips a little.
You pretended like it was for dramatic effect and not because you had no fucking idea how to fit a dildo inside you and actually make it feel like sex would.
“Lemme lick her some,” Joel said, lowering his head. He was on his stomach, and his face might’ve been a foot and a half away from your drooling, aching heat.
It would be so easy…
Just a couple strokes from his tongue, maybe a finger or three pumping in and out of you. Groans rumbling between your thighs and in no time, you’d find bliss.
But that wasn’t the point of all this, was it?
The point was self-sufficiency.
Not needing anybody else.
In keeping with this thought, you spread your legs even wider and began to push the tip of the toy to your core.
It made it less than a centimeter before it met with resistance. At the same time, Joel let out a strangled:
“S-Sweetheart. Baby, let me show you.”
“No.”
“But darlin’, you’re gonna hurt yourse—”
“So?”
With your other hand, you began to play with your clit.
Maybe a little pain wasn’t the worst thing to feel now.
A breathy moan slipped out of you, and you could just tell that the less-than-secret Sex Ed professor in Joel was dying inside. He couldn’t bear the thought of something hard and phallic that wasn’t his penis brushing against your velvety walls unless he had some sort of say in it. He wanted to teach you again.
“Pussy’s too…fuck.” He watched the silicone sink in half an inch before your hole forced it back out, leaking. “She’s too fuckin’ tight. Needs daddy to stretch her out a little, get her ready for the fun, huh?”
“Nuh-uh. I can take it.”
This time, you gripped the base of the thick, veiny fake cock and pushed up—three or four inches, all at once.
“Fuck, daddy,” you whimpered. “Oh, that’s so good.”
And that was all it took, apparently.
Three and a half inches, two seconds, and one soft, pleading look from you had Joel changing his mind. Or deciding something, at the very least. He flipped you.
He caught your pink toy slipping back out and held it.
“Hands an’ knees, baby. All fours, yeah. Jus’ like that.”
You could barely breathe, let alone process the words being spoken to you, but somehow you managed to follow his orders. Your mind was swimming with lust and a bone-crushing need, your body pulsing with a warmth unlike anything you’d felt in a while. That sensation would come in waves during the time of the month you were most sensitive, when you were ovulating, though those moments were all short-lived.
Now Joel was indulging you in the feeling, and really dragging it out. Not only touching you but filling you up with something that wasn’t just his tongue or his fingers. You kneeled there, awed, and you could feel your fingers curling into the grassy earth beneath you.
You arched your back, dropping down to your elbows.
And Joel took control of that toy, sawing it in and out of your dripping pussy with practiced, near-perfect precision. Even as his hold shook a little, when the grip of his free hand on your ass tightened and you heard him mutter, low, ‘Fuck, that’s it, pretty girl. Take it all inside,’ he stayed focused on you. It went in deep.
It wasn’t him, but it was close, and Joel was kind.
“Lemme stretch her out. Make her feel real nice.”
Your cunt was making loud sucking sounds with each withdrawal and entry of the dildo, and your legs had started to shake. You clawed at the grass, whimpering.
“Da—ah— d-daddy.”
“There’s a good girl. Always so sweet openin’ f’me.”
Sometimes you swore you could finish from Joel’s words alone. His timbre, his control, the way he spread your cheeks open and spit—it all made you feel filthy in the best way. In your current hormonal state, wildfire blazing through your limbs, you couldn’t help yourself.
Half-cockdrunk and ovulation-crazed: “More—More, Daddy. Want your cock in me. Fuck me now, p-please.”
“You can’t have ‘im, baby. Ain’t safe right n—”
“But you wanna fuck, too, don’t you?”
Now you were peering over your shoulder, looking up at him. Joel was watching you back with an almost mournful expression, and you could tell he wasn’t just teasing you when he spoke. He felt genuine remorse.
“‘Course I do, baby,” he answered without hesitation. “I always do. Jus’ wanna do what’s…what’s right f’you.”
At the same time, you pushed your hips back a little.
Joel’s crotch was aligned with your ass, and as soon as you moved, a big, heavy, denim-clad bulge kissed you back. It bumped the dildo even deeper, and you hissed.
Joel groaned at the contact, gaze snapping down.
“What’s safe…” His words trailed off in a breath.
A barely coherent murmur: “What’s…what’s…”
You ground your bottom even harder against his front, the base of your toy no doubt bobbing back and forth.
Self-sufficient. Easy.
“Sweetheart.”
In and out.
“Daddy, I want it,” you pouted.
More friction.
More pleasure sprouting between your legs, tightening in your core and all but forcing the sentence out of you:
Your mind was spinning perilously, not really forming any logical thoughts, but the concepts were there: your pussy, your mouth, between your tits, up and down.
Joel had started to move his lower half in time with yours—pantomiming thrusting. Grinding even harder when you dropped your head and let out a needy sound and begged him, ‘Put him anywhere, daddy.’
Joel’s hips jerked forward, and he cursed.
“Anywhere, baby?” he said, breathless.
He was dry-fucking you in doggy now.
The dildo was still lodged in your pussy, and Joel was still fully clothed, but he started to move as if he had really mounted you and was splitting your cunt, or something, open on his cock. He humped you like an animal in heat, grunting and groaning and holding your body as if it was the last thing tethering him to Earth.
Feeling equally feral, you turned your head again, and you asked him in a tone as sweet as you could manage:
“Please, Joel?”
He was going to explode.
You are not fucking her in the ass, Joel told himself. You are not doing that. Not now, not later, not ever.
Better late than never, you thought with a smile.
After verbally sparring with the man for all of five minutes—arguing that you should, in fact, use some ‘loophole’ that would keep you from getting pregnant—Joel had agreed. Angrily. Seeming to hate himself for it
“This is not somethin’ you do on a whim, hon,” he’d groused, scrubbing his beard in a slow, worried way.
He’d opened his satchel anyway. Rifled around in the thing before procuring a bottle of something sleek and sloshing. Your gut had twisted, but you’d felt eager, too
You hadn’t been entirely clear on what this kind of sex entailed, but if it was anything like the first time Joel had taught you, you sensed that you would enjoy it.
“So you just…put ‘im someplace new, is that right?”
“Ain’t like that.” Joel had shook his head.
“But—”
“No ‘buts,’” he’d interrupted at once. Poured the liquid from the bottle into his palm, the stuff gleaming in the sunlight a pale yellow hue. “‘F’we do it, we do it slow.”
So that was how you and him were doing it.
Slow.
Now you were perched at the edge of a riverbank, your gaze drifting lazily with the flow of a stream no more than four or five feet away from you and a sense of gentle, calming quiescence filtering through your system. On all fours again, you felt comfortable.
Joel had rolled out a blanket for the two of you to take your places and was careful to secure a new spot away from the beaten path, under the shade of a stand of aspens. Both of you had stripped. With the hand that wasn’t lathered up, Joel rubbed circles into your back.
“You sure you don’t mind doin’ things a little different today, baby?” His voice was low, almost grave. “Won’t do nothin’ unless you like it—I want you to know that.”
And if your body hadn’t already gone half-limp with all the pressure and the pleasure this man was inflicting on your muscles through his soft, kneading motions, you might’ve turned around and faced him. Smiled and said something like, ‘Don’t be silly, daddy. I like it all.’
Your contented hum evidently conveyed that well enough, because the next thing you knew, there was a new force beneath the kneading, between your thighs.
Solid, wet pressure you were more than familiar with.
“Daddy,” you giggled, body jerking forward a little at the sensation of him licking through your folds. “‘S’ain’t— ain’t no different! We always do this!”
At first, Joel didn’t answer—he simply tracked his tongue down the length of your seam from behind and lapped wetness from it. Nosed further between your legs and used his beard to stimulate the extra sensitive skin while he nipped at your slit, kissed your aching clit, and sucked your essence with the sweetest fervor. It didn’t take much for the arms holding yourself up to grow weak, then, and shortly, you were moving down onto your elbows with your rear pointed up at Joel.
He speared your dripping, quivering cunt with that tease of a muscle repeatedly, in and out again and again while you shuddered against him and sighed.
He maneuvered the hand that was coated in that slimy substance, finally, and started palming your ass with it.
“Daddy…p—please…I want…”
Joel paused just long enough to unglue his mouth from your pussy: “Want what, now, darlin’? What?”
You wriggled again, and you let out a dramatic huff.
“You know what,” you told him, words a plea. You rooted your bare knees even deeper into the blanket, and you canted your hips up. Pushing back onto him. “Wanna come, and I want…want you to be…inside.”
“That so?”
And to your surprise, you heard a chuckle, soft and low
At almost the same time, the hand covered in the slick, oily stuff started sliding down your ass again, inward, sliding through not just your folds but the entire cleft.
Joel knelt again.
Put his tongue to work again.
And for a second, you wanted to rebuff him…again.
Felt tempted to kick your feet and say this lickin’ ain’t any special or different, daddy! Sure ain’t no loopho—
“Oh.”
You froze.
Stared straight at the river and watched it churn and gurgle and flow and saw none of what was going on, really, because you’d just been hit with a new feeling.
Realization.
Penetration somewhere else.
You couldn’t even wonder at where that originated. Your legs clamped together, and you let out a breath.
“Wh— Why’re you lickin’ there, daddy?” you stuttered.
Joel’s hum vibrated through your center all the way to your teeth, causing them to grind together while you tried making sense of this novel feeling. Whimpering.
A few more featherlight, languid licks from Joel, then:
“Need it wet back here if I wanna play with her, right?”
“But that’s not my—”
“I know, baby.”
After Joel’s, your next words were swallowed up in a moan when the man started tracing circles—making an outline of a ring, again and again—and it was all you could do to keep from rutting your hips in helplessness
Ever the patient teacher, Joel stroked your back with the hand that was dry, again, and gave you a second to soak it in. With the hand that was coated in slick, he followed after his tongue with just the fingertips rubbing, coaxing the flesh. Prodding it to open.
“See, this hole doesn’t self-lubricate like your pussy does, sweetheart,” Joel said, near-pedagogical now. “No matter how turned on you are, it’s never gonna get all drippy and wet and pliant on its own. ‘S’why I gotta coach her along. Make sure she’s nice and slicked up.”
“But why?” you squeaked, reflexive. “For— For what?”
“For this.”
Then Joel slid something inside—not his tongue.
It edged in once, maybe half an inch, then slid back out. And in again, deeper, before retreating to the rim and toying with the muscles you felt clamp in unison.
“Try to relax, darlin’. Only makes it harder if you don’t.”
“But how come?” You squirmed. “Feels funny, daddy.”
Joel took a beat, and for that moment, he didn’t move. Just held whatever he’d stuck in you—presumably, his finger—and he didn’t poke or push you again, just held the tip tight to your puckered ring and hummed softly.
“Y’know the stuff I put on my hand?” he asked.
“Some…Some kinda oil, I guess?”
“Olive oil, that’s right, baby. It ain’t ideal, I’ll admit,” Joel paused, and it felt like he was shifting around. Adjusting his grip, maybe, until you sensed what felt like his thumb pressed up against that slicked place. “Back in the old days, they made real, um…gooey stuff special for doing things like this. Called lube, OK?”
OK. You nodded, still too off-kilter to look behind you.
Suddenly, swiftly, Joel’s thumb started to rub a little.
And you couldn’t say why your body jumped the way that it did, but you jolted before you could even try to keep it in. You mewled like some kind of strange and wanton creature, and you pushed your hips backward.
Embarrassment gripped you almost immediately.
Blinking hard and staring straight ahead, you shook your head, “‘M’sorry. Sorry. Don’t know why I did that.”
“Aw, honey,” Joel cooed. “Baby. Don’t apologize, OK?”
Still, your face was hot. You hated how you’d sounded.
“Would you turn around and look at me, sweetheart?”
Slowly, you did.
Behind you, your old man was perched on his knees, with a serene and gentle expression on his face. The fine lines and wrinkles had smoothed considerably, and what was left behind looked like understanding.
Wanting, too.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, what we’re doin’,” he started, slow. He rubbed a big, slick hand over your skin, and your whole body warmed in response to it. “Might make some different sounds, ‘cause Daddy’s playin’ with a whole different hole, and that’s OK. What’s important is that you like what’s happenin’.”
A brief beat of silence.
“That’s…consent, right?” you said shyly.
Joel grinned. “Yeah, darlin’. That’s consent.”
Consent when he edged in his finger to the knuckle next. Consent when he sawed it in and out, and twirled it around. Consent when he added a second, then a third, then quit the stretching altogether and just bent down to latch his mouth onto your wet, quivering ring.
He kissed it and licked it and laved it in saliva. Spit on it more than a couple times. His beard must’ve been drenched by then, but Joel didn’t seem keen on stopping for a while, judging by his grip on you.
Meanwhile, you were amped to no fucking end.
“Oh, daddy,” you hissed out a sigh of pleasure when his tongue slipped back inside, all the way and wriggling. “Daddy, put it—put him in, now.”
Joel grunted and retracted his tongue.
“You sure you’re ready for it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And where do you want daddy inside?”
“Um.”
You snagged your bottom lip between your teeth.
It felt wrong to say it, so you simply pushed your knees wider apart. Arched your spine, blinking back up at him
“There,” you whispered, wiggling your hips.
“Darlin’, you’re gonna have to say the place out loud if you want me to fuck it, OK? That’s all part of the deal.”
“But daddy.”
“I need you to get comfortable with stuff you think is wrong or ‘taboo,’” Joel continued, gentle but firm. “Don’t want you gettin’ halfway through and thinkin’ maybe you shouldn’t’a done it, and feel ashamed.”
Maybe that was part of it.
Maybe you did feel a little embarrassed that your body was currently in flames, and you wanted this man inside you so badly that you’d accept him anywhere, anyplace, even if you hadn’t the faintest idea how—
“Baby.” Joel interrupted your thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me all the places we’ve already done it.”
Your cheeks warmed reflexively.
“We…we’ve…”
“In your pussy?”
You nodded back.
“Between your tits?”
“Y-Yeah. There, too.”
“And…?” Joel trailed off.
“And…” You stared back at him, cheek resting on your forearms and your naked ass still up high by his face. Admittedly, this did feel a little enervating. But you tried to bite the embarrassment with a little smile. “You’ve…put ‘im in my mouth—fucked my throat, too.”
Joel grinned back. You took that as your cue to go on.
“And um…well, I’ve sat on your face. Rode your…thigh a little bit before. And you’ve rubbed your cock, like, between my legs until you spilled all over my pussy.”
“Anything else?”
“We did that ‘69’ thingy.”
You were pretty sure that was all of it.
Joel hadn’t been teaching you for that long. Compared to him, anyway, your experience was but a blip on the radar, and you had a good ways to go before you could say you were anywhere near as knowledgeable as him.
You peered curiously at your teacher; he peered back.
“Now, can you be a good girl and say where daddy’s goin’ next?” Joel goaded you gently. Edging in closer.
“In my, um…” You couldn’t help it when your face heated again. You braced yourself. “In my…backside?”
It sounded dumb as fuck saying it like that.
Surely there had to be a better word than—
“Anal.”
“Anal?”
“Yeah, sweet pea.” Joel smoothed his touch up your spine, then back down again. He rubbed at the muscles that were tensing slightly. “That’s it.”
From your position under him, it was hard to read his face. You couldn’t begin to imagine the look on yours.
When you didn’t say anything at first, still processing that one word, Joel went on—massaging, and talking.
“Old school birth control, I guess you could call it. Probably more effective’n rubbers. And it means daddy can cum as much as he wants, deep as you’ll let ‘im, y’know, cause, uh…y’can’t make a baby in the butt.”
You let out a giggle.
Again, you couldn’t help the reflex.
“Really?”
“Really, really.” Joel smirked.
Solemnity of the moment temporarily suspended by a couple sly, stupid grins and laughter sneaking out between you, Joel dove in. He didn’t drop his whole body weight on top of yours, but he got damn near close with the way he pretended to collapse and his entire torso draped over your back while you kicked and squirmed and bit out, giggling, ‘Get off, daddy!’
You lay flat on the blanket, belly-down, and Joel planted his forearms on either side of your frame, caging you in. He bent down to pepper you with kisses.
“That tickles!” you hissed, chin jerking against the assault of his lips. You writhed and laughed with him.
The little detour couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two, Joel touching and teasing and kissing you in that sweet way he did, and you pretending to be annoyed. But your body relaxed, and you didn’t protest in the slightest when Joel tilted your chin back to him to get a proper kiss. You opened your mouth without thinking, melting under that calm and tender caress.
Warmth crowded you. Something hard pressed into the space between your legs, and you parted your thighs unconsciously. Joel groaned into the kiss.
“Darlin’,” he started, only for his breath to hitch a second later. You’d lifted your hips the slightest bit and pushed back toward him, so the tip of his cock was nudging between your cheeks. “Hey, there’s no rush, OK? Daddy can wait longer if you need more time.”
“I don’t. ‘M’ready now.”
Really, you didn’t understand why Joel seemed so loath to try this with you. Had he changed his mind?
With the side of your face cradled in his big, warm hand, you craned your neck slightly to meet his gaze, and you asked him, quietly, “Do you…not wanna…?”
Joel blinked once.
He looked almost ready to internally combust or blow up when he nodded his head, fast as he ever did before
“Yes. I do. Sweetheart, I wanna be inside you so bad, but this kinda sex…I just get nervous, might hurt y—”
At the same time, you raised your hips again.
With Joel’s broad and bare and massive body blanketing your own, it was hard to push far, but you did well enough. You pressed the blanket for leverage.
You notched the head of Joel’s thick, leaking cock at the entrance it had never breached before—that taut little ring of muscles—and you sank in backward. Slow.
“Oh,” you groaned at the sting, which was immediate.
Joel had been right: it hurt. It wasn’t remotely the same as being penetrated in any other place, and it almost made you want to squirm away with how tight and uncomfortable it felt. The oil barely helped at all.
Then Joel groaned, too. The hand holding your jaw tightened its grip reflexively, and as it did, his cock jerked inside you. He was no more than half an inch in.
“Baby, fuck,” he cursed. “You’re so fuckin’ tight.”
You lips twitched up a little, despite the burn.
“It h-hurts. Feels…weird,” you said honestly.
Joel halted without a moment’s hesitation.
He bit out a soft, rasping apology, ‘’M’sorry, sweetheart. ‘M’sorry. Daddy didn’t mean it.’
And, just as he moved to pull his tip from your achy hole, you eased your hips back onto him again, further.
Your muscles clenched hard against the intrusion—a dull throb spiraled from the spot where Joel was entering you, right up through the column of your spine—and a pitchy whine clawed out of your throat.
You ground your teeth and sucked in a breath, feeling as split open, exposed, and vulnerable as you’d ever been. It didn’t seem like something should go there.
But desire had other plans for you both, apparently.
The plea bled into your tone, covert and quiet.
“Keep goin’, daddy. Please. I want it.”
Your eyes locked with Joel’s, your hips stirring again, and that look communicated everything you needed.
Joel swallowed.
It had to be a relief to him. Dreamlike, almost.
“That right?” he said, slow smile starting back.
And you like it like this, don’t you? was implied.
The first wet drag of your heat down his length was painstakingly slow. You made it halfway to the base when your rim squeezed tight, and you made a face. Pain flared, but only momentarily. Joel was there to hold steady, knees firm on either side of your legs, as he let you take the lead a little. He kissed your neck.
“There’s my brave girl,” he murmured in your ear. “Takin’ it all like a big girl, huh? Like usin’ this hole?”
You nodded, fucking yourself further onto him.
New. Taboo. Stretching out a different place, all because you were ovulating, and this was one of the few ways to make sure pregnancy didn’t happen.
Joel let you sink back until the swell of your ass was kissing the coarse gray hairs at the base of his abdomen. Your hole fluttered and sucked at his cock, and Joel’s grip flexed on your jaw. His hold lowered.
And, just as the muted sting had begun to settle in your stomach, reality of what was going on and how you were taking him gradually touching your conscious brain, you felt fingers press your throat. They were gentle, not forceful. Just testing your level of comfort.
“Where’s daddy, baby?” he murmured softly.
“In my ass,” you answered. Holding his gaze.
He squeezed more, groaning when you squeezed back.
“You like takin’ cock up there, sweetheart?”
“Yes, daddy. Love—Love feelin’ you here.”
And it was strange—the harder he held you to him then, the more he stretched you and made you want to whimper and writhe on the blanket, the better it got. The more pressure he applied and the more possessive he seemed to get with each aching second that passed, the easier that weight felt inside you.
The deeper desire burned when Joel lifted up and dragged his cock with it, tip sliding to your entrance.
You wanted him sheathed back inside you.
You wanted to take some control yourself.
So, before the old man could make the next move and ease back in, you pushed up swiftly. You heard, and you felt, a wet squelch as your channel spread to accommodate his girth all at once. It burned a bit.
“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” Joel cursed.
“Like that, daddy,” you whimpered.
You turned your head so you were facing the river again, fingers curling into the worn, plaid material of the blanket beneath you. Joel lifted slightly, as if unsure what else to do but needing more, and you obliged by sliding back. And forth. Rutting your hips and rubbing your raw, wet hole up and down his shaft.
You didn’t ride Joel often. He was usually the more dominant one, wanting to take charge and fuck you senseless. But today, on this sweet, quiet, balmy summer afternoon, you made the man pant and groan and grip your throat helplessly while you used your taut, yet-untouched orifice to drive him out of his mind
Pleasure sparked low in your body, in a place you didn’t think it was possible to feel it. The pain turned sweeter.
It wasn’t like it disappeared altogether, but it did become something you could use to get yourself off.
That, on top of Joel’s strangled, labored words right next to your ear, damn near pushed you over the edge.
“Pussy must be feelin’ extra lonely seein’ daddy love all on this other hole, ain’t she, sweet pea?” Joel shifted, lifting your hips higher to fit his hand between your thighs. He groaned at the contact. “Can feel her leakin’ somethin’ awful—like she’s achin’ to be stuffed, too.”
Now he was meeting your thrusts; they got weaker and sloppier while he took two fingers to your clit and started rotating them over the swollen little nub.
Euphoria blinded you for a moment. Your body jerked, teeth sank into your bottom lip, and you cried, hoarse.
“Fuck me, daddy, please.”
You didn’t care which hole.
Your bodies were colliding, grinding in frantic tandem with one another and making the most obscene sounds as you did. Joel’s strokes were maddeningly shallow, like he couldn’t keep out of your warmth more than an inch or two before he needed to be driving back in, scraping your insides and fucking you fast.
“Wanna fill you in both, next time,” Joel said, almost helplessly. Rutting in harder with each new word. “Stuff that pretty pink dildo in your pussy while I take your ass, or the other way around, whatever y’want.”
Your eyes squeezed closed at the thought. Stars burst behind the lids while Joel fucked you relentlessly, and you pictured getting plugged up by both your toy and his cock, and you almost hit your peak in the moment.
Then your eyes opened again, and Joel had lowered his head beside yours. He tilted your chin to him with the hand that was still on your throat, pressing tenderly despite how hard he was pounding you from behind.
“How’s that sound, sweet pea?” He smiled.
You trusted him.
You nodded your head.
Then, in what felt like it might’ve been out of place with any other man but him, you kissed. Deeply. You parted your lips, let Joel’s tongue invade your mouth, and you absorbed every grunt and moan and praise while you did the same with those quick, sharp thrusts. The dichotomy was so dizzying you almost didn’t hear the good girl, and sweet, perfect thing, takin’ all o’me.
His words were so continuous and sweet, and your orgasm was so rapidly approaching that you almost didn’t say what was humming in your skull, presently.
But it came out before you could try to stop it.
“In—In my pussy next time,” you panted from the kiss. Staring at him. “Want you to come inside me, a-and—”
Joel’s cock throbbed inside your ass, and he groaned.
“Baby. Please. Don’t say it.”
You knew he wanted to hear it, though; it was just a matter of how dangerous the declaration would be once it left your lips and hung in the air between you.
The knot of pleasure in your stomach swelled to the size of a fist. Your body shook with each thrust Joel delivered, and the sweet feeling curled your toes, made drool start to peak out of either corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were as soft as they’d probably ever been peering up at Joel then, watching him stare right back.
Your insides squeezed, and he drove in even faster.
Joel’s lips couldn’t have been more than an inch away while he held you to him, knit his brows, and practically heaved the next breath out while he hammered at you.
“Don’t wanna…play it safe next time?” he groaned.
You shook your head.
“Want me to come inside your pussy next month?”
Your soft yes, and its result, could’ve ended you both.
As soon as you said it, recognition that was pregnant with meaning filtered between you, and your bodies drew even tighter. Joel leaned in to kiss again, needy as you’d ever seen him, the muscles of that sweet, slippery ring choked his cock from root to tip as he stabbed in repeatedly, and you kissed back, grinning.
He erupted inside you not long after your hole spasmed and your body went lax under him, spent. You felt him fuck his seed deep in your ass and relished the feeling, while also picturing it leaking somewhere else.
Ovulation was a dangerous fucking thing.
Joel pulled out, fingering the warm, white, gooey stuff right back into your fucked-raw channel when it started to dribble out. He kissed behind your ear.
He pressed his length flat against your lower back, wet with fluids and nowhere close to going soft after the events that had just transpired—with the thoughts that were no doubt humming through his head same as you
Over your shoulder, you met his gaze, the smile on your lips a little sleepier but no less eager than it was before.
“Well,” you said, low, “I can’t wait for next month.”
Summary: A family emergency turns out to be Eloise with a plan, your hormones have officially entered their dramatic era, and Harry decides to do something dangerously romantic about it. Unfortunately, the past has plans too.
Warnings and WC: 19.8k (yes, I missed writing this much 😌) 18+ MDNI / mature themes, time-jump, fluff, kissing, emotional intimacy, secret beach wedding, surprise wedding, private vows, second wedding / remarriage, Harry becomes the most romantic man alive because his very pregnant fiancée cried over a movie, overly emotional pregnant reader, comedy, hormonal crying, pregnancy cravings, twins gender reveal, high-risk twin pregnancy, pregnant reader, body changes, protective daddy-to-be!Harry, overprotective husband energy, soft Harry hours, second chance romance, exes to lovers, established relationship, mention about orgasm, billionaire romance, rich people problems, elite Manhattan society, family therapy ambush, Eloise being Eloise, family dynamics, childhood wounds, emotional distress, hurt/comfort, pregnancy complications, early labor scare, domestic fluff, banter, humor, old money aesthetics, private love vs public image, OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant), Eloise=Harry’s Grandmother.)
authors note: My loves, this chapter kept growing while I was writing it, and I can't believe it almost passed 20k. I almost split it into two parts… but changed my mind. It's officially the longest chapter I've ever written, and I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it. Enjoy! ❤️
• The Songs: Stand By Me — Florence + The Machine
You are the Reason — Olivia Penalva
What Belongs to You Will Find Its Way Back
April 13th...
Rhinebeck, New York
Three black cars swept up the long drive to Rhinebeck as though bad news had learned to travel in formation.
From the back seat of the first, you watched the estate emerge through the trees—gray stone, climbing ivy, and tall windows catching the last pale light of the afternoon.
It had always looked peaceful from a distance.
Today, it looked like the kind of place where families gathered to hear something they would never forget.
Harry hadn't let go of your hand since Ron received the call. His fingers remained tightly threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slowly over your engagement ring and across your knuckles in a steady rhythm that was probably meant to calm you.
It wasn't working.
Not when his jaw had been locked for the past forty minutes.
Harry had walked out of a meeting without his coat, picked you up before you'd even had time to change, and ordered the driver toward Rhinebeck without waiting for another explanation.
Across from you, Ron sat unusually still, his phone dark in his hand. He'd already called the house twice.
Both times, Eloise's nurse had given him the same answer.
Mrs. Castillo had suffered a difficult morning. She wanted the family in Rhinebeck immediately.
Nothing more.
"Did she sound frightened?" you asked again.
Ron looked up. "The nurse?"
"Yes."
"She sounded controlled."
"That wasn't my question."
Ron hesitated a fraction too long. Harry's grip tightened around your hand. You turned toward him. "Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital."
"If she needed a hospital, her nurse would've sent her to one," Harry said evenly. "She knows what she's doing." His voice was calm. Deliberately calm.
It might've convinced anyone else.
Not you.
Harry was terrified. He was simply doing everything he could to keep that fear from reaching you. "Eloise is probably fine," he continued, his thumb brushing over your hand again. "It could be exhaustion. A medication adjustment. Anything."
"You don't believe that."
His gaze met yours. "I believe worrying before we know anything won't help you or the babies."
"I'm all right." You leaned closer, covering his hand with yours. "Hey. She's the strongest woman I know. She's going to be okay."
Harry held your gaze for a long moment, as though he wanted to borrow your certainty but wasn't sure how. "She'd better be," he said quietly.
He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before lacing your fingers together once more.
Your free hand drifted instinctively to the gentle curve beneath your dress.
At five months, hiding the pregnancy was no longer possible—not with twins, and certainly not from a man who'd spent the past several weeks monitoring every meal, every yawn, and nearly every step you took.
Harry noticed immediately. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Was that a cramp?"
You smiled. "One of the babies."
"Which one?"
You waited until another tiny flutter danced beneath your palm. "The mischievous one."
Ron blinked. "You can already tell them apart?"
"Of course I can."
"They're identical twins."
"That doesn't mean they have identical personalities."
Another tiny kick answered for you.
You laughed softly. "This one waits until I'm trying to sleep. The other prefers interrupting my calls with Gerard."
Harry considered that. "The second one sounds strategic."
"Definitely a Castillo," Ron said with a smirk.
Harry slowly turned his head. Ron calmly redirected his attention to the window.
Before Harry could answer, the iron gates opened, and the car began its final climb toward the house.
A second car followed close behind.
Through the rear window, you caught a glimpse of your mother and Vivienne sitting side by side, both unnaturally rigid.
Lately, the two women had been spending an astonishing amount of time together.
Ever since you stopped speaking properly to Scarlet... and Harry had grown just as distant from Vivienne.
That, however, was another story.
Probably several.
A third black car turned through the gates.
You frowned. "That's Mikey's car."
Harry glanced over his shoulder.
Ron followed his gaze. "Michael was called as well."
"Of course he was," Harry muttered.
Ron's expression hinted there was more to say. He wisely chose continued employment instead.
The first car rolled to a stop beneath the portico.
Harry was out before the driver had fully opened the door. He rounded the car and offered you his hand. As you stepped out, his other hand instinctively rose above your head, shielding you from the doorframe.
You smiled. "I'm not quite big enough to need help getting out of a car."
"You're carrying our babies." His voice softened. "The least I can do is take care of my queen."
You slipped your hand into his. "You're supervising every limb I own."
Once both your feet were on the gravel, he rested an arm around your waist instead of letting go. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I'm very attached to them," he murmured.
You laughed. "All of them?"
"Every single one."
Behind you, Scarlet and Vivienne climbed out of the second car.
Scarlet looked as though she'd abandoned her reading glasses somewhere along the drive. Vivienne, meanwhile, had lost every trace of color.
Your mother's eyes found yours first. Hope flickered across her face, fragile enough to disappear almost immediately.
She took the smallest step forward. At the same moment, Vivienne looked toward Harry with nearly the same uncertainty.
You felt Harry's arm tighten around your waist. Your fingers quietly found his hand.
No words were exchanged. None were needed. Together, the two of you turned toward the house. Scarlet stopped. Vivienne did too. Ron watched the mothers...
...then their children.
He let out the quietest sigh.
The third car pulled beneath the portico. Sienna stepped out first. Mikey emerged from the opposite side. For one suspended moment...
Neither of them moved. Sienna's hair was slightly less polished than usual. Mikey's tie was missing. The top two buttons of his shirt hung open beneath his coat. He looked exactly like a man who hadn't expected to arrive at his grandmother's estate with Harry Castillo's younger sister.
Harry noticed. Slowly... His attention shifted from Sienna...
...to Mikey.
Mikey straightened immediately. Sienna lifted her chin. Even Scarlet and Vivienne forgot their panic long enough to look between them.
"We ran into each other," Mikey said.
"At lunch," Sienna added a little too quickly.
"She needed a ride."
Vivienne frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be at the gallery all afternoon?"
"I was."
"Then how exactly did you run into Michael at lunch?"
Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Mikey rescued her. "Manhattan becomes a very small place when two people are hungry."
Scarlet's eyes drifted over his missing tie...
...his open collar...
...and finally the restaurant bag still hanging from his hand.
"Apparently."
Ron glanced toward the company sedan assigned exclusively to Mikey.
"A fortunate coincidence."
Harry remained silent. Which, somehow, was much worse. You felt the exact moment suspicion began arranging itself inside his head.
Questions were coming.
Before the first one could leave his mouth, you caught the front of his coat and gave it a gentle tug.
He looked down.
You held his eyes for a beat.
Not now.
His brows drew together. Somehow...He knew you knew something. He also knew this wasn't the place to ask.
You pulled your coat tighter. "Can we go inside? I'm freezing."
Mikey disappeared from Harry's mind instantly.
His arm settled around your shoulders. "Come on."
Together, you headed for the front entrance.
The interrogation disappeared.
For now.
The front doors were already open.
Two members of staff stood inside the foyer, their expressions solemn. The housekeeper held her hands clasped tightly at her waist, while a young footman stared fixedly at the marble floor.
Something about them felt wrong. Not grief.
Performance.
The realization flickered through you and vanished before you could fully grasp it. Perhaps they had simply been instructed not to say anything. Perhaps your fear was making everything seem strange.
“Where is she?” Harry asked.
“Upstairs, sir,” the housekeeper replied softly. “Her nurse is waiting.”
Scarlet moved first.
Her heels struck sharply against the marble as she crossed the foyer, Vivienne close beside her. Sienna and Mikey followed without looking at each other.
Harry kept one hand at your back as you climbed the stairs.
Too slowly for everyone else. Too quickly for him.
His arm tightened every time you reached another step.
“Harry, ” you warned beneath your breath.
“I’m not carrying you.”
“You were thinking about it.”
A reluctant smile touched his mouth.
You would have answered, but Eloise’s nurse appeared at the top of the staircase. Her face was composed. Almost suspiciously composed. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Harry stopped in front of her. “What happened?”
Vivienne stepped beside him. “I was gone for two days. She was perfectly well when I left.”
“She’s resting.”
“That isn’t an answer,” Harry said.
“She asked me not to discuss anything until everyone was present.”
Vivienne looked around sharply. “We are present.”
The nurse’s gaze passed over the group, pausing briefly on Mikey and Sienna before returning to Vivienne.
“Yes,” she said. “You certainly are.”
She turned and led all of you down the corridor. The house had gone unnaturally quiet. No distant clatter from the kitchen. No music from one of the sitting rooms.
Only footsteps and the steady ticking of the old clock near the staircase.
At Eloise’s bedroom door, the nurse paused. “Please try not to upset her.”
Vivienne pressed one hand to her chest. “Oh, God.”
The nurse opened the door. The curtains had been drawn halfway, leaving the room washed in muted silver light. Eloise lay beneath a pale cashmere blanket, her head resting against a mountain of pillows.
Her eyes were closed.
For the first time since the call, Harry released your hand.
He crossed the room in three strides. “Abuela?”
Eloise did not respond.
Vivienne hurried to the other side of the bed. “Mama?”
The rest of you gathered near the footboard. Scarlet reached blindly for your hand, and despite everything that had passed between you, you let her take it.
Sienna stood stiffly beside her. Mikey’s usual restless energy had disappeared completely. Eloise’s nurse closed the door behind all of you.
A long moment passed.
Then Eloise took a faint breath. “Is everyone here?”
Her voice was weak enough to make Harry bend closer. “Yes,” he said immediately. “We’re all here.”
“Scarlet?”
“I’m here,” Scarlet whispered.
“Vivienne?”
“Here, Mama.”
“Sienna?”
“Yes, Abuela.”
“Mikey?”
Mikey blinked. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”
Eloise’s eyes remained closed. “Mi reina?”
You stepped closer, Harry’s hand finding yours again. “I’m here.”
From somewhere near the door, Ron cleared his throat. “For the record, I’m here as well.”
Eloise remained motionless. “Ah, Ronald,” she breathed. “I remembered you.”
Ron gave a small nod.
Eloise released a long, tired sigh. Then her eyes opened.
Clear. Sharp. Entirely alert.
“Bueno,” she said.
Before anyone could react, she pushed herself upright against the pillows with surprising ease, pulled the cashmere blanket neatly over her lap, and held out one hand.
Her nurse placed her reading glasses into it.
Eloise slipped them on and looked around the room, visibly pleased by the collection of pale, frightened faces before her. She clapped her hands together once, bright and decisive. “Everyone is here. Perfect. Then we will not waste Dr. Adler’s time.”
Silence.
The door to the adjoining sitting room opened.
A woman in a navy suit stepped through, carrying a leather notebook and wearing the professionally neutral expression of someone who had already been warned about the family waiting for her.
“Good evening,” she said. “I’m Dr. Vanessa Adler.”
No one moved.
Harry stared at his grandmother. “Abuela.”
Eloise adjusted her glasses. “What?”
“Did you fake a medical emergency?”
Her mouth fell open in theatrical offense. “Fake? Ay, por favor (please). I did no such thing.”
“Your nurse said you’d had a difficult morning.”
“I did. My eggs were cold, the coffee was weak, and none of you have answered a direct question in nearly a month. It was a terrible morning.”
Scarlet made an outraged sound. “We thought you were dying!”
“You frightened all of us,” you added. “We came here expecting the worst.”
“I left an entire boardroom without saying a word,” Harry said.
Sienna folded her arms. “That was cruel, Abuela.”
Mikey whined. “I abandoned my dessert.” Everyone looked at him. “What?” he said. “Grief affects people differently.”
Eloise waved one dismissive hand at all of you.
“Dios mío, look at these faces. At my age, death is always somewhere nearby. I never said it had entered the house.”
Vivienne turned toward the nurse. “You allowed us to believe something had happened to her.”
“I said Mrs. Castillo wished to see the family urgently,” the nurse replied calmly. “That was accurate.”
“You trapped us,” Sienna said.
Eloise looked at her over the rim of her glasses. “Had I said, ‘Come to Rhinebeck, niños, there is a therapist waiting to discuss your feelings,’ would you have come?” Sienna opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. “Exactly,” Eloise said. “Do not argue when you know I am right. It gives me a headache.”
Mikey looked between Eloise and Dr. Adler. “You used mortality as a scheduling tool.”
“And you arrived on time for the first time since I met you.”
Mikey considered that. “That’s incredibly manipulative.” Then a slow, appreciative grin appeared on his face. “I like it.”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Eloise, I’m five months pregnant with twins. You cannot summon me by implying that you may be dying. There are currently three heartbeats inside this body, and you frightened all of them.”
Eloise reached for your hand. “Come here, mi reina.”
You gave her a suspicious look but allowed her to take it.
She squeezed your fingers between both of hers, her expression softening. “I am sorry I frightened you, mi amor.”
“You don’t look very sorry.”
“No, because I am not sorry that it worked.”
“Eloise.”
“Ay, let me finish.” She patted your hand. “I would not have done any of this if all of you had not become completely impossible.”
A chorus of protests began.
Eloise lifted one finger. “¡Basta! (enough!)” The room fell silent. “At our last family dinner, Scarlet and mi reina spoke exclusively through the salt and pepper.”
You glanced toward your mother. Scarlet looked away with great dignity.
“Harry and Vivienne exchanged six words all evening,” Eloise continued. “Four of them concerned the rain.”
Vivienne folded her arms. Harry said nothing, which did very little to help his case.
“And now Vivienne is spending every free hour with Scarlet. Just like schoolgirls. Their son and daughter are sulking in separate corners, so naturally the mothers have abandoned them to whisper together.”
Scarlet’s expression became carefully blank.
Vivienne lifted her chin. “We are allowed to enjoy one another’s company.”
“Sí, of course.” Eloise looked between them over the rim of her glasses. “And I am supposed to believe the two of you have no secrets while you disappear for lunches, lower your voices when I enter a room, and suddenly stop speaking whenever one of your children appears.”
Neither woman answered.
Eloise gave a satisfied nod.
“You may fool your children. You may fool one another. But you will not fool this old woman. Whatever you are hiding, whatever ridiculous problem has driven you into one another’s arms, you will solve it.”
Scarlet’s expression remained perfectly composed.
Which, in your experience, generally meant Eloise was right. Sienna lowered her head, hiding a smile. Then Eloise turned toward her.
“And you.”
Sienna blinked. “What about me?”
Eloise narrowed her eyes. “You have been happy.”
Sienna stared at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Too happy,” Eloise said. “Smiling at your telephone. Disappearing for lunch. Wearing perfume in the afternoon.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sí, sí. And I am a foolish old woman who has never seen a girl hide a man.”
Mikey coughed. Eloise’s head turned toward him immediately.
“And there he is.”
Mikey straightened. “Why am I suddenly involved?”
Eloise looked from him to Sienna and back again.
“I may be eighty-six, cariño, but when it comes to romance, deception, and badly concealed attraction, my mind is still sharper than most of yours.”
Sienna abruptly found the carpet fascinating. Mikey looked toward the window. “Come on, Eloise,” he said with an unconvincing laugh. “This is becoming wildly speculative.”
“Mm-hm.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly does that mean?”
Eloise waved one hand dismissively. “Nothing you need to worry about yet.”
“Abuela.”
“Do not ‘Abuela’ me. If there is something to know, I will know it before you do.”
From near the door, Ron murmured, “At least we now know where the Castillos inherited their observational skills.”
Eloise released your hand and settled back against her pillows, looking around at the family with the weary affection of a woman who had raised too many stubborn people and somehow acquired several more.
“So I have decided that all of you need therapy.”
“We do not all need therapy,” Vivienne said.
“Some people need boundaries,” you murmured.
Scarlet looked at you. “Some people need to communicate instead of freezing out their mothers.”
“Some people need to stop investigating other people’s private lives,” Vivienne added.
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Some people need better judgment regarding men.”
“Ay, Dios mío.” Eloise struck the mattress lightly with her palm. “Listen to yourselves. You sound like children arguing over one toy.” No one answered. “As the eldest person in this family, I am asking for one afternoon without secrets, sulking, investigators, secret lunches, mysterious interviews, and whatever else you are all doing behind closed doors.”
She pointed toward Dr. Adler.
“You will speak to this nice woman. You will tell her the truth. Not the elegant version, not the corporate version, and not the version where you are all innocent little angels. You will solve your problems, or at the very least, you will learn to argue more quietly. I would like to enjoy the rest of my life.”
Dr. Adler cleared her throat and stepped forward.
“My plan is to begin with a few brief private conversations. Afterward, we’ll meet together to discuss the patterns affecting the family as a whole.” She glanced around at the collection of reluctant faces.
“Shall we begin?”
The private sitting room was smaller than Eloise's bedroom, warmer too, with tall windows overlooking the gardens and a low fire crackling beneath the marble mantel. A carafe of water sat on the table beside a box of tissues with the quiet menace of something fully expecting to be needed.
Dr. Adler was already seated in one of the armchairs, her notebook resting open across her lap. She gestured toward the sofa opposite. "Please. Make yourself comfortable."
You lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach. "Comfortable stopped being an available position about three weeks ago."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Would another cushion help?"
"If you bring me another cushion, Harry will somehow sense it through the wall and order six more." That earned a soft laugh. You adjusted your skirt and glanced toward the closed door. "I still can't believe Eloise actually did that."
"I'm observing that her method was effective," Dr. Adler replied. "Everyone she asked to come arrived."
"Because we thought she was dying."
"Which says something rather lovely about how much she means to all of you."
You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like therapeutic manipulation."
"It sounds like an observation."
"You're going to fit into this family beautifully."
She smiled, letting the joke pass. Instead, her attention drifted briefly—not intrusively—to the curve of your stomach. "Before we discuss your family… how are you feeling? Is everything going well with the pregnancy?"
You rested your palm over the place where one of the babies had been moving throughout the drive. "I'm about as well as anyone five months pregnant with twins can be."
"Tired?"
"Constantly."
"Any pain today?"
"No. Just pressure, backache, occasional insomnia… and two tiny people with very strong opinions about where my internal organs should be."
She nodded. "And emotionally?"
You looked at her. "That feels like a much more expensive question."
"It usually is."
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then she asked, "Where would you like to begin?"
You gave her a knowing look. "You already know where Eloise wants us to begin."
"She gave me a broad outline."
"And?"
"I'd rather hear your version."
You sighed. "Of course she did." Another quiet pause. "If we're actually doing this…" You drew a slow breath. "Everything started after I moved into Harry's house."
At the time, you had been barely three months pregnant. The babies were still easy enough to hide beneath tailored coats and structured dresses. The nausea wasn't. Neither was the exhaustion. But Queen Financial had only just begun recovering, and the last thing you wanted was for anyone walking into a boardroom to mistake pregnancy for weakness. For weeks, you carried ginger tea in coffee cups and smiled through mornings when simply remaining upright felt like an act of corporate defiance.
"And your mother knew?"
"Everything."
"Was she supportive?"
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "I thought she was."
When you told Scarlet, she'd cried. She'd held your face, kissed your forehead, and told you that after everything you'd survived, you deserved something beautiful. Then, less than twenty-four hours later…
…the conversation became strategy.
"Her first concern wasn't my health. It was the company."
Dr. Adler remained silent.
"Queen Financial was still fragile. Investors were watching everything I did. And she believed a public pregnancy would overshadow the recovery. She thought it would become the only thing people saw."
Scarlet's voice still echoed in your memory.
You cannot announce this yet, darling. Not until the company is stronger.
At first, you'd agreed. It seemed reasonable. Temporary. You'd wait until refinancing was complete. Then the board transition. Then quarterly earnings. There was always another milestone. Another reason to wait.
"How did that make you feel?"
You looked down at your hands. "Like I wasn't carrying two babies. Like I was carrying a liability."
Dr. Adler let the silence sit. "And the wedding?"
You leaned back carefully. "That was worse."
Scarlet had been thrilled when you and Harry found your way back to one another. She'd told you pride wasn't a substitute for love. That you'd regret letting fear choose your future. But once the ring was on your finger…
…and the pregnancy could no longer be hidden…
Everything came with conditions.
You cannot marry him while you're visibly pregnant.
"I honestly thought I'd misheard her."
"What was her reasoning?"
"That Manhattan would turn it into a circus."
Another memory surfaced.
They'll say Harry rescued you, rescued your company, got you pregnant, and rushed you down the aisle before anyone could ask questions.
"None of that was true."
"No," Dr. Adler said quietly. "It wasn't."
You gave a faint smile. "But she wasn't wrong about the headlines."
The smile faded. "She wanted us to wait until after the girls were born."
Twenty minutes later, Scarlet occupied the same sofa.
Her posture was immaculate, one elegant leg crossed over the other. Even now, she looked more like a woman preparing for a board meeting than a therapy session. Dr. Adler closed her notebook from the previous conversation and opened it to a fresh page.
"Tell me what changed from your perspective."
Scarlet folded her hands neatly in her lap. "She finally looked happy."
Dr. Adler waited.
"I had watched my daughter spend years carrying responsibilities that should never have belonged to her. Then she found her way back to Harry. She was expecting twins. She had a future." A faint smile touched Scarlet's lips. "I wanted to protect it."
"And what did protecting it look like to you?"
"Managing the circumstances around it."
"You mean the company."
"Among other things."
Scarlet glanced toward the window before continuing. "Queen Financial had only just survived the worst crisis in its history. Investors were watching everything. I believed one public pregnancy would eclipse everything she had accomplished."
"And the wedding?"
Scarlet didn't hesitate. "I wanted that to belong to them."
Dr. Adler tilted her head slightly. "Ms. Queen remembers it differently."
"I'm aware."
Scarlet let out a slow breath. "I told her she wasn't a spectacle. My concern wasn't the marriage. It was how the world would rewrite it. I wanted her achievements to remain her own."
Silence lingered for a moment. Then Dr. Adler asked quietly, "And what do you think Queen heard?"
Scarlet's brow furrowed.
"I…"
She stopped.
Dr. Adler didn't rescue her. Instead, she simply waited. Scarlet's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. "…That I cared more about appearances than about her."
Another pause. "Was she wrong?"
Scarlet didn't answer immediately. Finally… "No." She looked toward the floor. "Not entirely."
Dr. Adler turned back to you. “What happened after that conversation?”
"I stopped telling her things."
Scarlet's response came without hesitation.
"She punished me."
"I set a boundary."
"She excluded me from the pregnancy."
"She knew the babies were healthy."
"She wouldn't let me attend the next scan."
"She tried to relocate my obstetrician to Rhinebeck."
"I suggested an alternative arrangement."
"She had an examination room prepared in the house."
"It was discreet."
"It had a chandelier."
"The chandelier was already there."
Dr. Adler paused.
"And the flowers?"
Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly. "Medical rooms are unnecessarily bleak."
Back in your session, you looked toward the ceiling. "Do you see what I'm dealing with?"
"I'm beginning to," Dr. Adler admitted.
"The second baby had already been identified as a girl," you continued. "The other refused to cooperate."
Despite yourself, a smile appeared.
"A few days ago… we finally found out."
Dr. Adler smiled back.
"And?"
"Another girl."
The words still warmed something inside you.
Two daughters.
Two tiny heartbeats.
Two entirely different futures already unfolding.
"And you haven't told your mother."
"No."
"Why?"
You looked down at your engagement ring before answering.
"Because I wanted one thing to belong to Harry and me before it became a theme, a luncheon, a guest list… and twelve thousand flowers."
That earned the smallest laugh.
Then Dr. Adler grew thoughtful.
"So withholding that information became a boundary."
"It did."
"And it remained one?"
"For a while."
"And after that?"
You hesitated.
"…Maybe it stopped being only a boundary."
"A little?"
You sighed.
"Moderately."
One corner of Dr. Adler's mouth lifted.
"Elegantly punitive."
Despite yourself…
You laughed.
"So Harry wasn't exaggerating."
"Oh?"
"He told me your sense of humor usually appears about twenty minutes after your honesty."
You smiled despite yourself.
"He's annoyingly perceptive."
"I've noticed."
Dr. Adler closed the notebook.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, she said,
"I'd like to ask you one last question."
You nodded.
"When Scarlet said she was protecting you…"
"…did any part of you believe her?"
Silence. A long one. Eventually…
"Yes."
"And yet?"
"I didn't need protecting."
"You needed trusting."
Your voice had become barely more than a whisper. "I needed her to trust that I could live my own life."
Dr. Adler nodded once. "I think that's a very important distinction."
She stood, gathering her notebook. "I won't ask you to forgive her today." You looked up. "I don't think either of you is ready for that. But I do think you're both grieving the same relationship."
You frowned. "The same relationship?"
"The one each of you thought you had. And that's usually where healing begins."
By the time Harry took your place on the sofa, Dr. Adler had already filled several pages. She turned to a fresh one and poised her pen above it. “Mr. Castillo. Tell me about your mother.”
Harry settled back, resting one ankle over his knee. “My mother is seeing a man.”
Twenty minutes later, Vivienne answered the same question with visible irritation. “I had dinner with a perfectly respectable gentleman.”
“Four dinners,” Harry said in his own session.
“Three dinners and one lunch.”
“Two lunches.”
Vivienne sighed and looked toward the ceiling. “My son apparently keeps a ledger.”
“There was also a weekend in Connecticut.”
“There were twelve bedrooms in that house,” Vivienne protested.
“That doesn’t make the weekend less concerning.”
“It makes it considerably less intimate.”
“He sent her roses.”
“He is French.”
Harry looked directly at Dr. Adler. “That is not a defense.”
Dr. Adler rested the tip of her pen against the page. “Mr. Castillo, your mother is an autonomous adult.”
“I’m aware.”
“You had the man investigated.”
“Autonomy does not eliminate due diligence.”
"And did your mother ask for your protection?"
"No."
"Then why did you decide she needed it? What are you afraid will happen?"
“He could take advantage of her.”
“Financially?”
“Financially, socially or emotionally. Those things often overlap.”
“And did your mother ask for your protection?”
“No.”
“Then why did you decide she needed it?”
Harry’s fingers moved once against the arm of the sofa. “People rarely ask before something goes wrong.”
“That sounds less like an answer about this man and more like an answer about someone else.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “My father left.”
The words were flat and controlled. Dr. Adler did not immediately begin writing again.
“Your parents divorced?”
“No.”
She paused. “Your mother is still legally married to him?”
“Yes.”
“And yet he has not been part of her life for years.”
“No.”
Harry looked toward the window. “My mother never received an ending. He simply left her with the consequences.”
“Not anymore. We don’t remind her. The last time her condition worsened, the doctors told us to avoid anything that could trigger another episode.”
Dr. Adler regarded him quietly. “So your father’s absence is something the entire family is required to live around, but never fully discuss.”
“That isn’t why we’re here.”
“Perhaps not. But it may explain why another man entering your mother’s life feels less simple to you than it does to her.”
When Dr. Adler later asked Vivienne about Harry’s behavior after Eduardo left, her irritation softened. “He became efficient.”
“That sounds like an unusual response to grief.”
“It was Harry’s response. He dealt with the lawyers, the accounts and every practical problem Eduardo left behind. Sienna was nineteen and furious. Harry called her constantly until she threatened to block him.”
“And you?”
“I was still married to a man who had chosen not to be my husband.”
Vivienne looked down at her hands.
“Harry decided that if Eduardo had abandoned his responsibilities, he would assume all of them.”
“Did you ask him to?”
“No. Harry has never waited to be asked.”
Back in his own session, Dr. Adler said, “Has this new man given you any reason to believe he intends to hurt her?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re preparing for a betrayal that has not occurred.”
“I’m being cautious.”
Dr. Adler lowered her pen. “Your mother’s marriage never formally ended, your father’s absence cannot be openly discussed around your grandmother, and you have spent years managing the consequences. It makes sense that you want this new relationship verified before you allow yourself to trust it.”
“Allow myself?”
“Yes. Because this is not only about whether your mother trusts him.”
Harry said nothing.
“It’s also about whether you can tolerate her beginning a new life when the old one was never properly closed.”
In Vivienne’s session, Dr. Adler asked, “Does being legally married to Eduardo affect how you feel about seeing someone else?”
Vivienne was silent for a moment. “Sometimes.”
“Guilt?”
“Not toward Eduardo.” Her answer came sharply. “He surrendered any right to ask for loyalty when he left.”
“Then what?”
Vivienne exhaled. “The strangeness of it. Beginning something new when part of my life is still sitting unfinished in a locked room.”
“And Harry knows that.”
“Harry knows everything.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “That is both his best quality and his most exhausting one.”
Later, when Dr. Adler brought them into the room together, Harry sat at one end of the sofa and Vivienne chose the other.
“Harry,” Dr. Adler began, “your mother understands that your actions come from love.”
“And arrogance,” Vivienne added.
“And arrogance,” Dr. Adler allowed. “But she is not asking you to erase the risk. She is asking you to trust her to decide whether it is worth taking.”
Harry looked at his mother. “Does he know you’re still legally married?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know why?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about Abuela?”
“Only what he needs to know.”
“Has he asked for money?”
“No.”
“Professional introductions?”
“No.”
“Access to the family?”
“No.”
“Has he—”
“Harry.”
He stopped.
Vivienne’s voice softened. “I’m not replacing your father. I’m trying to stop living as though the life he abandoned is the only one I’m allowed to have.”
That silenced him.
After a moment, Harry nodded once. “If something feels wrong, you’ll tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Immediately?”
“Within a reasonable period.”
“Define reasonable.”
Dr. Adler lifted one hand. “No negotiations.”
Harry looked dissatisfied but relented. “Fine.”
“And you will not investigate him further,” Vivienne said.
“I won’t authorize any new investigation.”
“That isn’t the same sentence.”
“It’s the sentence I’m offering.”
“Harry.”
He sighed. “I will not investigate him further.”
“Or ask Ron.”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
Dr. Adler looked at him. “Or Ron,” he added.
Vivienne’s shoulders eased. She reached over and touched his cheek. “My poor baby boy.”
Harry leaned away. “Mama.”
“You’ve always been so devoted to me.”
“I am forty-six years old.”
“And still my baby.” Vivienne smiled. “When you stop treating me like a helpless abandoned wife, I’ll stop treating you like a worried little boy.”
Harry looked toward Dr. Adler. “Is this therapeutically appropriate?”
She made one final note. “It appears to be working.”
Vivienne patted his cheek again. “My baby boy.”
Harry closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”
Dr. Adler turned to a fresh page.
Across from her, Mikey settled into the armchair as though he had been waiting his entire life for an audience legally required to listen to him.
"Before we start," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile, "everything we say in here stays in here, right? I can tell you anything?"
"Within the boundaries I explained earlier, yes."
She regarded him over the top of her notebook.
"Although I was under the impression we would be discussing your problem."
"I don't have a problem."
"Are you certain? You and Miss Castillo appear to be concealing something from your families."
His smile faltered.
"Did Eloise tell you that?"
"She shared several suspicions."
"That woman missed her calling."
"What was her calling?"
"International espionage." He leaned back with a sigh. "Fine. It was a problem. Mostly."
Dr. Adler waited.
"I realized I liked Sienna." Another pause. "I then tried several strategies that failed spectacularly." She waited again. "And eventually everything worked because of my little sister."
That finally earned a smile. "You asked your sister for advice?"
"I did."
He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "My little sister is the smartest woman I know. Smarter than my mother. If that sentence leaves this room, I'll deny it under oath."
The corner of Dr. Adler’s mouth curved. “And you asked your sister for advice about Sienna?”
“I did. She told me to stop trying so hard and just be myself.” He leaned back, satisfied. “She was right.”
Twenty minutes later, Sienna occupied the same chair. She looked considerably less pleased by Queen's advice. "I'd never thought of Mikey that way before," she admitted.
"He was funny. Different." A small smile appeared. "But whatever this is… it only started last week."
"What changed?"
"He came to an auction I'd curated." A pause. "Everything went downhill after that."
One Week Earlier
The Belcourt Auction House, Manhattan
The auction room was exactly what wealthy New Yorkers liked to imagine culture looked like—polished wood, quiet lighting, priceless objects behind glass, and enough restrained elegance to justify spending absurd amounts of money.
Mikey wandered through it wearing a burgundy velvet jacket, cropped black trousers, martini-print cashmere socks, tinted glasses, and the cream trilby Sienna would later describe as a personal attack against art.
A numbered paddle rested in one hand.
An open packet of gummy bears occupied the other.
He stopped in front of an abstract painting made up of three black lines.
A member of staff approached.
"A striking piece, isn't it, sir?"
Mikey tilted his head.
"Is it finished?"
"…Yes, sir."
"Good for him."
Then he saw Sienna.
She stood near the front beside the auctioneer, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit that somehow made everyone around her look underprepared.
His grin appeared before he could stop it.
He had come for her. Entirely for her. Mostly for her. He lifted the paddle and waved. Sienna noticed immediately.
Her expression passed through surprise…
…disbelief…
…suspicion…
…and something softer that disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived.
She gave him the smallest wave in return. Unfortunately… So did the auctioneer.
Genevieve Crane smiled from behind the podium.
Mikey, meanwhile, looked at her with absolutely no recognition. An unfortunate situation… considering she remembered him perfectly.
"Two hundred and eighty thousand from bidder seventy-four."
Mikey blinked.
"What?"
The auctioneer rested one hand beside the gavel.
"Two hundred and ninety thousand on the telephone."
Mikey frowned.
"No, I was waving to—"
"Three hundred thousand from bidder seventy-four."
A ripple spread through the room.
Across the aisle, Sienna's eyes widened.
She shook her head frantically.
Mikey pointed at her.
"No. Her. I was waving at her."
"Three hundred and twenty thousand."
"What? No."
The auctioneer's smile never wavered.
"Three hundred and forty?"
Mikey threw both hands into the air.
"Stop looking at my hands!"
"Three hundred and forty thousand from bidder seventy-four."
Sienna mouthed,
Put. The paddle. Down. You idiot.
Mikey stared at the paddle as though it had betrayed him personally.
He shoved it inside his jacket.
The auctioneer waited.
The room fell silent.
"Three hundred and forty thousand, once."
Mikey cautiously raised one finger.
"Can I ask a question?"
"Three hundred and sixty thousand."
"Oh, come on."
"Three hundred and sixty thousand, once."
Sienna covered her face.
"Twice."
Mikey looked at her helplessly.
The gavel struck.
"Sold."
Polite applause echoed through the room.
Mikey remained frozen. "What did I buy?"
The gentleman beside him closed his catalogue. "A seventeenth-century Venetian cristallo marriage goblet."
Mikey stared at the stage.
"Singular?"
"Yes."
"For three hundred and sixty thousand dollars?"
"Plus buyer's premium."
He closed his eyes.
"…I don't know what that means."
The moment the auction ended, Mikey headed straight for the auctioneer.
"Excuse me."
She looked up pleasantly.
"Yes?"
"There has been a terrible misunderstanding."
"Has there?"
"I was waving."
"You raised your paddle."
"To say hello."
"Several times."
"Because you kept selling me things."
"I sold you one thing."
"For the price of an apartment."
She smiled.
"You should probably familiarize yourself with auction procedure, Mr. Queen."
A beat.
"Although I suppose rules have never been your strength."
Mikey frowned.
"…Do we know each other?"
Sienna stopped walking. The auctioneer laughed once. "Typical Mikey."
Recognition finally dawned. "…Genevieve?"
Her smile vanished. "Oh. So you do remember."
"Fuck."
"Perhaps the rules of an auction slipped your mind…
the same way the woman you left alone in a hotel suite apparently did."
Sienna quietly turned away and began speaking to another member of staff.
"Hey."
Mikey hurried after her.
"That was six years ago."
"I was a different person."
She didn't even look at him.
Behind them…
Genevieve smiled.
Mikey slowly turned back toward her. "You vindictive witch."
"You just ruined everything."
Two attendants approached carrying the goblet on a velvet tray.
It was breathtaking. Centuries old. Delicate. Beautiful.
Mikey looked at it with absolutely no emotional attachment.
"Congratulations, Mr. Queen."
"Shall we process the purchase through the Queen Foundation account?"
Mikey closed his eyes. "…Of course it's the foundation account."
He looked at the goblet. "…Well. I bought it. So it's mine."
He reached into his coat… removed the packet of gummy bears… and tipped them directly into the three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet.
Silence. Genevieve stared. "That object has survived three centuries."
"And now it has purpose."
The administrator held the tablet toward Mikey again. As he prepared to sign, Genevieve leaned closer.
“Try not to forget this one by morning, Mr. Queen. It cost considerably more than the women you leave behind.”
Mikey’s hand stopped above the screen.
He looked at her for a moment, then lowered the stylus. “One second.”
He took out his phone and started a video call. "You asked for it."
The screen rang twice before you appeared. You were seated somewhere bright in a silk blouse, one hand resting beneath the pronounced curve of your stomach. Yuliana stood beside you with a tray of tea.
“Mikey.”
“Hey, baby sister. You look beautiful. Radiant. Glowing.”
“What did you do?”
“That’s hurtful. You don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“You only call me ‘baby sister’ when money, police, or bodily injury are involved.”
“Technically, none of those.”
Dr. Adler interrupted the story. “You called Ms. Queen—your sister?”
Mikey nodded. “She was the only person who could get me out of it.”
“And she did?”
A proud grin spread across his face. “Without even setting foot in the building.”
Mikey turned the phone toward Genevieve. "Someone would like a word."
Genevieve took one look at the screen. "…Queen." Her face fell. "Shit."
Mikey held the phone closer anyway.
The change in your face was almost imperceptible. Your posture remained relaxed and your voice gentle, but every trace of warmth disappeared.
“Genevieve, darling. Listen carefully, because I am five months pregnant with identical twins, I slept for approximately three hours, one of them has mistaken my ribs for a rehearsal studio, and the other appears to be conducting experiments on my bladder. What little patience I have left is reserved for members of my immediate family.”
Yuliana nodded solemnly behind the phone.
Genevieve raised her chin. “Your brother placed a valid bid. He should know the rules.”
“My brother should know many things—auction procedure, women’s names, and when to stop wearing that hat among them. His intellectual limitations are not the matter presently under review.”
Mikey looked offended.
You continued without acknowledging him. “The auction was recorded. Your staff saw him attempting to correct the bid. Half the room watched you accelerate the increments while addressing a registered bidder with whom you have an undisclosed personal history.”
Genevieve’s expression faltered. “That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with professional conduct. Do not mistake my brother’s stupidity for an opportunity.”
“Hey, sister-” Mikey protested.
You ignored him.
“Michael may be an idiot, but he is our idiot. You used a charity auction to settle a six-year-old grievance with a man who did not even remember you well enough to understand that he was being punished.”
Genevieve’s face flushed.
You studied her for another second. “Also, whatever you’ve been earning by selling antiques to harmless fools appears to have been reinvested in self-tanner. That was an unfortunate decision. The shade is less Saint-Tropez and more decorative terracotta.” Yuliana tilted her head, considered Genevieve on the screen, and nodded again. “And is that Valentino from four seasons ago?” you continued. “Genevieve, honestly. If you intend to humiliate my family in public, at least don’t do it dressed like an archived press sample.”
Sienna’s eyebrows rose.
Mikey beamed at the phone as though you had complimented him personally.
“That is insulting,” Genevieve said.
“No. It is embarrassing. There is a difference.”
Your hand moved over your stomach as one of the babies shifted. “Here is what happens next. You void the sale, apologize to Mr. Queen for the misunderstanding, and return the goblet to its case before he attempts to serve breakfast cereal in it.”
Mikey glanced at the gummy bears. “I wouldn’t use milk.” You gave him a look. He closed his mouth.
Genevieve folded her arms. “And if Belcourt refuses?”
Your smile appeared—small, beautiful, and lethal. “Then the Queen Foundation will dispute the transaction, suspend its annual patronage, and request a formal ethics review into why a senior auctioneer accepted repeated accidental gestures as bids from a former sexual partner without disclosing the conflict.” Genevieve’s lips parted.
“I am currently carrying the future beneficiaries of both the Queen and Castillo families and, regrettably, I am one of the most discussed women in Manhattan. If I say this was personal retaliation disguised as a charitable transaction, by breakfast every board member, donor, and consignor attached to Belcourt will know exactly which phrase to repeat.”
Silence fell around the podium.
Mikey slowly selected another gummy bear.
You tilted your head. “Have I explained the available options clearly?”
Genevieve swallowed. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Ms. Queen.”
“Wonderful. I knew we would understand one another.” Your smile vanished as smoothly as it had appeared. “Yuliana, end the call before she mistakes any more of my attention for social relevance.”
“I love you, baby sister,” Mikey called quickly. “Take care of my nieces.”
“Try taking care of your own reputation for the rest of the day.”
The screen went dark.
Genevieve turned toward the administrator. “Void lot forty-seven.”
The attendants took the goblet from Mikey. Before surrendering it, he scooped the gummy bears out with one hand and dropped them into his mouth.
From across the room, Sienna laughed.
She finished her conversation and walked toward him, glancing once at Genevieve and the retreating attendants. “Let me guess. Queen fixed it?”
“Yes.” Mikey removed his tinted glasses. “Sienna, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”
“For putting gummy bears in a three-hundred-year-old Venetian goblet?”
“No. Well, partially.” He glanced down at the paddle still protruding from his jacket. “I came to an auction you curated because I wanted to support you, and somehow I made the entire thing about me.”
“That does seem to happen around you.”
“I know.” His confidence disappeared for the first time that afternoon. “But I came because of you. I care about you. More than a little, actually. And when I’m around you, my hands apparently stop communicating with my brain, and then I forget what I meant to say, and—”
Sienna began to laugh again.
Mikey frowned. “This feels like a vulnerable moment.”
“You really are unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Mikey.” She shook her head. “I told you to put the paddle down, and instead you hid it inside your jacket and kept raising your fingers.”
“I panicked.”
“That was obvious.”
“Does the fact that you’re laughing mean you forgive me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What if I buy you dinner?”
Sienna looked at him for a moment. “One dinner.”
By the time everyone returned to the sitting room, the April light beyond the tall windows had begun to fade, softening the edges of Rhinebeck into shades of blue and gold.
Without anyone consciously deciding it, everyone drifted back to the same places.
You settled beside Harry. His hand found yours immediately, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. He didn't ask how your session had gone. Somehow, the gesture promised he would—later, when the answer belonged only to the two of you.
Across from you, Scarlet sat with the same composed posture she always carried into difficult conversations. This time, however, when your eyes met, neither of you looked away.
Beside her, Vivienne crossed one elegant leg over the other. She still looked faintly offended by several events of the afternoon, but no longer refused to acknowledge Harry's existence.
Harry gave her the smallest nod.
It wasn't quite an apology. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.
Sienna chose the armchair nearest the fireplace.
Mikey sat on its broad arm without asking.
She looked up at him and, for the first time all day, didn't tell him to move.
Dr. Adler closed her notebook.
"I've heard four very different stories today," she began. "But they've all led me to the same conclusion."
The room grew quiet. "When this family is frightened, none of you asks for control." She looked around the room. "You simply take it." Harry lowered his eyes. Scarlet folded her hands. Vivienne's expression softened almost imperceptibly. Mikey suddenly found the pattern in the rug fascinating. "You investigate." She looked at Harry. "You plan." Scarlet. "You withhold." Your turn. "And sometimes…" her gaze shifted toward Mikey and Sienna, "…you attempt to solve problems before anyone has admitted they're problems."
Mikey slowly raised a finger.
"I feel mildly targeted."
"You should."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Harry smiled.
Dr. Adler waited until the laughter faded.
"Every one of you described those choices as protection."
She paused. "The person on the receiving end experienced them as control."
Silence settled once more. "I'd like each of you to try something different."
No one spoke. "The next time you're frightened for someone you love… ask them what they need before deciding for them."
Nobody argued.
For this family…
…that alone felt like remarkable progress.
The door opened.
Eloise stepped inside, carrying her cane less as a walking aid and more as a symbol of authority.
She surveyed the room carefully.
No one appeared to be crying.
No one appeared ready to disown anyone.
She gave a satisfied nod.
"Bueno." She tapped the floor once with her cane. "Enough emotional growth for one afternoon." A beat. "Dinner is ready."
"And if any of you start another family crisis before the soup…"
"…I'll schedule a second therapist."
Mikey stood immediately. "What kind of soup?"
"The kind you'll eat."
"That still doesn't narrow it down."
Sienna quietly caught the back of his jacket before he could continue and steered him toward the hallway.
Scarlet and Vivienne followed together, their conversation noticeably quieter than it had been only an hour earlier.
Harry rose beside you, offering his hand.
Once you were standing securely, his palm settled against the small of your back.
"Ready?"
You nodded. "Starving."
"Good."
"I intend to steal at least half your dessert."
"You always do."
"I know."
Together, you followed the others into the corridor. Within moments the sitting room fell silent. Almost.
Dr. Adler slipped her notebook into her leather bag and reached for her coat. A discreet knock interrupted her. The door opened just enough for Ron to step inside before quietly closing it again.
He remained standing. "May I ask you something?"
Dr. Adler smiled faintly. "Is this about the family?"
"No."
"Good."
She gestured toward the empty sofa. "Then it's probably about you."
"I'd prefer not to turn this into a session. If a man has never had a serious relationship but his current girlfriend wishes to get married and he doesn't believe he's ready…" He adjusted his cuff. "…there also happens to be a childhood friend."
Dr. Adler considered him for a moment. "Does your girlfriend know you're emotionally preoccupied with someone else?"
"No."
"Then you shouldn't agree to marry her."
"And the childhood friend?"
"Do you want a future with her or is she simply a safe possibility that allows you to postpone making a difficult decision?"
Ron frowned. "How does one determine that?"
"By telling both women the truth."
He looked genuinely disappointed. "That sounds unnecessarily human."
From somewhere down the corridor came Eloise's unmistakable voice.
"¡Ronald! Harry is already answering emails at the dinner table!"
Ron reached for the doorknob. "This conversation never happened." "¡Ronald!"
"I'm coming, Mrs. Castillo."
The door closed behind him.
April 23rd
A week after Rhinebeck, Queen Financial had settled into a rhythm that was not quite normal, but no longer felt like an emergency.
Gerard called every morning with whatever developments he believed required your attention. Dana sent carefully filtered briefings twice a day, having apparently decided anything capable of raising your blood pressure required written authorization before reaching you.
Emily and Chloe phoned almost daily, supposedly to discuss work and inevitably ending with questions about the twins, your appetite, and whether Harry had yet attempted to place you under medically supervised house arrest.
He hadn't. Technically.
By Friday evening, your final call with Gerard had lasted twelve minutes longer than promised.
“The revised projections are in your inbox,” he said through the speaker. “You don’t need to look at them tonight.”
“You sent them to me tonight.”
“I sent them so you would know they exist.”
“And now that I know they exist, you expect me not to open them?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an unreasonable understanding of my personality.”
From the other end of the sofa, Harry calmly reached over and removed the phone from your hand. “We’re done,” he said.
Gerard did not hesitate. “Thank you, Harry.”
“You’re both becoming intolerable,” you informed them.
“Monday morning,” Gerard replied. “Good night, Ms. Queen.”
The call ended before you could object. Harry placed your phone facedown on the coffee table, well beyond your immediate reach. You looked at him. He looked back. “That was hostile.”
“That was twelve minutes past your own deadline.”
“I was receiving information about my company.”
“You were reorganizing the executive committee from the sofa.”
“They needed reorganizing.”
“They’ll still need it on Monday.” You narrowed your eyes. Harry had already picked up the television remote. “No more work tonight.”
“What are we doing instead?”
“Watching a movie.” He moved closer and began scrolling. “No.”
You glanced at the screen. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“Home invasion.”
“It’s listed as a romantic comedy.”
“I checked the parents’ guide.”
“You checked the parents’ guide?”
“I’m being thorough.”
You laughed. “Harry.”
He ignored you and continued scrolling.
Finally he stopped. “This one.”
You looked at him suspiciously.
“Have you already researched it?”
“IMDb. Two reviews. Parents’ guide.”
“…Of course you did.”
The poster showed two people standing beneath strings of lights beside the sea. “A woman returns to the coastal town where she grew up,” Harry read. “She meets a man renovating an old hotel.” You considered it. Harry nodded once. “No violence. No blood. No psychological torment.”
“Finally.”
He pressed play. As the opening credits rolled, he stood.
“Where are you going?”
“Popcorn.”
“With actual salt?”
He gave you a look. “I’ll be right back.”
You settled deeper into the cushions he had arranged behind your back. A minute later Harry returned carrying a large bowl of popcorn. He sat beside you, glanced at the curve of your stomach, and carefully balanced the bowl on top of it.
You looked down.
Then slowly back at him.
“I’m carrying your children.”
“I’m appreciating the engineering.”
“You’re using me as furniture.”
“You’re beautiful in every form, baby.”
Before you could answer, he leaned over and kissed you, slow and gentle. You reached for the popcorn.
Your face fell almost immediately. “There’s a rumor of salt.”
“We’re watching your sodium.”
You sighed dramatically. “This family has become a dictatorship.”
The film began exactly as promised. It was gentle, romantic, and occasionally funny without trying too hard. The heroine inherited a weathered seaside hotel.
The hero knew how to repair everything except his own emotionally guarded heart. Harry disliked him immediately. “He should tell her why he left.”
“It’s been twenty minutes.”
“He has already created unnecessary confusion.”
You smiled. “That’s how films work.”
By the middle of the film, your head had settled against Harry’s shoulder while his fingers moved absentmindedly along your arm.
Beneath the blanket, your stomach gave a sudden, unmistakable ripple.
Harry looked down immediately.
Another tiny movement answered beneath the fabric.
He smiled, leaned over, kissed your stomach, and rested his palm gently over it.
“Easy, girls,” he murmured. “We’re trying to watch a movie with your mother.”
Another kick answered beneath his hand.
You considered it seriously.
“I think they want pistachios.”
“Five minutes ago they wanted popcorn.”
“They changed their minds.”
“They’re growing.”
“…Fair enough.”
He started to stand.
You caught his hand. “The roasted ones.”
“The roasted ones.”
“And bring the whole bag.”
Harry bent to kiss your forehead. “One full bag of roasted pistachios coming right up.”
As he disappeared toward the kitchen, you settled deeper into the cushions, both hands curving around your stomach as though congratulating the girls on another successful negotiation.
On the screen, the film drifted quietly toward its conclusion.
The hotel had been restored.
Something tightened painfully behind your ribs. Before you understood why, your vision blurred. One tear escaped. Then another. Within seconds they were falling too quickly to hide.
Harry turned immediately. “Hey.”
You wiped beneath your eyes, only making the tears worse.
“Hey, hey…” He set the popcorn aside at once, his hand instinctively finding your stomach. “What happened? Are you hurting?”
You shook your head.
“The babies?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying, baby?”
You pointed helplessly toward the television. “The movie.”
Harry looked at the screen, then back at you. “The movie?”
“They're just…” Your voice cracked. “They're just getting married.” He stayed quiet. “They're just doing it.” Another tear slipped free. “There isn't a wedding planner shouting into a headset. No ballroom booked two years in advance. No security outside checking guest lists.”
You swallowed hard.
“No board wondering whether the timing is strategically responsible. No journalists deciding what the wedding means for my company. No headlines about my dress, my body, or whether marrying you affects the markets on Monday.”
Harry didn't interrupt.
On the screen, the couple exchanged vows while the ocean rolled gently behind them.
“They're just getting married,” you whispered again.
“They get to live it before the rest of the world starts talking about it.”
Harry reached up and gently brushed another tear from your cheek. “Oh, baby.”
A shaky laugh escaped you.
“I know. I'm crying over a fictional beach wedding.”
“I don't think that's why you're crying.”
You looked back at the television. The bride had slipped off her shoes. Her guests were laughing. The waves reached the edge of the aisle.
“I don't think I want all of it anymore.”
“All of what?”
“The spectacle.”
The word hung quietly between you.
“For years I thought that if I ever got married again, it had to be… perfect.”
You gave a tiny, humorless smile. “Perfect enough to justify everything that came before it.” Harry remained silent, listening. “But watching this…” Your eyes drifted back to the screen. “It just looks… peaceful.”
You leaned against him a little more. “I don't want our wedding to become public property before we've even lived it.”
His hand tightened gently around yours. “I don't want to spend the day wondering which photograph they'll print first… or what the markets will do on Monday.”
“You won't.”
“We can't control that.”
“No,” Harry said softly.
“But we can control what we choose to give them.”
You lifted your head to look at him. “I want one thing that's ours first.” A pause. “Before anyone turns it into a headline.”
Harry studied you for several quiet seconds. “Do you want a beach?”
Despite the tears, you smiled. “Maybe.”
“Barefoot?”
You looked back at the television. “Let's not become primitive.”
A laugh escaped him. “Fair.”
The newlyweds ran laughing toward the water while their friends chased after them.
You watched them for another moment before speaking again. “Besides… Scarlet and Vivienne already decided we should wait until after the girls are born.”
Harry listened. “That's still months away.”
You looked down at your stomach. “And by then everyone will spend the entire wedding talking about the babies instead of us.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You're the one who said you didn't want to be a bride with an enormous stomach.”
“I know.”
Your voice softened. “But if it were something like this…” You glanced back toward the beach on the screen. “Small. Quiet. Just family.” A tiny smile appeared. “I don't think I'd care.” You looked at him again. “Everything in my life has to happen in front of an audience simply because I'm a Queen.”
Your hand drifted toward the small bowl on the coffee table.
It was empty.
You stared into it for a long second.
“The pistachios are gone.”
Your face crumpled all over again.
Harry looked from the empty bowl to you just as another sob escaped.
“Oh, no.” He cupped your cheek immediately. “Shh, baby. Don't cry.”
“I wanted more.”
“I'll order more.”
“Two bags.”
“Two bags.”
“And the lemon sorbet.”
He had already unlocked his phone.
“And those thin crackers Dana brought last week.”
His thumb moved across the screen.
“Added.”
“And strawberries.”
He glanced up. “You said pistachios.”
“The situation has developed.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Clearly.”
“And chocolate-covered pretzels.”
“Anything else?”
You frowned thoughtfully, genuinely considering the question. “…The little tangerines.”
Harry added them without another word before setting the phone aside. “Everything's coming. ” He drew you gently back against his chest. “Now breathe for me.”
You nodded, still sniffling as you wiped beneath your eyes.
“I’m fine.” A pause. “It’s just the hormones.”
His lips brushed the top of your head. “Our wedding will be beautiful, baby.” You curled closer against him. “However we do it.”
“Okay,” you whispered.
The movie continued quietly in the background, but neither of you was really watching anymore.
Harry's fingers moved slowly through your hair until your breathing gradually steadied.
Only then did his eyes drift back toward the television.
The bride and groom were laughing barefoot beneath the driftwood arch. No ballroom. No photographers. No headlines. Just the people they loved. Harry watched in silence. His gaze lingered on the weathered wooden arch… the shoreline… the small gathering of family and friends. Then something almost imperceptible softened in his expression. A thought. Nothing more.
He said nothing.
He simply looked back down at you, asleep against his shoulder, one hand resting protectively over the gentle curve of your stomach.
A faint smile appeared.
The Following Morning
Chez Akiko
The restaurant had not yet opened for lunch, but the table nearest the kitchen was already occupied by six people who had been summoned with varying degrees of urgency and almost no useful explanation.
Emily sat at the head of the table with coffee in front of her. Chloe had arrived carrying two garment bags and the conviction that every crisis could be improved with appropriate tailoring. Dana was answering emails beneath the table, while Ron had placed a leather folder beside his plate and appeared to be the only person who had anticipated an agenda.
Mikey was eating something the kitchen had not officially served him.
Harry remained standing.
“We need to plan a wedding.”
Everyone stopped.
Mikey lowered the croissant in his hand. “Whose?”
Harry looked at him.
Mikey considered the question. “Right. Context clues.”
Emily leaned back in her chair. “You and Queen are already getting married. After the babies are born.”
“Scarlet and Vivienne have interviewed three event planners,” Chloe added. “One of them presented a forty-page proposal for the flowers alone.”
Dana finally looked up from her phone. “The preliminary date is being held for late summer.”
“And an entire team of professionals is supposed to organize it,” Emily said. “So why are we here?”
Harry placed both hands against the back of the empty chair in front of him.
“I’m not talking about that wedding.”
The table went quiet again.
Mikey slowly set down his croissant. “There are two weddings now?”
“Technically, yes,” Harry said.
Chloe narrowed her eyes. “What exactly are you planning?”
“Something private. This weekend.”
Six faces turned toward him.
Even Ron blinked.
Emily slowly placed her coffee on the table. “Harry, it’s Thursday.”
“I’m aware.”
“You want us to arrange a wedding in two days?”
“A small one.”
“Rich people always say that,” Emily said, “before describing a small country.”
“No ballroom, no hotel, no press. No guest list beyond the people in this room and immediate family.”
Emily studied him. “What changed?”
Harry looked down at the table. “We watched a movie last night. There was a wedding on a beach.” He paused, remembering the way your voice had broken when you said the couple had simply been allowed to marry. “She said she didn’t want ours to become public property before we’d had the chance to live it.”
The room grew quieter.
“No reporters,” he continued. “No analysts deciding what our marriage means for the companies. No photographs released before she chooses them.
She wants something that belongs to us.”
“A private beach wedding,” Emily said softly.
“Yes.”
“Just friends and family.”
“Yes.”
“And Queen doesn’t know.”
“No.”
Mikey raised one finger. “Are you sure we’re talking about my sister? She used to plan her wedding while she was still in elementary school.”
“I can confirm that,” Chloe said. “There were sketches.”
“Sounds like her,” Emily agreed.
Ron glanced down at his folder. “Ms. Queen being the only person unaware of her own wedding presents a significant degree of risk.”
“Her hormones have made her more emotional lately,” Harry said. “She cried last night because the pistachios ran out.”
Emily sighed. "Aw."
“Oh, poor thing,” Chloe murmured.
“My sister cried during a comedy when she was pregnant with my niece,” Dana added. “No one in the movie was even sad.”
“Fine. Whatever she wants, we give her,” Emily said.
Harry’s expression remained serious. “That doesn’t mean we decide for her. I’m not bringing her to a wedding and expecting her to perform because everyone is waiting. I’ll show her what I arranged and ask whether she wants to marry me that day. If she says no, the officiant leaves, we have dinner on the beach, and no one makes her feel guilty.”
Emily nodded once.
“If she says yes,” Harry continued, “everything needs to be ready.”
Mikey looked at Harry. “Where exactly is this happening? And how are you telling our mothers? Because mine is not going to celebrate being excluded from wedding planning.”
“Scarlet and my mother will be told last.”
Ron opened the leather folder. “A sound security decision.”
The planning moved quickly after that. Ron would secure a private beach, confidentiality agreements, transport and discreet security. Dana would clear your calendar without making the absence too obvious. Emily took charge of dinner, cake and a small reception, while Chloe handled the flowers and overall design.
Then Chloe tapped her pen against the table. “We still have one significant problem.”
Everyone looked at her.
“The dress.”
Harry’s attention sharpened. “What about it?”
“She’s carrying twins. Her old measurements are useless, and her body is changing every week. I can’t fit a gown correctly by guessing.”
Mikey added. “The dress is important, man. Those hormones can turn into rage when she looks at the photographs ten years from now. I’m warning you in advance.”
Chloe pointed her pen at him. “For once, he’s right. We have very little time to make something beautiful and unforgettable.”
“How quickly can you do it?” Emily asked.
“I can alter an existing gown if I have accurate measurements tonight. Soft structure, an empire waist, room around her stomach—nothing restrictive.” Chloe turned to Harry. “I need her shoulders, shoulder to floor, bust, underbust and the fullest point around her stomach.”
Mikey sat back, delighted. “You’re going to measure a sleeping pregnant woman without telling her why. That may be the most dangerous plan I’ve heard today.”
Harry stared at Chloe. “There’s no other way?”
“You could tell her.”
“No.”
“Yuliana could possibly do it,” Ron suggested.
Harry shook his head immediately. “No. I’ll do it.”
Chloe tore a page from her notebook and slid it across the table. “These measurements. In inches. Don’t pull the tape tight.”
Harry studied the instructions as though they described an unfamiliar explosive device. “I’ll handle it.”
Ron closed his folder. “I recommend waiting until she’s asleep.”
“Thank you, Ron."
That evening, Yuliana met Harry outside his study and lowered her voice as though reporting a delicate security matter.
“She fell asleep upstairs.”
“In bed?”
“She said she was only going to rest for ten minutes.” A small smile touched Yuliana’s mouth. “She was listening to classical music.”
Harry glanced toward the staircase, then at the flexible measuring tape concealed in his hand.
Perfect.
Or as close to perfect as this plan was likely to become.
He opened the bedroom door carefully and stepped inside. The curtains had been drawn against the evening light, leaving the room dim and quiet except for the faint piano music escaping from one of the wireless earbuds in your ears.
You were asleep on your side, one hand tucked beneath your cheek and the other curved protectively over your stomach. The second earbud had fallen onto the pillow beside you.
Your phone rested on the nightstand, still playing the same gentle piece on repeat.
Harry stood beside the bed for several seconds, simply looking at you.
Then he unfolded the list Chloe had sent him.
This should have been easy.
Harry had negotiated acquisitions involving several governments. He had once completed a merger while both legal teams threatened to walk away. He regularly managed people who considered compromise a moral failing.
He could measure his sleeping fiancée.
Carefully, he sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the remaining earbud from your ear. You made a quiet sound and shifted deeper into the pillow.
Harry froze.
Your breathing remained even.
The first measurement was uncomplicated. He placed one end of the tape near your shoulder and extended it gently across your back, recording the number in his phone.
Shoulder to floor required an approximation from the side of the bed. Chloe had specifically written that an imperfect number was preferable to waking you, although Harry suspected she had not fully considered what would happen if you woke and found him standing over you with tailoring equipment.
The underbust measurement was next. Harry stared at the instruction. Then at you. Then back at the instruction. The circumference of your stomach seemed safer.
Harry lifted the edge of the blanket and passed the tape carefully around the fullest curve, reaching beneath your side to bring the ends together.
Your eyes opened.
Harry stopped breathing.
You blinked down at the measuring tape wrapped around your stomach, then slowly raised your gaze to him. “Harry.” Your voice was rough with sleep. “What—what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
You stared at him.
He was sitting beside you with a measuring tape in both hands.
“Nothing?”
“I can explain.”
“Are you measuring my waist?”
Your voice rose sharply as you pushed yourself upright, shock and hurt chasing the last traces of sleep from your face.
“No—no, baby. Not like that.”
You pulled the tape from his hands and looped it loosely around the back of his neck before he could react.
“Harry Castillo, I will strangle you with this.”
“Baby, wait.”
“You measured me while I was asleep?”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“That I was—”
“Checking how much weight I’ve gained?”
Harry’s expression changed immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“How many inches was it?” Your eyes began to shine. “I’ve gotten huge, haven’t I?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“You looked terrified.”
“Because you threatened to kill me.”
“With a fabric tape. You would’ve survived.”
The first tear slipped down your cheek. Another followed before you could wipe it away.
“I knew I’d gained too much weight.” Your voice broke. “I look awful, don’t I? I’ve become enormous and ugly.”
Harry gently removed the tape from around his neck and dropped it onto the carpet.
“That is complete nonsense.” He moved closer and cupped your face between his hands. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
More tears spilled down your cheeks.
Harry wiped them away with his thumbs, his voice softening further. “You’re carrying our daughters. Your body is changing because it’s making room for two people. There is nothing ugly about you. Not one thing.”
You sniffed and looked down at your stomach. “My face is puffy.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“My ankles are swollen.”
“Still beautiful.”
“None of my clothes fit.”
“I’ll buy you new ones.”
“That isn’t the point.” You opened your mouth to continue, but a sudden yawn interrupted you. Your shoulders sagged as quickly as your anger had risen. “I’m so tired.” The abrupt change left Harry staring at you. “I just want to sleep.”
His expression softened with relief and guilt in equal measure. “Okay, baby. Sleep.”
You lay down again, then caught his wrist before he could move away. “Stay.”
“I’m here.”
You pulled his arm against your chest and settled around it, resting your cheek near his shoulder. So many emotions had passed through you in the space of a few minutes—anger, humiliation, tears and exhaustion—that Harry could not stop himself from feeling responsible for every one of them.
“Will you stroke my hair?” you asked sleepily.
“Of course.”
His fingers moved gently through your hair, smoothing it away from your face. Every few moments, he bent and pressed a quiet kiss to your temple.
Your breathing gradually slowed. “Harry?”
“I’m here, baby.”
“Don’t measure me again.”
“I won’t.”
Harry looked down at you suspiciously, but a faint sleepy smile touched your mouth before disappearing.
Within moments, your breathing deepened.
Harry continued stroking your hair long after you had fallen asleep. At first, he intended to remain for only a minute.
Then five.
Your fingers stayed curled firmly around his wrist, and every attempt to move made you shift closer. Eventually, Harry lay down beside you fully dressed, one arm trapped beneath your head and the other resting over your stomach.
One of the babies moved beneath his palm.
A quiet smile crossed his face.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Your mother has already threatened me once tonight.”
Twenty minutes later, his trapped arm had gone completely numb.
He endured another ten.
Then a faint snore escaped you.
Harry looked down.
Your lips had parted slightly, your head angled back against his arm. The snoring had appeared with the pregnancy and grew louder whenever you were exhausted—something you denied with absolute conviction every morning.
Another soft snore followed. Harry smiled. “You’d call me a liar if I told you.”
He gently touched beneath your chin and turned your head slightly toward the pillow, just as he had on countless nights before. The sound stopped almost immediately.
You murmured something indistinct. Harry froze. “Harry…”
He bent and kissed your hair. “I’m right here.”
Your fingers loosened around his wrist, and your breathing settled again.
Moving slowly, Harry reached down for the tape. He passed it around your stomach once more, careful not to pull it tight. When the ends met, he secured the exact point beneath one finger and eased the tape away without losing the measurement.
This time, you did not wake.
Harry carefully freed his arm, replacing it with the pillow before sitting up. He opened his phone, added the final number to his notes, and sent the measurements to Chloe.
Harry: This is everything I could get.
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
Chloe: Did she wake up?
Harry: Briefly.
Chloe: Are you alive?
His gaze returned to you. You were sleeping peacefully again, one hand spread across your stomach, your mouth beginning to fall open.
Harry: Barely.
He set the phone on the nightstand and watched you for another moment, smiling despite himself.
Saturday Morning
When you opened your eyes, Harry’s side of the bed was empty.
The sheets still held the faint warmth of him, but the room had gone quiet in the particular way it did only when he had been awake for some time. The curtains were partially open, allowing the soft April sunlight to spill across the carpet.
You reached blindly toward his pillow. Nothing.
“Harry?”
No answer came from the bathroom.
You pushed yourself higher against the pillows, one hand automatically settling over the curve of your stomach. “Harry?”
Still nothing.
That was when you noticed the folded card resting against the lamp on his nightstand, placed beside the snow globe.
You reached for it.
Good morning, baby.
I have something planned for you. Trust me for a few hours and let Yuliana help you.
I’ll see you soon.
I love you.
H.
You read it twice, then narrowed your eyes at the empty room.
“Trust you with what?”
A soft knock sounded against the bedroom door. Before you could answer, Yuliana stepped inside carrying a tray of tea. Her usually restrained expression had been replaced by a smile she was making very little effort to hide.
You held up the card. “What is happening?”
“I was instructed not to say, Ms. Queen.”
You accepted the tea and took a cautious sip while studying her over the rim of the cup. “You understand that smiling like that only makes you look more suspicious.”
Yuliana glanced at her watch.
“You’re timing me?”
“Perhaps.”
She waited patiently until you finished, then placed the cup aside and offered her hands.
“We should get you up now, Ms. Queen.”
“Why?”
“Several people are waiting for you.”
The way she said it made you immediately suspicious. “Which people?”
Yuliana continued holding out her hands.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
With a sigh, you let her help you sit up. One of the babies shifted as you moved, a slow rolling sensation beneath your ribs. You pressed your palm against it. “At least one person in this room should tell me what’s happening.”
“Trokhy terpinnya, Ms. Queen,” Yuliana said gently. “Just a little patience.”
She helped you into your robe, tied it securely around you, then waited while you slipped your feet into your house shoes.
The moment you stepped into the corridor, you heard several voices coming from the dressing room.
You stopped.
Emily appeared first. “Look who’s finally awake.”
“Our Queen has arrived,” Chloe added from behind her.
Emily came directly toward you, placing one hand gently against your stomach. “How are you feeling? And how are these two?”
“We’re confused,” you said. “What are all of you doing in my house?”
“First, breakfast,” Emily said. “There’s a full table waiting.”
“No. First, someone tells me what is happening.”
Chloe exchanged a glance with Emily. “Perhaps it would be easier to show you.”
She opened the dressing-room door.
The room had been transformed.
A small hair and makeup team stood near the windows beside neatly arranged cases and brushes. Fresh white flowers had been placed on the vanity, restrained enough not to resemble one of Scarlet’s productions. Dana stood near the wardrobe holding two phones—yours and her own—while appearing entirely untroubled by the fact that she had confiscated your professional life.
“Good morning, Ms. Queen,” the team greeted.
Your gaze moved from Emily to Dana, then Chloe.
Finally, it settled on the garment bag. “What is that?”
Dana’s smile became dangerously emotional. “Morning, Ms. Queen.”
“What is in the bag?”
The room fell silent.
Emily quietly moved a plate of toast closer to the nearest chair. Dana looked down at the phones.
Chloe reached for the zipper. “Why don’t you take a look?”
She opened the bag.
Soft ivory fabric appeared first, followed by delicate folds of silk, a gracefully structured bodice and a skirt designed to fall around the curve of your stomach without constricting it. There was no excessive beading, cathedral train or rigid corsetry. The fabric caught the morning light with a quiet sheen, elegant without demanding attention.
It looked effortless.
Which meant an extraordinary amount of work had gone into it.
Your breath caught. “Oh, my God. That... looks like—”
A wedding dress.
Not something inspired by one. A real wedding dress. Pinned carefully to the front was another folded card. Chloe removed it and held it toward you. Your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it.
Baby,
Chloe and her mother made this for you. I hope it’s close to what you wanted.
There’s a car waiting downstairs. At the end of the drive, you’ll find a beach, the people closest to us, and me.
I made today possible. Whether we marry here or wait for the wedding they’ve been planning is your decision.
I’ll be waiting.
H.
You stared at the page until the words began to blur. Then your gaze dropped to the dress again, and understanding arrived all at once.
“Oh, my God, Harry.”
A tear struck the card.
You looked toward Chloe. “That’s why he was measuring me.”
Chloe pressed her lips together, already close to tears herself.
You laughed, covering your mouth as more tears followed. “Oh, that man.”
Emily stood immediately. “Hey.”
“I cannot believe him.”
She placed both hands gently on your arms. “Is that a good cannot believe him?”
You looked down at the note. “He listened to me.”
The words emerged so softly that everyone in the room went still.
Emily’s expression changed. “Yes. He did.”
“And then he made it happen in two days,” Chloe added quietly.
You touched the skirt with your fingertips.
It was beautiful, but not because it was expensive or perfectly made. It was beautiful because nothing about it felt designed for other people to admire.
Harry had remembered the beach, the quiet, the absence of reporters and boards and questions. The moment in the movie when you had cried because two people had been allowed to simply marry each other.
Your face crumpled again.
Chloe hurried toward you. “Oh. I think the crying spell has arrived.”
You nodded, tears already falling.
Emily handed you a tissue. “Get it all out before they start your makeup. This entire team is here to prepare you for today.”
“Then I should wash my face.”
“Yeah.” Emily slipped an arm gently around your waist. “Then you’re eating breakfast, and after that, we’ll get you ready.”
Chloe hesitated. “You do want this, don’t you? Because after five years apart and two babies on the way, I think you two have waited long enough.”
You looked at Chloe, then Dana, Yuliana, and the waiting hair and makeup team.
For one unsteady moment, the reality of it settled over you: a beach, no cameras, no audience, vows spoken before the rest of the world could claim them. Was this really what you wanted?
Then you pictured Harry waiting for you, and the question became almost embarrassingly simple.
Finally, your gaze returned to the dress.
“Yes,” you said. “I want this.”
Bridgehampton
The limousine turned through the gates of the Bridgehampton estate just after four.
Beyond the windows, pale dunes gave way to flashes of blue water beneath the soft April sky. The ocean wind moved through the beach grass, bending it toward the private stretch of sand Harry had somehow secured in less than forty-eight hours.
Chloe looked mournfully at the view. “The fact that I can’t put any of this on my story is cruel.”
“Post one frame and every paparazzi in New York will be outside the gates before we reach the sand,” Emily warned, holding up the one phone Dana had authorized for photographs.
“No one posts anything,” you added. “Turn off your location services too.”
“They’re already off,” Dana assured you.
“Good. Now move closer,” Emily said.
Despite her warning, she was already recording, the phone safely on airplane mode. You, Chloe and Dana leaned together while she turned the camera toward you. Yuliana sat opposite, watching with quiet amusement.
“Smile,” Emily instructed.
“I am smiling,” you said with a laugh as another small movement rolled beneath your hand. “They’re the ones refusing to hold still for the picture.”
You glanced at your reflection in the darkened window. “Do I look as nervous as I feel?”
“No,” Emily said immediately. “You look radiant.”
“Annoyingly beautiful,” Chloe added.
Dana nodded. “Exactly as you should.”
“Beautiful is insufficient,” Yuliana corrected, studying you with open admiration. “Vy prekrasna (you’re beautiful) Ms. Queen. Prosto neymovirna. (Simply incredible.)”
And, inconveniently, they were right.
The ivory silk dress fell cleanly from beneath your bust, following the curve of your stomach without trying to conceal it.
Its deep V neckline was softened by delicate embroidery that gathered just above the swell of your belly, while the long skirt moved fluidly around your legs. There was no veil, no heavy train and nothing that required you to become someone else to wear it.
You smoothed both hands over your stomach. One of the girls moved beneath your palm. “Apparently they’re as excited as I am.”
“They’re half Queen and half Castillo,” Dana said. “Of course they assume the entire event is being held in their honor.”
The limousine slowed. Your heartbeat immediately quickened. Emily lowered the phone. “We’re here.”
Down on the beach, Harry checked his watch for what Ron estimated was the ninth time.
“She crossed the gate three minutes ago,” Ron said.
“She’s here,” Harry replied, and the words came out softer than he intended.
He stood near the small flowered arch in a black tuxedo, his attention fixed on the wooden walkway leading down from the house. Mikey waited beside Ron, while Captain Mateo Alvarez—Richard’s oldest friend and, thanks to Ron’s exhaustive planning, a legally registered officiant—stood nearby with the ceremony papers secured inside his jacket.
Sienna adjusted one of the white flowers in her hands. “The florist reinforced the arch. It won’t collapse unless the wind develops personal hostility toward us.”
Harry barely heard her.
Vivienne approached and straightened his boutonniere, her expression warm with emotion. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re waiting aggressively.” Her hand lingered briefly against his lapel. “You get to marry her again. Try to enjoy this part too.”
A small smile finally broke through his nerves.
Before he could answer, the limousine appeared beyond the dunes.
Every conversation stopped.
Scarlet immediately moved toward the end of the walkway with Richard beside her. He relied on his cane for balance, his steps slower than they once had been. Scarlet slipped her arm through his without drawing attention to the support she provided.
The car came to a stop.
Harry went completely still, though from where he stood, the vehicle concealed most of the drive.
“They’re here,” Sienna said, already moving. “I’ll go make sure she has everything.”
A member of the staff opened the door. Emily stepped out first, followed by Chloe and Dana. Then the attendant offered you his hand.
You took it.
Emily immediately gathered the skirt so it would not catch beneath your shoes as you carefully stepped onto the stone drive. The ocean breeze caught the silk, pressing it briefly against the curve of your stomach before letting it fall into its clean, graceful lines again.
For one suspended moment, no one spoke.
Scarlet’s eyes filled before you had taken three steps. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “You are so beautiful.”
You approached her, and she caught both of your hands. “You too,” you said, looking over her pale blue silk dress, structured hat and entirely unnecessary pearl gloves. “Though you appear to have dressed for a royal garden party.”
Scarlet lifted her chin. “I was given forty-eight hours and absolutely no authority. I had to express myself somehow.”
Richard sighed beside her. “They’re doing this the way they want, Scarlet.”
“I know,” she replied, never taking her eyes from you. “I’m adjusting with remarkable dignity.”
You turned toward Richard. “Dad.”
His face softened completely.
“My beautiful girl.” His gaze dropped affectionately to your stomach. “How are all three of you?”
“Nervous, happy and extremely pregnant.”
“That sounds about right.”
You hugged him carefully, feeling one of his hands settle against your back.
When you pulled away, your gaze dropped briefly to his cane before returning to his face. “You look very handsome.”
“I had an important place to be.”
Your throat tightened.
Before the tears could begin, Mikey appeared and opened his arms. “Baby sister.”
He attempted to hug you, only to discover that your stomach reached him first. He looked down between you.
“I think your stomach arrived before the rest of you.”
“Careful,” you warned. “You’re insulting three Queen women at once.”
“I would never.” He bent and spoke toward your stomach. “Your mother has always been this threatening.”
You pushed lightly at his shoulder. “Move.”
Laughing, Mikey kissed your cheek and stepped aside.
Sienna approached carrying a bouquet of white ranunculus, sweet peas and small ivory roses. She placed it gently in your hands before glancing toward the beach.
Harry was visible at the other end of the walkway.
He had not moved.
Even from a distance, you could see the way he was looking at you—as though the rest of the beach had disappeared the moment you stepped from the car.
Sienna smiled softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
You took a deep breath, then another, waving your hands to calm your emotions. “Oh, no.”
Emily was instantly beside you. “What?”
“The crying spell.”
She opened her bag and produced a tissue with the speed of a trained emergency responder.
Chloe pointed at you. “Do not rub your eyes. We used waterproof makeup, but I refuse to test its limits before the ceremony begins.”
“I’m trying not to cry.”
“You’re failing beautifully,” Dana said.
A laugh escaped through your tears.
Emily carefully dabbed beneath one eye. “There. Crisis contained.”
Richard moved beside you and offered his arm.
You looked at the wooden path stretching across the dunes, then toward Harry waiting at its end.
“Are you sure?” you asked softly.
Richard straightened, tightening his hand around the top of his cane. “I didn’t spend two months learning to walk across rooms again just to sit down for this part.”
Your eyes filled all over again. “Chloe,” you warned.
“Ugh, honey breathe,” Chloe said firmly. “We have reached the maximum permitted tears.”
Richard smiled and held out his arm once more. “Ready?”
You slipped your hand through it, supporting him as subtly as he supported you.
Your gaze returned to Harry. This time, there was no hesitation.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m ready."
The first notes of the music drifted across the dunes as you and Richard stepped onto the wooden walkway.
Everyone rose.
Warm applause followed, unrestrained and familiar. Mikey brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly before stepping directly into the aisle with his phone raised.
“Mikey,” Sienna hissed, catching the back of his jacket and pulling him out of the way.
“I’m documenting history.”
“You’re blocking history.”
Laughter moved through the small gathering as he allowed himself to be dragged back beside her, though he continued filming over her shoulder.
There were no camera flashes, no reporters calling your name, no phones raised for an audience waiting somewhere beyond the beach. Emily and Chloe recorded from their places, but only so you and Harry could keep the moment. Near the second row, a single videographer followed your progress through a discreet lens, having been warned by Ron so thoroughly that he looked prepared to surrender the camera, memory card and all personal identification at the slightest provocation.
Nothing was being broadcast.
Nothing had to become public before it belonged to you.
The aisle was not lined with investors, board members or distant relatives invited out of obligation. There were only two short rows of chairs, and every person standing beside them was someone whose face you knew well enough to read without effort.
Scarlet was already crying behind the sunglasses she had apparently worn to prevent exactly that. Vivienne held one hand over her heart, her expression radiant. Ron remained beside Dana, who was wiping beneath one eye while pretending to inspect Emily’s recording. Lara stood near Scarlet, openly crying without attempting to disguise it, while Yuliana watched you with quiet pride.
They were all family.
Some had witnessed the first marriage and the way it had broken. Some had arrived later, carrying you through the strange, tender work of finding your way back to one another. But every person standing there had seen enough to understand what this moment meant. They had seen the love, the damage, the silence, the repair—and they had stayed.
The realization settled warmly beneath your ribs.
Your free hand moved instinctively over your stomach. One of the girls shifted beneath your palm, followed by the faintest answering movement from her sister.
You smiled down at them.
Richard glanced toward you. “All right?”
“More than all right.”
The boards of the narrow aisle beneath your low ivory heels were dusted with sand carried over them by the wind.
Beyond the gathering, the Atlantic stretched endlessly blue beneath the afternoon sky, its waves folding softly against the shore and filling the spaces between the music.
Then you looked ahead.
Harry stood on a low wooden platform beneath the simple arch of white flowers.
For one dangerous second, you nearly missed a step.
He wore a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the ocean breeze moving lightly through his hair. A white ranunculus and a small sprig of olive rested against his lapel, chosen to match your bouquet without surrounding you with the heavily scented flowers that always made your eyes water.
But it was his expression that caught you.
The tension he had carried while waiting disappeared the moment he saw you. His entire face softened into a wide, unguarded smile reserved only for you.
Richard tightened his hold on your arm before your heel could slip from the edge of the board.
“Careful, darling.”
Your eyes locked with Harry’s.
Neither of you looked away.
Five years apart seemed to compress themselves into those final steps—every wrong decision, every unfinished conversation and every night you had convinced yourself that losing him had been necessary.
But the last six months had changed you both. There were no secrets left between you now, no assumptions allowed to grow in silence. You were not walking toward the marriage you had once lost. You were walking toward something you had rebuilt together, deliberately and without anyone else deciding what it should become.
In a few moments, you would be husband and wife again.
This time, you both understood exactly what choosing one another meant.
By the time you reached him, your eyes were wet again.
Richard stopped before the platform. Harry stepped down immediately, offering one hand to you before turning toward him.
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Richard placed your hand into Harry’s.
“I gave her hand to you once before,” he said, his voice low with emotion. “But she was never mine to give away. She is my girl because she chose to let me love her like a father.”
Your throat tightened.
Richard looked from you to Harry. “So this time, I’m not giving her away. I’m asking you to stand beside her properly. Hold on to her. Listen to her. And when life gets loud, don’t let silence do the damage again.”
Harry closed his fingers carefully around yours. “I won’t.”
Richard studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Good.”
You leaned forward and kissed Richard’s cheek. “Thank you, Dad.”
His eyes shone as he stepped away.
“Go on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Go marry the man who finally learned how lucky he is.”
Harry helped you onto the platform, one hand steady at your waist until you were safely beside him. Captain Mateo waited a few feet away, but Harry appeared temporarily unaware that anyone else existed.
His gaze moved slowly over the dress, your hair and the curve of your stomach.
“I knew the dress would be beautiful,” he said softly. “I wasn’t prepared for you in it.”
The words nearly started the tears again.
You looked over his tuxedo with exaggerated consideration. “You look very handsome yourself, Mr. Castillo.”
His smile deepened. “More handsome than the first time?”
“You’ve aged.”
One eyebrow lifted.
“Like an obscenely expensive wine,” you added.
Harry’s gaze softened. “Then I must be keeping suitable company.”
One of his hands settled gently over your stomach. A visible ripple moved beneath the ivory silk almost immediately.
Harry glanced down, smiling. “They look as excited as we are.”
“No. They heard their father arranged an excellent wedding cake.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
His thumb moved lightly over the embroidered fabric before you looked around at the flowers, the two rows of chairs and the long table waiting farther up the shore.
“Harry,” you whispered. “What did you do?”
For the first time that afternoon, uncertainty flickered across his face. “Too much?”
“No.” You tightened your fingers around his. “It’s more beautiful than anything I imagined.”
His expression softened.
“Thank you,” you said. “For listening. For all of it.”
Harry lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles. “I wish I had done more sooner.”
“We had a great deal to survive first.”
“We did.”
His eyes remained on yours. “Then we shouldn’t give away any more time.”
Captain Alvarez cleared his throat with deliberate patience.
“I have married people on boats before,” he said, glancing toward the wooden platform that extended just over the water. “This is apparently the compromise Ron could manage in three days.”
Soft laughter moved through the gathering.
Ron adjusted his cuff. “A legally valid compromise.”
“The best kind,” Captain Alvarez said, smiling before he turned back to you and Harry. “We are gathered here with the people who know and love Harry and Queen best—not to begin their story, because that began many years ago, but to witness the choice they are making today.”
The ocean moved quietly behind him.
“This ceremony is small by design. There are no strangers here, no audience beyond those invited and no expectation except honesty. Before we continue, I need to ask one simple question. ”
His gaze moved first to Harry, then to you.
“Have you both come here freely, intending to marry one another today?”
Harry answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
You looked at the man who had arranged an entire wedding only to ensure you could still refuse it.
“Yes,” you said. “I have.”
Captain Alvarez nodded. “Then you may speak the promises you’ve prepared.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
You stared at him. “You prepared something?”
“Not a speech.” His fingers tightened around yours. “I don’t need one to tell you the truth.”
The last trace of humor faded from his expression as he looked directly into your eyes.
“The first time you chose me, I woke up the next morning and watched you sleep because I still couldn’t believe you were my wife.”
His throat moved.
“Then I lost you. And for five years, I learned exactly how much of my life had been built around loving you.”
Your eyes filled. “Harry, don’t make me cry.”
His thumb brushed beneath one of your eyes.
“Then you came back,” he said quietly. “And I felt like a prayer I had no right to make had been answered.”
A quiet laugh escaped you through the tears.
“You gave me a second life with you. You gave me our daughters." He paused, as though even he could not quite believe it. “I promise you this: you will never have to guess where I stand again. No silence, no pride, no misunderstanding will ever come before the truth.”
His voice lowered.
“I will choose you in every version of our life. I love you more than I did the first time. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful that you chose me twice.”
For several seconds, you could only look at him.
Around you, no one seemed to breathe properly. Scarlet pressed a tissue beneath her sunglasses. Vivienne’s mouth trembled. Dana looked down quickly, and even Ron appeared suspiciously interested in the horizon.
“I loved you when I left,” you said finally, your voice unsteady. “That was the cruelest part. I loved you through every year I pretended I had moved on, and I love you now without fear, without secrets and without one foot near the door.”
Harry’s eyes shone.
“I choose you, Harry Castillo. I always have. And I always will.” You squeezed his hands. “This time, I intend to stay.”
Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched until Mikey called from behind you, “You can keep staring after you’re legally married.”
Laughter broke through the emotion.
Captain Alvarez gave him a patient look.
“It appears we have people here even more impatient than the bride and groom.” His eyes narrowed faintly with affection. “Mikey, you were always like this.”
Mikey grinned. “Thanks, Captain.”
Then he leaned toward Sienna and whispered, “He loves me.”
Sienna covered her mouth to hide her laugh.
Captain Alvarez turned back to Harry. “Harry Castillo, do you take this woman to be your wife—to love her, honour her and continue choosing her for the rest of your life?”
Harry did not take his eyes from you. “I do.”
“And Ms. Queen, do you take this man to be your husband—to love him, honour him and continue choosing him for the rest of your life?”
“I do.”
Ron stepped forward with the rings. Harry slid yours carefully onto your finger, his hand trembling just enough for you to notice. You placed his ring beside the one he had once worn before,
sealing a promise renewed rather than replaced.
Captain Alvarez smiled. “By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Mikey was already on his feet. “Kiss her!”
Others joined him, laughing and applauding.
“Kiss!”
“Kiss!”
“Kiss!”
Harry’s arm curved carefully around your waist. He drew you as close as your stomach allowed, his other hand rising to cradle your face.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly at first, as though the two of you were alone. Then more deeply as the applause rose around you and the ocean wind carried Mikey’s triumphant whistle across the beach.
When Harry finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.
“Mrs. Castillo,” he whispered.
You smiled through your tears. “You always did like calling me that.”
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I missed it.”
Later, after champagne had been poured and the official photographs had been taken, Chloe insisted that the bouquet had one final responsibility.
You turned your back to the small group gathered behind you and tossed it over your shoulder.
The wind caught the flowers, shifted their course and dropped them directly into Vivienne’s arms.
She stared down at the bouquet.
Then she looked toward Marc, standing several feet away.
Marc smiled.
Vivienne’s cheeks turned pink as everyone began laughing and applauding.
Beside you, Harry’s expression changed slowly.
You looked up at him. “Don’t even start.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
He gave a small shrug. “I’m only wondering whether we can return the bouquet and try again.”
You hit his shoulder lightly. “Shut up and dance with me.”
The first notes of the music began.
Harry turned toward you and placed both hands at your waist. You slipped your arms around his neck, though the curve of your stomach prevented you from moving as close as either of you wanted.
Harry glanced down at the space between you. “I had imagined holding my wife a little closer.”
“Your daughters have other plans.”
“They’ve been interfering all day.”
“They’re making sure you behave.”
Harry looked offended. “With my own wife?”
“Especially with your own wife.”
Harry laughed and lowered his forehead to yours, swaying with you as the music carried across the beach.
A few feet away, Scarlet and Vivienne watched with matching tears in their eyes.
“They deserved this happiness, didn’t they?” Vivienne whispered.
Scarlet nodded. “More than anyone.”
Vivienne dabbed at her cheek. “My eyes are leaking.”
“So are mine.”
Mikey appeared behind them.
“Should I call 911, or is this a shared maternal event?”
Both women turned toward him.
Sienna burst out laughing, and even Richard failed to hide his smile.
You extended one hand toward the others. “Come on. Join us.”
Scarlet joined Richard first, moving carefully around his cane. Ron drew Dana into his arms, while Sienna allowed Mikey to spin her with considerably more enthusiasm than skill. Vivienne hesitated only briefly before accepting Marc’s hand.
Harry watched them, a trace of old protectiveness tightening his expression.
You touched his cheek. “She looks happy.”
His gaze returned to you. After a moment, he nodded and relaxed beneath your hand.
“She does.”
Near the edge of the dance floor, Emily, Chloe and Yuliana formed a loose circle, laughing as they danced together.
Lara clapped in time from her chair until Captain Alvarez offered his hand and persuaded her to join him for several careful steps.
There was no ballroom, no orchestra and no audience waiting to judge what the day meant.
Only the ocean, the music and every person you had chosen as family.
Harry watched them for a moment—the people dancing barefoot or carefully around canes and hems, the laughter carried by the wind, the small, impossible life you had built out of everything that had nearly ended.
Then his gaze returned to you.
His arms tightened around your waist, and he rested his forehead against yours.
“A little late,” he murmured, “but I think we made it.”
You cupped his face in both hands. “We did. And we made it beautifully.” Your lips trembled. “Oh, no. I think it’s coming back.”
Harry’s eyes softened with immediate alarm and amusement. “No. No crying, we just survived the ceremony. You can give the makeup ten more minutes.”
You laughed, blinking quickly. “Okay. I’m not crying.”
“Good.”
“I’m almost not crying.”
“That’s progress.”
The wave passed slowly. You breathed in, steadied yourself, and looked up at him again.
Harry’s smile faded into something quieter, deeper. “I love you so much,” he said.
Your hands rested against his jaw as the music continued around you. “I love you too, Harry.”
And while everyone you loved danced around you beneath the open sky, you let the moment stay exactly what it was.
Yours.
Days turned into weeks.
For a while, you and Harry stayed married only in the places that mattered. At home, in the quiet, his ring never left his finger. But every morning before a public meeting, a board dinner or anything involving cameras, he removed it with an apology he never seemed to grow tired of giving. “I hate it. I want everyone to know you’re my wife.”
And every morning, you gave him the same answer. “They will. Wait until our girls are born.”
The world still believed the real wedding was coming later—the grand one Scarlet and Vivienne were already designing with terrifying enthusiasm. When reporters asked how the preparations were going, you smiled, touched your stomach and said something harmless about family, timing and taking things slowly.
Somehow, the rumors still began.
Did Harry Castillo and Ms. Queen Marry in Secret?
Private Beach Ceremony Reportedly Held in Bridgehampton.
No Guests, No Press, No Confirmation: Inside Manhattan’s Most Talked-About Non-Wedding.
Some said Bridgehampton. Some said it had only been an engagement celebration. Some insisted there had been a wedding, but no one could produce a single photograph.
You and Harry answered none of it.
There were more important things to survive.
Your stomach grew heavier by the week, until getting out of bed without assistance became less an act of independence and more an unnecessarily ambitious athletic event. Doctor’s appointments became nearly the only reason you left the house. Everyone else came to you.
Emily arrived one afternoon claiming she had only stopped by to bring soup, then sat at the edge of your bed and confessed that she had started seeing the man her mother had hired as a waiter at the restaurant. He was Asian, apparently devastatingly handsome according to Emily’s increasingly unprofessional description, and “too polite in a way that felt dangerous.”
Chloe gave her ex another chance and pretended she was being cautious about it, despite the fact that she blushed every time his name appeared on her phone. Scarlet and Richard came regularly under the excuse of checking on you, though Richard spent most of each visit asking the girls whether they intended to let their mother sleep. Lara moved in without ceremony, joining Yuliana in the practical, unspoken agreement that until the babies arrived, you were not to be left unattended for any length of time.
Mikey and Sienna came sometimes together, sometimes separately, each visit explained with suspiciously unnecessary detail. Mikey brought stories from the office,most of them delivered with the confidence of a man who had survived another day in corporate warfare and deserved applause for it.
Gerard still called when necessary, but even he had begun to respect the boundaries Dana enforced with frightening precision. For the last three weeks, he no longer patched you into meetings unless there was no alternative. Dana kept such careful notes that reading her briefings almost felt like being in the room.
Almost.
Queen Financial was not healed, not yet.
But it was rising.
The panic had passed. The structure was holding. The people who had expected you to disappear quietly were beginning to understand that you had only stepped back long enough to breathe.
Harry had done the same in his own way. He met with Ron over laptop screens more often than in boardrooms now, choosing home whenever he could. Some afternoons, you would wake from a nap to find him at the foot of the bed, muted on a call, one hand resting absently over your ankle while he listened to Ron speak.
By the time you entered your thirtieth week, your doctor stopped sounding politely cautious and began sounding direct.
“You cannot be alone at home now,” she said. “Not for long periods. Not with this level of risk.”
Harry’s hand tightened around yours. She reviewed the warning signs, the possibility of early labor, the need to avoid stress, overexertion and anything that might trigger contractions.
“I’m also recommending pelvic rest from this point forward.”
You glanced at Harry.
He looked straight ahead.
The doctor continued, perfectly professional. “That means no intercourse, no penetration, and no sexual activity that results in orgasm. Uterine contractions after orgasm are usually harmless in low-risk pregnancies, but in your case, with twins and your current risk factors, we are not encouraging anything that could increase uterine activity.”
Harry’s expression did not change, but his hand became very still around yours.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
He looked like a man receiving a sentence from a judge and refusing to appeal in public.
In the car afterward, Harry remained silent for almost three minutes.
“You’re being very mature,” you said.
“I’m being tested.”
You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder. “It’s only temporary.”
“I understand that.”
“You look as if someone cancelled Christmas.”
“I said I understand it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”
But he was careful. More careful than you were, sometimes. When you curled into him at night, he kissed your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, then gently put space where space needed to be.
Sleeping became more difficult. Turning from one side to the other required planning, patience and, on particularly humiliating nights, Harry’s assistance. He surrounded you with pillows until the bed looked less like a bed and more like a medical nest designed by a luxury hotel.
Still, the girls pressed against your ribs, your bladder, your lungs and every other part of you they apparently considered negotiable.
Harry spoke to them every night. “Be kind to your mother,” he whispered, one hand spread over your stomach. “You’ll meet us soon enough.”
A small kick answered him. “Not that soon,” he added sternly.
You smiled into the pillow.
Eight weeks, the doctor had said.
Only eight weeks until you would meet your daughters.
Dinner was over when the call came.
You were lowering yourself carefully onto the sofa, one hand braced against the armrest and the other resting over your stomach, when your phone began to ring on the coffee table.
Unknown number.
You frowned, reaching for it. “Who calls after dinner anymore?”
Harry glanced up from where he was folding the throw blanket at the other end of the room.
You answered before he could say anything.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice spoke on the other end. Careful. Professional.
“Ms. Queen? My name is Claire Walsh. I’m calling from a long-term care facility—”
“A care facility?” you repeated, confused.
Harry was beside you before the woman finished her next sentence. He took the phone gently but firmly from your hand.
You stared at him. “Harry?”
He ended the call.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“What was that?”
“Nothing important.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You just took my phone from my hand. And hung up on a woman from a care facility.”
“She shouldn’t have called you directly.”
The sentence landed strangely. You pushed yourself higher against the cushions, studying him more closely. His face had gone pale, the controlled lines of it too still to be casual. “Harry,” you said slowly. “What is going on?”
He looked away.
That was enough.
You knew every version of his silence. The business silence. The angry silence. The silence he used when he was trying to keep a room from collapsing around someone he loved. This was the last one. “How long have you been hiding calls from me?”
His jaw tightened.
Your breath caught. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The last few days—your phone, Ron calling you outside the room, that woman—”
“Baby.”
“No.” Your voice sharpened. “Tell me. Please. What is going on?"
Harry stayed standing for another second. Then he exhaled, sat beside you and took both of your hands in his.
“Last Friday, a woman came to the building,” he said carefully. “Security didn’t let her up. She said she needed to speak to you.”
“About what?”
“At first, I didn’t know.”
Your fingers tightened around his. “And then?”
“I saw her again the next day. Outside. I asked what she wanted.”
Harry’s thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as though he was trying to keep you anchored before he had even said the words.
“She works at a long-term care facility,” he said. “Your biological father is there.”
You swallowed. The room seemed to drop out from beneath you. For a second, you only stared at him. “My… what?”
Harry’s face softened with worry. He reached up and brushed his fingers along your cheek. “Breathe for me."
You drew in a thin breath. One of the girls shifted beneath your ribs, and your hand moved instinctively to your stomach. “Continue,” you whispered.
Harry nodded once. “She tried Scarlet first because he had been saying her name for weeks. Scarlet refused to speak to her. She tried to reach Mikey and couldn’t. Then she saw your name attached to mine in enough society articles to find the building.”
Your mouth parted, but no sound came out. “Why is he there?” you asked finally. “Why is some woman calling me? Why now, after all these years?”
Harry looked down at your joined hands.
“The woman he left your mother for is gone. She took what remained of his money and disappeared when his illness became inconvenient.” His voice stayed low, measured. “He has Alzheimer’s. Advanced enough that some days he doesn’t know where he is. Some days he asks for Scarlet.
Some days he asks about the little boy.”
“Mikey,” you breathed.
Harry nodded. “And lately,” he said, softer now, “she said he keeps asking whether the baby was born.”
The words moved through you like something cold.
The baby.
Harry did not answer immediately. Your eyes lifted to his. “Me?”
His expression broke just enough to hurt. A tear slipped down your cheek.
The daughter he had never met. The child he had left behind before she had even taken her first breath.
Harry wiped the tear away with his thumb. “Baby, talk to me.”
You stared past him, but all you could see was a man you had never known asking about a baby who had already grown up, married, divorced, survived him, and was now carrying two daughters of her own.
“I need to see him.”
Harry’s brow drew together, that familiar deep crease forming between his eyes as his whole face tightened in immediate refusal. “No.”
“Harry—”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“If we are talking about your health and our daughters’ safety, then I do get a say.”
“A say, yes. Not the decision.”
“You’re thirty weeks pregnant with twins. The doctor said no stress.”
“I know what the doctor said.”
“Then you know this is exactly the kind of thing she meant.”
You pulled your hands back, not harshly, but enough to make him feel the distance.
“I have to see him.”
“You don’t owe him that.”
“I know.”
“He left you before you were born. He doesn’t deserve the chance to hurt you now.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
You pressed one hand to your stomach and swallowed hard.
“Because if something happens and he dies, I will never know what was real.” Your voice broke. “I spent my whole life imagining him. When I was seven, I asked my mother about him, and after that I made up versions of him in my head. Younger. Better. Sorry.” You shook your head. “I don’t know if I want to see him. But I need to.”
Harry looked at you for a long moment, the fight in his expression slowly giving way to something heavier. You reached for his hand again. “I don’t owe him anything,” you whispered. “But I think I owe something to the seven-year-old version of me who thought he might still come back if she was worth coming back to.”
That did it.
Harry’s face changed completely. The anger left him first, then the argument. What remained was something softer, almost wounded.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured.
He reached for you at once, his hand sliding gently over your hair as he drew you closer.
His eyes had gone bright, though he tried to blink it away before you could see. “She was always worth coming back to,” he said quietly. “He was the one who didn’t deserve to find his way back.”
Your breath broke against his chest.
Harry closed his eyes briefly and let out a slow breath. When he opened them again, his fear was still there. So was the decision.
“We go together,” he said.
The facility smelled like lemon cleaner, old carpet and something medicinal underneath.
You hated that your first thought was how small everything seemed. The woman from the phone met you near the entrance and spoke softly to Harry while you stood with both hands curved over your stomach. He kept one hand at your lower back the entire time, steady and warm through the thin fabric of your dress.
When they brought you to the room, you stopped at the threshold.
The man sitting by the window was not the man you had imagined at seven.
He was not the famous director whose face you had cut from old entertainment magazines and hidden in the back of your drawer. Not the man smiling beside actresses at premieres, not the man whose interviews you had read in secret, searching for some trace of yourself in the shape of his mouth or the way his eyes held the camera.
That man had belonged to glossy paper and childhood invention.
This one was thinner than memory had any right to make him. Older than he should have been. His hair had gone almost completely white, his shoulders folded inward beneath a cardigan that looked too large for him. His hands rested in his lap, restless over the blanket.
For a moment, you could not breathe.
Harry leaned closer. “We can leave.”
You shook your head.
The man turned at the sound. His eyes moved over Harry first, then found you.
He stared.
Your body went cold.
“Scarlet?” he whispered.
Harry’s hand tightened at your back.
You tried to speak, but nothing came.
The man’s gaze drifted lower, to your stomach. Something in his face changed. Confusion. Wonder.
A grief too late to be useful.
“The baby,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He looked up at you again, eyes wet and empty of recognition.
“Our girl?”
The room tilted.
“No,” you whispered.
But he did not understand. Or perhaps some ruined part of him did, because his mouth trembled as he reached toward you with a hand that shook.
Harry stepped between you at once.
The movement broke something in you. You took a step back before you could stop yourself, one hand rising to your mouth as you looked at the helpless, fragile old man in front of you.
He did not look like the man who had destroyed your mother.
He did not look like the man who had left behind a pregnant wife and a one-year-old son.
He looked small.
Lost.
Almost pitiful.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
For years, you had imagined anger would be enough to hold you upright if this moment ever came. You had imagined questions.
Accusations. The clean satisfaction of finally saying what a child could not.
But there was no one here to answer you.
Only an old man who looked at you and saw your mother.
Only a mind trapped in the year he had left.
Only the baby he had never stayed to meet, standing in front of him with two babies of her own.
You turned away because you could not look at him anymore.
Behind you, he murmured something soft and broken.
“Scarlet… don’t go.”
Your eyes closed.
Harry understood before you spoke.
“That’s enough,” he said gently.
The woman from the facility said something behind you, but you did not hear it. Harry guided you into the corridor, one arm firm around your waist.
You made it three steps before the sob broke loose.
Harry pulled you into him.
“I thought he would be different,” you choked out. “I know that’s stupid. I know he was never good.
But when I was little, I imagined this so many times.”
“I know.”
“He was supposed to be healthy. Arrogant. Shameless.” Your voice broke harder. “He was supposed to be the man who betrayed my mother and left two children behind. I was supposed to be able to hate him. To ask him why. To make him look at me.”
Harry held you tighter.
“But he can’t even do that,” you sobbed. “He can’t answer me. He can’t apologize. He can’t even know me.”
“Breathe, baby,” Harry murmured. “Please. For me.”
“He was supposed to see me.” Your fingers twisted in his jacket. “He doesn’t even know me, Harry.”
“I know.” His voice was rough now. “I’m sorry.”
You clutched at him, crying too hard to stand without him.
“I’m right here,” he said, his hand moving slowly over your back. “You’re not that baby anymore. You hear me? You’re here. You have me. You have Richard—the father who stayed. You have our girls. He doesn’t get to take that from you.”
You tried to nod.
Harry’s hand moved to your stomach. “Think of them. Just breathe. In and out.”
It took several minutes before you could move again.
The woman from the facility followed you into the corridor, holding a worn black notebook against her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “There is one more thing.”
Harry’s arm tightened around your waist. “Not now.”
But your gaze had already dropped to the notebook. “What is that?”
The woman hesitated. “They found it among his things when he was moved here. He kept it for years.” Her eyes softened with something like pity. “He knew about you, Ms. Queen. About both of you. It’s only in the last year that the illness began taking names from him.”
The words landed too slowly.
He knew.
You should have said no.
Instead, you reached for it.
The cover was cracked at the corners, the pages swollen from age. When you opened it, the first thing you saw was Mikey’s face, cut from a society magazine years ago and pasted crookedly onto yellowing paper.
MICHAEL QUEEN CAUSES SCENE AT CHARITY AUCTION
A laughless breath caught in your throat.
Mikey looked younger in the photograph, grinning at someone outside the frame as if he had absolutely no intention of learning from the incident.
The next page was Scarlet.
SCARLET QUEEN TO STAR OPPOSITE ROBERT DE NIRO
She was impossibly young, impossibly beautiful, her smile bright enough to belong to a woman who had not yet learned how much grief could cost.
Then another.
QUEEN AND CASTILLO FAMILIES UNITE IN HIGH-SOCIETY WEDDING
Your first wedding.
Your face beside Harry’s, both of you caught on the church steps, younger and shining with a kind of happiness you had not known enough to protect.
Your fingers trembled as you turned the page.
MS. QUEEN RETURNS TO NEW YORK
A photograph from one of your first major public appearances after joining Queen Financial.
Then another.
QUEEN FINANCIAL’S HEIRESS STEPS INTO POWER
And another.
MS. QUEEN SHINES AT ANNUAL GALA
Page after page.
Your face, collected in silence.
Not loved properly. Not claimed. Not protected.
Just watched from a distance.
Harry looked over your shoulder and went very still.
Between the clippings, there were folded letters in shaky handwriting.
Scarlet, forgive me.
Scarlet, I made a mistake.
Scarlet, tell me about my kids.
The words blurred.
A sound left you before you could stop it.
“He…” you whispered. “All those years…”
Harry turned toward you at once. “Baby—”
“He knew.”
Your hand moved to your stomach.
For one second, everything inside you went too quiet.
Then a hard tightening pulled low across your abdomen.
You gasped.
Harry’s face changed instantly. “Baby?”
Another wave came before you could answer. Not sharp enough to name, but deep and wrong enough to steal your breath.
The notebook slipped from your fingers and hit the floor.
“H-Harry.”
He caught you before your knees gave way.
“No, no, no.” His voice dropped into panic before he forced it steady. “Baby, look at me.”
Your fingers clutched at his jacket.
“The babies—”
Harry lifted you into his arms before you could finish.
“I’ve got you.” His voice was calm in the way it became only when he was terrified. “Open the doors,” he called down the corridor. “Now.”
The woman from the facility moved quickly, shouting for help as Harry carried you toward the exit.
“Look at me,” he said, holding you carefully against his chest. “Breathe for me.”
Then he felt it.
The warmth soaking through the fabric beneath his arm.
For half a second, his mind went brutally blank.
Then everything the doctor had said came back at once: thirty weeks, twins, stress, warning signs, early labor, rupture, pressure, do not wait.
His hold tightened.
“No,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Not yet.”
Another pressure rolled through you, harder this time.
A broken cry slipped from your mouth.
“Harry.” Your voice cracked with fear. “It’s too early. It’s too early. I can’t—They can’t come now.”
“Yes, you can.” He pressed his mouth briefly to your hair as he moved faster, his heart beating violently against you. “Listen to me. You can. I’m taking you to the hospital. You and the girls are going to be okay.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” His voice roughened.
“I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
The driver was already out of the car when Harry reached the entrance.
“Mr. Castillo?”
“Call the doctor,” Harry ordered as the doors opened ahead of him. “Now.”
The driver grabbed his phone with shaking hands.
Harry lowered you into the back seat, one arm still braced behind you, the other pressed protectively over your stomach.
Another wave hit.
You clutched his shirt, tears breaking free.
“Harry…”
He looked down at your face, all the color gone from his own.
“Stay with me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Please. Stay with me."
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