[Serena’s POV]
I wake to the smell of something burning.
Not dramatically burning—not call-the-fire-department burning—but definitely the particular char of breakfast ambitions exceeding breakfast abilities. My eyes open to find Caspian's side of the bed empty, sheets still warm, and the distant sound of Aria's delighted shrieking coming from the kitchen.
The master bedroom still feels surreal. His bedroom. Our bedroom. The sheets smell like him, like us, like the life we apparently decided to build last night between declarations of love and spectacular sex.
Another crash from the kitchen. More shrieking—the happy kind, I think.
I pull on one of his shirt and pad barefoot toward the disaster zone, steeling myself for whatever I'm about to witness.
It's worse than I imagined.
Flour covers every visible surface. Not just the counters—the cabinets, the floor, somehow the ceiling in one spectacular arc. Caspian stands at the stove wielding a spatula like a weapon, his designer pajama pants dusted white, while Aria perches on a stool beside him looking like a tiny ghost.
"Mommy!" She waves enthusiastically, sending another puff of flour into the air. "We're making you pancakes!"
"I can see that." My voice comes out strangled. "I can see... all of it."
Caspian turns, and his grin is so proud, so genuinely pleased with himself, that I almost forget about the flour on the ceiling. Almost.
"Good morning, siren." He gestures grandly at the stove. "Breakfast is served. Well, will be served. Shortly. Once I figure out why they keep sticking."
"Did you use butter in the pan?"
"...There's supposed to be butter in the pan?"
I close my eyes. Count to three. Open them to find both of them watching me with identical expressions of hopeful mischief—grey eyes, that same tilt to their smiles.
"Move over." I'm already reaching for the butter dish. "Watch and learn, Rothwell."
"See, Aria?" Caspian stage-whispers. "Mommy's going to show us her superior pancake technique."
"Mommy's going to show you how to read a basic recipe." I hip-check him aside, and my hands are already reaching for the dishcloth, wiping the flour from the counter before I consciously decide to do it. "And maybe how to contain dry ingredients to the actual bowl."
The pancakes come together quickly once I take over—golden, fluffy, properly cooked. Caspian watches like I'm performing surgery while Aria provides running commentary about how Mr. Serious Boss's pancakes looked like sad clouds.
"They weren't sad clouds," Caspian protests. "They were abstract interpretations of pancakes. Very avant-garde."
"They were burned." Aria is merciless. "Really burned."
"Constructive criticism noted, Aria the Terrible."
I flip the last pancake onto the plate and turn to find the flour situation has somehow gotten worse while I was cooking. Aria's stool is surrounded by white footprints, and there's batter dripping down the cabinet door.
My hands twitch toward the paper towels. Then actually reach for them.
"Serena." Caspian's voice is gentle. "The flour will still be there after we eat."
"I know." I'm already wiping the cabinet. "I just—it'll take two seconds."
"Mommy always cleans when she's nervous," Aria announces through a mouthful of pancake. "Or happy. Or thinking. Or bored."
"Or breathing," I mutter, but I force myself to put down the paper towels. Sit at the island. Eat a pancake that I made in a kitchen that looks like a bakery exploded.
The flour on the ceiling catches the morning light. My eye keeps drifting to it.
"It's really bothering you," Caspian observes.
"It's on the ceiling, Cas. How did you even—"
"We were enthusiastic." He grins, completely unrepentant. "Aria's whisking technique is very vigorous."
"I beat the eggs really hard!" Aria demonstrates with her fork, sending a piece of pancake flying.
I catch myself before I lunge for the napkin. Breathe. These are just messes. Normal, family messes. This is what I wanted. What I chose.
The intercom buzzes—the doorman.
Caspian wipes his hands on a towel, leaving flour streaks, and answers. "Yes?"
"Mr. Rothwell, you have a delivery. Legal courier, says it requires signature."
"Send them up."
He meets my eyes across the island, and something warm passes between us. The paternity paperwork. Ready for filing. Ready to make this official, legal, real in ways that terrify me and thrill me in equal measure.
"This is it, huh?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"This is it." He crosses to me, cups my flour-dusted face in his hands. "Still sure?"
"Still sure." I kiss him, quick and certain. "Let's make you a father. Officially."
"I'm already a father." He glances at Aria, who's constructed a syrup lake around her pancake stack. "The paperwork's just catching up."
The courier arrives, paperwork is signed, and suddenly we're holding documents that will change everything. Aria doesn't understand the significance, just knows we're going somewhere important after breakfast.
"Can I wear my purple dress?"
"Of course, baby."
"And bring Mr. Whiskers?"
"If Mr. Whiskers promises to be quiet in the courthouse."
She runs off to get dressed, and I start cleaning up the kitchen because I can't not. Caspian watches me wipe counters with what might be amusement or concern—hard to tell with him.
"You know," he says carefully, "I can hire someone to clean."
"I know." Wipe, wipe, wipe. "But it’s just a breakfast mess. At this rate, you’ll need to hire the live-in maid or something." I try for humor, but the idea itself feels foreign and uncomfortable.
"Well, if needs must…"
I stop, dishcloth in hand, and try to shake the idea of the living-in maid. It lavish and completely unnecessary, and there’s no way I can explain it to him right now. "Needs mustn’t. We both live here; we can handle a little cleanup."
He doesn't respond, just crosses to me and takes the dishcloth gently from my hands. Sets it aside. Pulls me against his chest.
"You don't have to fix everything anymore." His voice rumbles through me. "Some messes can just exist."
I want to believe him. I'm trying to believe him.
The intercom buzzes again.
"Mr. Rothwell?" The doorman's voice sounds strange. Strained. "Your father is in the lobby. He's insisting on coming up."
Caspian goes rigid against me. Every muscle in his body locks tight, and when he pulls back, his face has drained of color.
"My father is in Geneva."
"Sir, he's very insistent—"
"Tell him—" Caspian stops. Breathes. "Tell him he can come up."
He ends the call and stands perfectly still for a long moment. When he turns to me, his eyes are different—guarded in ways I haven't seen since we were rivals, since we were enemies.
"Serena." His voice is carefully controlled. "Whatever he says, don't react. Don't engage. My father finds leverage in emotion. The moment you show you care about something, he knows exactly where to strike."
"Caspian, what—"
"Promise me." His hands grip my shoulders. "Whatever he says about you, about Aria, about us—don't let him see it land."
I should ask more questions. Should demand to know what we're walking into. But there's real fear in his eyes, and I've never seen Caspian Rothwell afraid of anything.
"I promise."
Aria bounces back in her purple dress, Mr. Whiskers clutched to her chest, completely oblivious to the tension crackling through the room.
"I'm ready for the important place!"
Caspian kneels in front of her, and his voice goes soft. "Baby, someone is coming to visit first. My father. Your... grandfather." The word seems to cost him something. "Can you be very quiet and very polite while he's here?"
"Like when Mommy has work calls?"
"Exactly like that."
The elevator numbers climb. I watch them tick upward—15, 16, 17—and feel Caspian's hand find mine. His grip is too tight, almost painful, but I don't pull away.
18, 19, 20.
The doors open.
Edward Rothwell steps into the penthouse like he already owns it.