[Serena’s POV]
Morning arrives with sunlight streaming directly into my eyes. I'm tangled in Caspian's sheets, his arm heavy across my waist, and for one blissful moment I forget that today we declare war on his father.
Then I remember. My stomach performs an impressive acrobatic routine.
"You're awake." His voice is rough with sleep. "I can hear you overthinking from here."
"I'm not overthinking. I'm strategically pre-thinking." I roll to face him. Even with bedhead and pillow creases on his cheek, he's unfairly attractive. It's genuinely offensive. "There's a difference."
"There really isn't." He kisses my forehead. "But I love your commitment to the distinction."
The intercom buzzes. Sebastian's voice crackles through: "Rise and shine, lovebirds. I come bearing documents and caffeine."
Caspian groans. "He has the world's worst timing."
"He has the world's best timing," I correct, reaching for my robe. "We have a war to plan."
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen table has transformed into a command center. Sebastian spreads files across the surface with the precision of someone who's been waiting years for this moment—Caroline's recordings, Margaret's documentation, financial records tracing Edward's destruction across decades.
"The board meeting is tomorrow," Sebastian says, sliding coffee toward me. "Father's planning to remove Caspian. Conduct unbecoming, unsuitable associations." He glances at me. "That last one's you."
"Shocking." I sip. "I'm honored to be unsuitable."
"You're spectacularly unsuitable." Caspian's hand finds my knee under the table. "It's one of my favorite things about you."
Sebastian clears his throat. "If we're done being nauseating, can we discuss strategy?"
We spend an hour mapping contingencies. Victoria's testimony. The journalist ready to publish. The precise moment to deploy each piece of evidence for maximum impact. By the time Aria wakes demanding pancakes, we have something resembling a plan.
"Regular pancakes," Caspian calls as I head toward the stove. "Not my interpretive versions."
"Your versions aren't interpretive. They're crimes against breakfast." I flip the first circle onto the griddle. "Some of us have actual cooking skills."
Aria emerges in dinosaur pajamas, still sleep-rumpled. "Mommy, Mr. Whiskers wants to know if the important place is today."
"Tomorrow, baby." I crouch to her level. "Today Mommy has work. Maya's going to hang out with you."
"And Daddy?" My heart still skips a beat when I hear it.
"Daddy has important work too." I smooth her tangled hair. "But we'll both be back for dinner. Promise."
The office feels different when I arrive. Charged with something I can't quite name. My colleagues offer the same greetings, but their eyes linger a beat too long. The tabloid coverage has made me infamous in ways that make my skin crawl.
I'm reviewing projections when a knock interrupts. Dominic Reyes stands in my doorway, folder in hand.
"Got a minute?" He steps inside. "Need your take on the Morrison acquisition numbers."
I gesture to the chair. "Your timing is impeccable. I was contemplating the existential nature of spreadsheets."
"Spreadsheets do raise profound questions." He settles into the seat. "Like whether anyone actually enjoys pivot tables or if we're all pretending."
"Bold stance from someone in Strategic Acquisitions."
"I contain multitudes." His smile is warm. Professional.
We review the numbers for twenty minutes. He's thorough, competent, treats my analysis like it matters rather than as an obstacle. When we finish, he closes the folder but doesn't leave.
"Can I ask you something?" His voice shifts. "Feel free to tell me to mind my business."
"That's never stopped me before."
"The tabloid stuff. Is it as bad as it looks?"
I consider deflecting. The office gossip flows freely enough without my contributing. But Dominic's directness invites honesty.
"Worse, probably. But I'm handling it."
"With Rothwell?"
"With Caspian." The correction is automatic. Important. "Yes."
Dominic nods slowly. "Can I ask why him? After everything? You could have anyone, and you chose the guy with a psychopath father and a tabloid circus."
The question lands in my chest. It's the one I asked myself for months. The one I still ask at 3 AM when Caspian's arm is around my waist and I wonder how the hell I got here.
"Because I choose him." My voice comes out steady. "Not because there's no alternative. Not because of Aria. Not because it's convenient or makes any logical sense." I pause, finding the words. "Because when I imagine my life without him, something in my chest goes wrong. I'm done pretending that doesn't matter."
Dominic is quiet. Then he smiles, and it reaches his eyes. "That's a real answer. I appreciate that."
"You asked a real question."
"Fair." He fidgets with his folder, something shifting in his posture. More relaxed. Like he's made a decision. "Speaking of real answers—my partner Adrian has been nagging me to host a dinner party. You and Rothwell should come. After whatever's exploding in your life stops exploding."
The word lands with sudden clarity. Partner. Adrian.
The attraction I felt—or thought I felt—recontextualizes with dizzying speed. It was never about Dominic specifically. It was about being seen as competent. Valued for my brain. Someone who appreciated my work without the friction, without the history.
Dominic wasn't a temptation. He was a mirror, reflecting what I actually wanted: recognition without the battlefield.
"I'd like that," I manage. "Once the explosions settle."
"They usually do." He stands. "Whatever's coming—I'm happy to help. Professionally. The acquisition analysis, the board presentations, whatever you need."
"Why?"
"Because you're good at your job. Watching talent get crushed by politics is exhausting." He shrugs. "And I have a feeling whatever fight you're walking into involves people who deserve to lose."
I consider him. His steady competence. The resources he represents inside this company. When the board meeting happens tomorrow, we'll need allies who can speak to the work instead of the drama.
"I might take you up on that."
"Door's open." He pauses at the threshold. "For what it's worth, Vale—I think you're going to win."
After he leaves, I sit with the conversation. The relief of clarity. The unexpected gift of an ally I didn't know I was building.
My phone buzzes. Caspian: How's the office treating you?
Better than expected, I type. Dominic's offered to help. Professionally.
The guy who made you question everything?
Turns out he has a partner named Adrian. The questioning was about competence, not attraction.
A long pause. Then: So I panicked over spreadsheet appreciation?
Basically. Your jealousy was adorable but misplaced.
I'm choosing to focus on the "adorable" part.
I smile at my phone like an idiot. Then I pull up Sebastian's files and get back to work. Tomorrow, everything changes. Today, I need to be ready.
The afternoon passes in preparation. Sebastian texts updates. Victoria confirms her testimony. The journalist sends a draft for review.
By the time I leave, the sun is setting over Manhattan in streaks of orange and gold. I take the long way home, needing the walk, needing to process everything we're about to do.
Edward Rothwell has been destroying lives for decades. Tomorrow, we stop him. And we have allies now—people like Dominic who see through drama to substance. People who believe in competence over connections.
But first—Cas’ last dinner with Victoria. Right after our little family tradition.
When I open the penthouse door, Aria launches herself at my legs. "Mommy! Daddy made dinner and only burned it a little bit!"
"Progress," I say, scooping her up. "That's actual progress."
Caspian appears from the kitchen, slightly singed but grinning. "I'm evolving. Slowly. With significant casualties."
"The smoke alarm only went off twice," Sebastian adds from the couch. I briefly wonder if his help with dinner would’ve salvaged it or make it devastating. I decide on ‘glad you found that couch comfortable’. "Genuinely impressed."
I carry Aria to the table where only-slightly-charred pasta awaits. Tomorrow, we go to war. Tonight, we have this—our messy, imperfect, completely chosen family.
It's enough. It's more than enough.