“About how different this is from what I expected.” I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my palms. “Two years ago, I was plotting revenge against your family. Now I’m watching your sons play in the snow with my children and wondering if we need to order more diapers.”
“Our children,” Grant corrects, and there’s steel under the gentleness. “Biology doesn’t make a family. Choice does. We chose them. They’re ours.”
He’s right, of course. The twins came into the world with dark hair and features that could belong to any of the three men, and nobody’s ever suggested running paternity tests. It doesn’t matter. Matteo and Lucas belong to all of us equally, loved and claimed by three men who decided fatherhood was more important than bloodlines.
“Where’s the morning shipment report?” Donovan asks, walking in from outside with Lucas balanced on his hip. The toddler has snow in his hair and a look of pure joy on his face. “I need to review the numbers before the supplier meeting at ten.”
“On your desk, where it always is.” I take Lucas from him, and he immediately grabs a fistful of my hair. “Did you have fun in the snow, baby?”
“No!” Lucas announces, which is his current favorite word for everything, including things he loves.
“No, huh?” I bounce him gently. “Then I guess we shouldn’t go back outside later.”
“No!” But he’s grinning, and I kiss his forehead, tasting snow and baby shampoo.
The door opens again, and Kai walks in with Matteo still perched on his shoulders. “I’m officially frozen. How do parents survive winters with kids? This is torture.”
“You could have stayed inside,” I point out.
“And missed Matteo eating snow for the first time? Never.” He lifts Matteo down and starts peeling off the snowsuit. “He tried to eat the entire drift. Kid’s got commitment.”
“He gets that from you,” Donovan says.
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
I watch them move around each other, Kai wrestling Matteo out of his wet clothes while Donovan sets Lucas down to toddle toward his toy box. Grant refilling coffee mugs and checking his phone for whatever business crisis needs attention today.
This is my life now. Morning chaos, cold coffee, and children who inherited their fathers’ complete inability to do anything halfway.
“I got an email from the buyer at Nordstrom,” I say, setting my mug down. “They want to carry the spring line in fifteen stores.”
Grant looks up from his phone. “That’s significant expansion.”
“It is.” Pride swells in my chest. “Mom would have loved seeing the brand in Nordstrom. She always said that was the dream.”
“She’d be proud of what you built,” Donovan says, and he means it. He’s never been one for empty platitudes.
The company I rebuilt from the shell Robert left behind has become exactly what I wanted it to be. Price Fashion exists as a boutique brand focused on sustainable professional wear for women who can’t afford luxury prices but refuse to compromise on quality. We manufacture everything domestically, pay fair wages, and donate a portion of profits to organizations that support women in business.
It’s small compared to Grant’s empire, but it’s mine. Built on my mother’s foundation without the corruption that destroyed it the first time.
“Logan called yesterday,” Grant says after a moment, and the room goes quiet.
I look at him. “What did he want?”
“To wish me a happy birthday.” Grant’s expression is carefully neutral. “We talked for three minutes. He’s still in Seattle with Chelsea. Still working for that tech startup.”
“Did he ask about the twins?” Kai’s voice has an edge I rarely hear.
“No.” Grant sets his phone down. “He asked about business. About the weather. About nothing that matters. Then he said he had a meeting and had to go.”
We don’t talk about Logan often. He left two years ago and never looked back, building a life that deliberately excludes the family he was born into. Sometimes Grant gets calls on holidays. Sometimes months pass with nothing. The estrangement is complete, and I stopped feeling guilty about my role in it somewhere around the six-month mark when I realized Logan made his choice long before I ever showed up.
“His loss,” I say quietly. “These kids are incredible.”
“They really are.” Kai’s holding Matteo now, who’s trying to climb him like a jungle gym. “Though I maintain that Lucas is clearly the smarter one.”
“Matteo is smarter,” Donovan argues. “He figured out how to open the safety gate last week.”
