My head fell back against the leather seat, one hand tangling in her braids. She took her time, alternating between slow movements and faster strokes that had me gripping the armrest.
“Mrs. Christakis,” I groaned, watching her through half-lidded eyes. The sight of my wife, wearing the diamonds I’d given her, pleasuring me in the back of the limousine was almost too much.
She hummed in response, the vibration sending pleasure through me. Her hands worked in tandem with her mouth, and I felt myself approaching the edge embarrassingly quickly.
“Dede,” I groaned, my hand tightening in her braids. “Do not stop.”
She took me deeper, and I came with a guttural sound, my body tensing as the climax hit me in a single, devastating rush.
When she finally pulled back, there was a satisfied smile on her lips. I pulled her up onto my lap—as much as her belly would allow—and kissed her.
“That was quite the wedding gift.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Christakis.” She adjusted herself atop me, smoothing her dress. “Now, what were you saying about what you wanted to do with me?”
I was about to answer when my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Annoyed, I grabbed the phone and glanced at the screen. I had told my assistants in no uncertain terms that I was not to be disturbed today.
Then I saw it was my son. I answered promptly.
A concerning silence followed. “Chrysanthos?” My tone, despite speaking Greek, caused Dede to look at me with concern.
“Father,” he finally said. His voice was strained. “It’s Grandmother. She had a stroke. A bad one.” My body tensed as my joy evaporated instantly.
“Where is she now?”
“In surgery. We’re all at the hospital.” His voice steadied as he shifted into details — the timeline, what the doctors had said, what the next few hours would determine. I listened without interrupting. The prognosis was not good.
“Aris?” Dede’s hand found my arm, and I saw the worry in her face.
I ended the call and tried to tell her what Chrysanthos had told me, but the words came out fractured. My mother. A stroke. Surgery. The woman who’d raised me, who’d never given up on me even when I’d given up on myself — and I was thousands of miles away.
I looked down at the wedding band I’d worn for less than an hour. Every instinct told me to go to her immediately. But Dede could go into labor at any moment. If I stayed, my mother could die without me at her side. If I left, something could happen to Dede or our children.
“Aris, you have to go. Call your pilot.”
“I will not leave you, no.”
She kissed my cheek. “I’m your wife. We’re in this together. I’m coming with you.”
“Absolutely not.” I shook my head. “You are thirty-six weeks pregnant, yes. You are not getting on plane for eleven-hour flight.”
Her face set in that stubborn way I’d come to recognize. “Your mother might be dying, Aris. You think I’m going to let you go through that alone?”
“You could go into labor at any moment!”
“Then we’ll bring a doctor. But I’m not staying here.” She crossed her arms over her rounded belly. “Either you call your pilot or I’ll book a commercial flight right now.”
“You will do no such thing!”
“Watch me.” She pulled out her phone.
I grabbed her wrist. “Dede, please. I cannot risk your life or that of our children. No airline would even let you board.”
“Then I’ll charter one myself.” Her eyes shimmered with sudden tears. “We just got married, Aris. For better or worse, remember? This is the worst part. We do it together.”
“The answer, it is no.”
