Two weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since Lachlan Kavanagh took his last breath with my wife standing over him. Two weeks since Zara walked out of that warehouse lighter, freer, the weight of years gone in an instant. Her tears that night hadn’t been grief—they were relief.
Since then, everything between us has settled into something I didn’t think I’d ever have—quiet mornings, soft laughter, her hand absently resting over her stomach. I’ve been ruined by it. Ruined for the thought of ever letting her out of my sight.
Last week was our first doctor’s appointment and I dare say, I’ve sat in war councils with less anticipation. Waiting for the doctor to find the heartbeat felt like standing on the edge of a blade. And then it came—rapid, steady, the most perfect sound I’ve ever heard. I didn’t know a man like me could feel that much in one second. Now, every night when I close my eyes, I hear it again. That little pulse has replaced the constant hum of war in my head.
I’ve started thinking about Monarch. Whether it’s time to step back from running it day to day. Keep the crown, but hand the keys to someone I trust. Focus on her. On this child. On a future I never thought I’d want.
This morning, we’re heading to the estate for breakfast with Violette before a meeting with the leadership. Lars is calling infrom Texas—he’s been there for these two weeks, chasing leads on Sera. Zara thanks him every time they speak, even though she has no idea what the outcome will be.
We enter the kitchen, welcomed by the scent of coffee and something buttery. Violette is already in the dining room when we step inside, wearing one of her silk robes and her usual air of command. She doesn’t look up from the paper she’s reading when she greets us.
“You’re late,” she says, flipping the page.
Zara smiles as she slides into the seat beside her. “We’re right on time. You just like to start early.”
Violette finally looks up, her expression softening when she sees Zara. “Someone has to make sure this place runs on schedule. Enzo certainly won’t.” She takes Zara’s hand and squeezes. “You look beautiful this morning.”
“She always does,” I say, leaning down to kiss the top of her head before taking the seat on her other side.
The table is already set—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, thinly sliced prosciutto, and a carafe of fresh-squeezed juice I know Violette had brought in from the countryside. A pot of black coffee steams in the center.
Zara laughs softly when she sees the spread. “You know, you didn’t have to go all out for us.”
“Of course I did,” Violette says, pouring her a glass of juice. “You’re growing my grandchild, you need to be properly fed.”
We eat slowly, the conversation easy. Violette asks about the baby, about the doctor, about whether we’ve started preparing a room yet. Zara talks about fabrics and colors while I sip my coffee and watch her, memorizing the way her hands move when she talks, the way she tilts her head when Violette makes her laugh.
It’s dangerous how easy this feels. No deals to negotiate. No guns to clean. Just a table, good food, and the two women who matter most to me in the world.
When the plates are cleared, one of the staff steps into theroom, bending close so only I hear. “Sir, the men have started to arrive.”
I glance at Zara, my hand sliding over hers. “Stay here with Violette. I won’t be long.”
The men are talking quietly when I enter the room in the west wing. The walls are lined with screens, maps spread across the central table. Every man here shifts to attention when I step in. On the largest screen, Lars’ face fills the feed, the Texas light spilling across his shoulder. His eyes are sharp, his mouth a grim line.
“Enzo,” he says without preamble. “We’ve found her.”
The air shifts. Every man in the room knows who he’s talking about.
Sera Kavanagh.
Lars leans closer to the camera, his voice dropping. “And you’re not going to like what she’s done.”
ENZO
The gardenat the Marchetti estate stretches out under a bright early June sky, the kind of day that makes the white roses practically glow. The air is warm and heady with their scent, drifting lazily through the crowd of guests who’ve filled the rows of chairs. But the hum of conversation, the rustle of silk and linen, the subtle creak of wooden chairs—it all fades until there’s only one thing in my focus.
Her.
Zara.
She moves toward me with a grace that has nothing to do with the gown and everything to do with the woman wearing it. The lace sleeves skim over her skin, delicate but strong, and the skirt floats over the grass with a whisper, each step bringing her closer to me. Her eyes never leave mine, steady and sure, locking me in place as if she’s the only reason I’m still breathing.
The sun catches on the amethyst at her throat, turning it into a flare of light that feels like it’s aimed straight at my chest. Alongside it is the garnet pendant I added in last month when we found out she is pregnant with our second child. I hope to fill that entire chain with symbols of our children. Symbols of our home full of chaos and love.
To my right, Lars stands in a tailored black suit. Best man.Brother in everything but blood. His presence is steady, grounding—a silent reminder of every war fought and every victory earned to get us here. He doesn’t smile often, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth when our eyes meet, and that’s enough.
