Adrian looks at Braden on my chest, trying to speak but failing. He presses his forehead against my temple and stays there, breathing against my skin. Then he straightens and touches Braden’s back with one hand, touching so lightly the baby probably doesn’t feel it. “He won’t break,” I whisper, and he plants his palm against Braden’s back, applying gentle pressure.
“Baby B is turning,” Miller says. He’s watching the monitor, and the tension in the room shifts as the medical team adjusts. “She’s moving into position. Give me a moment.”
The moment lasts three minutes. A nurse takes Braden and places him in a warmer while Miller manually guides Diana’s rotation with external pressure on my stomach. The discomfort is sharp and strange, making me wish I’d agreed to an epidural after all. I grip the bed rail with both hands while Adrian keeps one hand on my shoulder and watches Miller work.
“She’s head down.” Miller nods to the team. “We’re delivering vaginally. Aurora, I need you to push on the next contraction.”
I push. Diana is smaller than Braden and arrives faster, sliding into Miller’s hands at 6:12 a.m. with a cry that’s higher and sharper than her brother’s. Miller places her on my chest in the space Braden just occupied, and I hold my daughter, finally understanding why my mom described this moment like awareness of gravity. Everything in the room pulls toward this small, furious person in my arms.
Adrian leans down and kisses Diana’s head, then mine. “Both of them,” he says, cracking on the second word, “Here and beautiful.
“Yes, they are.” Tears sting my eyes, and I don’t try to fight them.
By late afternoon,my postpartum room has filled with the only people who matter. Irina sits in the chair beside the bed, confidently holding Braden like she’s been rehearsing this moment for thirty years. Mom stands beside her, photographing everything on her phone and crying openly without apology. David waits in the hallway with coffee he brought for everyone, comfortable in the periphery.
Marisol arrives last, carrying a gift bag and wearing sunglasses she doesn’t remove until she sees the babies. She takes them off, sets them on the table, and reaches for Diana without asking permission. I hand her my daughter, and Marisol holds her with the terrified, awed grip of a first-time godmother who spent months preparing for this and still isn’t quite ready.
“She’s perfect.” Marisol’s voice is thick as she looks at Braden in Irina’s arms. “They’re both perfect.”
Viktor stands in the doorway. He gives Adrian a nod that carries operational confirmation, personal congratulations, and seventeen years of shared history in a single movement, or so I interpret. I’ll never know Viktor as well as Adrian does. Whatever message he’s conveying, Adrian seems to understand as he nods back.
I lean against the pillows with Braden back in my arms and Adrian beside me. He has one hand on Diana’s back and the other on my shoulder. The room is noisy and alive with the people who fought for us to be here.
“I want to get married at the estate,” I say suddenly. It just pops into my mind, and now feels like the right time.
He looks at me. “I started planning it the night you said yes.”
My laugh fills the room, and Diana startles in Marisol’s arms. She tells Adrian to keep his voice down, and Irina tells Marisol the babies need to learn to sleep through noise. Mom takes another photograph just as Braden lets out a wet belch that makes everyone laugh, and the chaos doesn’t feel like something I need to survive but a reward I’ve earned.
EPILOGUE
ADRIAN
Diana has a flower in her mouth. I cross the lawn in four strides, crouch in front of my daughter, and extract a mashed hibiscus petal from between her gums. She looks at me with Aurora’s eyes and zero remorse.
“We talked about this.” I hold the petal up for her inspection. “These flowers are decorative. They’re not food.”
She reaches for the petal with both fists, and I pocket it before she can reclaim it. Braden, three feet away, has pulled himself upright against Viktor’s leg and is gripping the fabric of his trousers like a mountaineer who has found a reliable anchor. Viktor stands perfectly still, continuing his conversation with Marisol about catering logistics without looking down, his stance making it clear he’s aware of the small person attached to his knee and is compensating his balance accordingly.
Viktor, my second-in-command and most lethal operative, is also godfather to my children after he and Marisol reached an agreement. The sight of him standing motionless on amanicured lawn while a thirteen-month-old uses him as a climbing wall is the funniest thing I’ve seen in years. I don’t laugh because Viktor would never forgive me, but I won’t forget this.
“Your tie is crooked.” Aurora’s voice comes from behind me, and I stand and turn. She’s walking across the lawn in a dress that cost less than most of the flowers surrounding us, because she picked it herself based on how it made her feel instead of worrying if it will suit someone else’s expectations. The dress is simple ivory and fits her perfectly.
“My tie is fine.”
“Your tie is crooked, and I’m fixing it because I’m not marrying a man with a crooked tie.” She reaches up and adjusts the knot, letting her fingers brush my collar. She smells like the jasmine we planted along the porch railing last month, and her hair is pulled back from her face to show the line of her neck. I forget all about tie for a moment.
“Better.” She smooths the fabric flat against my chest. “Now stop chasing Diana and let Irina handle her. Your mother has been waiting for grandchildren to spoil her entire life, and she’s earned the flower-eating phase.”
“The flower-eating phase isn’t a real phase.”
“Irina says it is, and she outranks both of us on child development.” Aurora takes my hand and walks me toward the chairs arranged under the pergola where the ceremony will happen in twenty minutes. “Everything is ready. The officiant is here, the flowers are arranged, and Marisol has already cried twice, me once, and we haven’t started yet.”
“Viktor mentioned the crying. He seemed concerned.” I’m a little concerned too. She used to cry at everything during pregnancy. Most of that has faded in the past year, but I don’t like her crying. Her in pain, emotional or physical, causes me pain too.
“Viktor doesn’t understand happy tears. That’s okay. He’ll learn.”
I look at the setup as we approach. Thirty chairs on the lawn face the bay, arranged in two sections separated by an aisle made of crushed shells that Aurora found at a garden supply store. The pergola is wrapped with white fabric and greenery that Denise spent two days arranging. The guest list is small because we agreed on only the people who matter, and the people who matter fit in thirty chairs with room to spare.
