Page 66

Cold. Brilliant. Observant. Deadly.

The reason why my stomach is in knots.

About a year ago, several streaming platforms approached our family about a documentary series exploring my mother’s fashion legacy and everything we’ve built since.

Allegra agreed before I finished explaining the proposal. Roman agreed after negotiating enough clauses to give our lawyers enough headaches to last them years.

And Artemis? Well…she doesn’t know.

Yes, that’s a big problem.

But casually suggesting that my youngest allow cameras into her personal life is a little like volunteering to be executed. Especially after everything she endured during her last media scandal.

So, I prepared for war. For months, I negotiated every detail with the production company and our lawyers. I got final editorial approval. No manufactured drama. No trashy gossip. No staged arguments. No exploiting my children for ratings.

If they wanted access to my family, they would tell the truth. Only the truth. Ours.

I want people to see my children for who they are—not the headlines, the money, or the assumptions attached to our last name and my husband’s past. Just a family that loves fiercely, works hard, and never takes its opportunities for granted.

Yes, my children are born into privilege. They’ve also worked incredibly hard for everything they’ve accomplished.

Both things can be true.

“I’ll handle Artemis,” I tell Mimi with far more confidence than I feel.

She smiles nervously. “Oh… good luck.”

I point a finger at the screen. “And make sure this doesn’t leak. The last thing I need is for my daughter to discover our family documentary through social media.”

I enjoy being her mother. I’d very much like to remain her mother.

“Not a word,” Mimi promises. “Love this. It’s giving classified information, Boss Queen.”

I blink.

Then I laugh, shake my head, and end the call.

Her generation.

I adore their creativity and confidence. I’m equally fascinated by their ability to turn perfectly normal sentences into things that sound like they require subtitles.

My husband, however, considers Gen Z a collective cry for help.

The old grump.

Speaking of my old grump, I push open the door to his studio and stop dead. Of course, he’s covered from head to toe in marble dust and somehow he still looks devastatingly handsome.

I linger in the doorway, just watching him work with a goofy smile on my face.

He doesn’t notice me at first.

When Lucan works, everything simply ceases to exist. He gets so lost in his art that at times it’s difficult to bring him back.

My eyes drift away from him and sweep across the studio. The space is enormous, occupying nearly an entire wing of our home. Soft afternoon light pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, brightening the area and my husband’s soft honey-brown hair. Tall shelves line every cream-colored wall, crowded with decades’ worth of his sketchbooks, clay models, miniature sculptures, and tiny masterpieces our children proudly made for him while growing up.

I can’t help but smile when I see them.

Roman’s rough attempts at terrifying supervillains still look more grumpy than evil. Allegra’s tiny fairy queens all wear crowns, because according to her, every fairy deserves one.