Page 13

5:43 P.M

“Ms. Fallon, you have a delivery.”

Cindy’s voice carries through my office, followed by a light knock on the doorframe.

I blink up from my laptop, momentarily pulled out of the chaos of emails, store reports, and my ongoing investigation into potential employee incompetence. The past few days have been a blur of driving between my local stores, getting the lay of the land, and making sure I haven’t accidentally employed any more Marline’s. Stupid fucking name if you ask me.

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the ache of sitting hunched over spreadsheets for hours and glance toward the doorway.

Cindy stands just inside, her hands clasped in front of her, grinning so hard I think her face might break. She’s in her usual maid’s uniform, even though I’ve told her at least a dozen times she doesn’t have to wear it. But every time I bring it up, she waves me off with: “I’m not cleaning other people’s houses in my own clothes.”

I can’t argue with that. She’s probably in her mid-twenties, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, her bright blue eyes practically sparkling with whatever amusement she’s holding in.

“Oh? A delivery?” I push my chair back and stretch, already curious.

My office is sleek and organized but still cozy, making it feel like mine. A massive glass desk sits in the center, stacked with business files, color-coded sticky notes, and a mug of coffee that’s been reheated at least three times. The walls are a soft cream color, and the bookshelves lining one side are filled with fashion design books, old sketch pads, and decorative storage boxes filled with Gods knows what. The large window behind me overlooks the garden, spilling in the warm afternoon light.

I follow Cindy out, padding barefoot down the polished hardwood hallway toward the dining room. The scent of vanilla and fresh linen from the house candles lingers in the air, making everything feel calm and normal.

That is, until I step into the dining room and see it.

A huge wicker basket sits in the center of my long oak dining table, practically overflowing with gifts, luxurious fabrics, small wrapped packages, and what looks like an expensive bottle of wine tucked in the corner.

I blink. Once. Twice.

“What in the world?”

Cindy bounces on her toes, hands clasped behind her back like she’s barely containing herself. I move forward, reaching for the card nestled at the front. There’s something thrumming in my chest, something light, excited—maybe even a little nervous. Because I can guess who sent it. And I’m not entirely sure what that means.

To Our Future Wife,

In two days, you’ll be ours. Legally, officially, completely.

We know this isn’t traditional. Nothing about this situation is, but that doesn’t mean we don’t intend to court you properly. You deserve to be spoiled, indulged, and adored; we take that responsibility very seriously.

So, consider this basket a down payment on everything we plan to give you. Comfort, pleasure, security, whatever you want, whatever you need, it’s yours. We’ll learn your favorites, your quirks, the little things that make you you.

You don’t have to love us. Not yet.

But trust us when we say—we’re already devoted to you.

– Kingston, Voss, Jace, Romano

P.S. Hope you like the gifts. If not, let us know—we’ll keep trying until we perfect it.

I laugh softly, warmth bubbling in my chest as I carefully set the card aside.

Then, unable to resist, I reach into the basket, fingertips brushing over plush fabrics and carefully selected items, each one wrapped with an almost ridiculous amount of care.

The first thing I pull out is a sage green blanket, neatly folded, the material buttery soft beneath my fingers. When I lift it, the weight is perfect—heavy enough to feel like a comforting hug but light enough that I know it’ll be ideal for curling up in.

A pair of lime green plush socks come next, so thick and ridiculously fluffy that I can already tell my feet will never know cold again.

I let out a breathless laugh as I pull out an emerald green robe, the fabric sliding over my hands like liquid silk. It’s luxurious, something straight out of a spa catalog, and when I press it against my cheek, it’s cool and smooth, whispering promises of absolute comfort.

Bath salts follow, packaged in a heavy glass jar; the label says the scent is a mix of vanilla, honey, and herbal. Nestled beside them are a few bath bombs wrapped in soft paper, their colors varying between deep greens and pale golds, flecks of shimmer catching in the light.

I exhale slowly, my heart squeezing just a little.