Page 45 of Devil's Azalea

I let her lead me to the clothing section, and I swear I can almost see the dollar signs in her eyes as she grins up at me.Not one to disappoint, I gesture towards an entire row of tiny clothes. “I want everything on this rack. In pairs.”

“Of course, sir,” she nods sagely. “Right away.” Another wave to her colleague.

I spent close to an hour inside. She drags me through every section, pointing and suggesting, and I keep nodding and buying. Socks, mittens, cute little hats, blankets, tiny shoes—why are there even shoes for babies when the little creatures can’t walk? The absurdity doesn’t stop me from purchasing several pairs in different colors.

By the time we finish, I’ve practically cleaned out half the store, and the attendant’s smile has grown in perfect sync with the climbing total on the register.

“Thank you for shopping with us, sir. And congratulations,” she says finally, handing back my Amex with a grin.

I adjust the armful of flowers to reclaim my card. My men are weighed down with bags and balloons, so the flowers are mine to carry—not that I mind.

I’m grinning as we walk out of the store, but then the wind carries with it a familiar, twinkling laughter that freezes my heart mid-beat, right next to the open car door.

No. Fucking. Way.

My gaze hunts for the source immediately, zeroing in on two women several feet down the sidewalk—one blonde and the other with dark, honey-brown hair. My gaze fixates on the latter.

Emilia.

She glances up like she can physically feel my stare, and for one perfect moment, she’s smiling.Actuallysmiling, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years.

Then recognition hits, and the smile dies.

God, I hate destroying that rare look of unguarded joy.I can’t recall the last time I saw her laughing… or even genuinely smiling.

Her gaze drops to the flowers in my arm, travels to my men loading bags into the cars, and I watch her piece it together. The glare that follows could melt steel. She goes to take a step towards me—finally—but the blonde next to her grabs her elbow, stopping her.

I spare the interfering woman a withering glance. How fucking dare she try to come between us?

I give Emilia a little nod as I slip into my car, but my earlier excitement is gone. Tapered off by the gorgeous image of her laughing. Of how that laugh used to belong to me. Of how this could have been us with the kids.

If things had gone as planned a decade ago, we’d probably have our own brood of kids now, wouldn’t we?

I maintain unwavering eye contact as my car pulls off the curb and merges with traffic, our gazes locked until she disappears from view. Only then am I able to breathe through the vise crushing my chest.

Goddamn her.

Now my head teems with forbidden images—her belly swollen with our child, her body bringing my heir into the world. A tiny being that would be half of me, half of her. Would their hair be light like hers or dark like mine? Would they inherit her sultry brown eyes or my lighter eyes? Would we have girls? Boys? Or a mixture of both.

“We’re here, sir.” Alfred’s deep voice pulls me from my dangerous reverie, and I glance out at the imposing hospital before us.

Right. Reality.

I sigh and get out of the car, banishing the ridiculous fantasies as I make my way into the lobby.

The staff recognizes me immediately. One of them steps forward, eyeing my guards and their mountain of bags before leading us to the private ward housing the mother and newborns.

They’re on the top floor of the five-story building—a level primarily dedicated to administrative offices, but where one of those offices has been renovated into a private ward with Gianna in mind. And I see why the moment the elevator doors open. The entire floor is swarming with armed security. Attempting to reach Michael’s family here would be a suicide mission.

Michael doesn’t mess around.

The renovated ward itself resembles a luxury penthouse more than a hospital room—two bedrooms connected to a living area with furnishings that would make five-star hotels envious. We pass through the tasteful living section, complete with a gourmet kitchenette, and approach the open door of a room already filled with familiar faces.

Maximo and his wife, Elira. Romero. Michael perched attentively beside Gianna, clutching her hand. And Gianna herself, next to a beautiful dual bassinet cradling the tiny newcomers.

Every head turns as we enter.

Romero’s mouth falls open. “Fucking hell, Rafael. Did you buy out two goddamn stores?” he asks as my men file in, dropping armfuls of bags beside a modest stack of existing gifts. Right before my eyes, the pile triples in size as my contributions join the collection.