로그인On the night of my sister’s engagement party, my life officially crashes. Again. All because of one name on the invitation. Zachary de Sanctis. My sister’s fiancé. Fiona. My ex, the guy I punched in the face five years ago. Heir to the richest old-money family in Europe. And one tiny detail only God and I know: he’s the father of my twins. For the past five years, I’ve been hiding out in a little town in Oregon, working as the CEO of a IT firm while chasing two four-year-olds who look more like their father than me. Isaac and Isabella: two mini De Sanctis clones with the last name Gómez, razor-sharp mouths, brains that run too fast, and a talent for causing trouble exactly when I need peace. My family knows I came home pregnant and alone. They just never asked who the father is, and I never offered an answer. As far as they’re concerned, I’m still Arabella Gómez, the wild one who lost her way. I thought going to Fiona’s engagement party would just mean a few hours of fake laughing, then a quiet drive back to my glass-walled house in Oregon and two sets of blue eyes calling me Mommy. Until Zach walks into my parents’ living room holding Fiona’s hand… and his gaze stays on my face a little too long. He can’t find out about Isaac and Isabella. Fiona can’t find out her perfect fiancé was mine first. And my family can’t know what really happened five years ago. Hiding a scandal between two rich dynasties is one thing. Hiding two chaotic twins who are basically their father’s face copy-pasted? That’s the real nightmare.
더 보기Five days in the Gómez house felt like being tossed into an industrial washing machine: spinning, loud, warm, and there was always someone shoving food at you even after you’d just said you were full.On day one, Mamá had already rearranged my entire schedule like I was back in eleventh grade and needed supervision so I wouldn’t run off and get married in secret. On day two, I gave up and let myself be dragged from hug to hug, from one “Arabellita, you’re too thin” to another “Arabellita, you work too much,” with a few seconds in between to breathe.Meanwhile, the twins lived like royalty.They came down the grand staircase in pajamas that had somehow transformed into “criminally cute” outfits, complete with shiny little shoes, and the entire Gómez family behaved like two four-year-olds had just stopped by from Hollywood to pick up empanadas.Fiona was the worst.My sister stood in the kitchen in a pretty apron, and every five minutes she found a new excuse to feed Issa a piece of fr
The second-floor workspace looks like a bored Pinterest board: neat white desk, bookshelves, two monitors. I’m in a fitted black blazer on top… alpaca-print pajama pants on the bottom.Out in the hallway, just beyond the half-closed door, the sound of running shakes the corridor.“SUPER MAX WILL SAVE THE WORLD!”“NO! SUPER BELLA SAVES THE WORLD! MAX IS THE VILLAIN!”I rub my temples. “Max, Issa, if you crash into a wall and give yourselves a concussion. I have a meeting, por favor.”My laptop chimes softly in front of me, a new email notification. Tania’s icon pops up in the corner of our internal chat.TANIA:Boss, we’ve got something big.New potential client from Washington.Name: Northlake Horizons Realty.My eyebrows lift. I scroll through the email she forwarded. Formal logo, tidy signature, DC address. The body: a request for consulting on migrating their entire IT system from on-prem to the cloud, plus a full security overhaul.The fee they’re offering for the “initial engagem
Five years later.Oregon rain tapped softly against the kitchen’s glass wall. Steady, cold, and mildly annoying.The pan on the stove hissed quietly, the smell of almost-done corn arepas mixing with black coffee and the chorizo I was frying in the skillet next to it. A slow Latin playlist floated from the speakers, the same old songs Mamá used to play in Bogotá every Sunday morning.The difference was, the view outside wasn’t a city full of honking cars and people yelling in Spanish, but foggy pine trees and expensive houses pretending they weren’t snobbish.This house sat on a hill in a private neighborhood near Lake Oswego, about thirty minutes from Portland. Papa called it “a quiet place for your stubborn brain, hija.”I called it “I got exiled to the woods with very good Wi-Fi.”“MAX, GIVE ME BACK MY CROWN!”So much for the calm, competent-young-mother-making-breakfast aesthetic. The scream split the air, high-pitched, dramatic, with a tiny accent that mixed English and a hint of
I sat on a slick wooden bench on a Boston sidewalk, my watch telling me it was well past midnight, and the only things keeping me company were a streetlamp and the constant buzz of phone notifications going off like a curse.My boyfriend was being kissed by an influencer on a five-inch screen.I stared at the photo for the … God, I’d lost count.Zachary de Sanctis. His mouth on a blonde whose bra probably cost more than half of an average MIT student’s tuition. The background: a victory party. Italian flags. Balloons. An F1 team logo I thought only existed on TV.The caption burning in the corner:“Victory party after big bro’s win. Your boy knows how to celebrate.”Sent by: Maya.My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white. The Boston night wind whipped my hair and cut straight through my sweater, but the heat behind my eyes hurt more.Shit.Next photo. Swipe.Zach on a leather couch, champagne bottle in hand, the blonde perched on his lap, her dress riding way






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