Glass Mansion, Soft Monsters

Five Years Later.

“AL, STOP PULLING MY HAIR, I’M A PRINCESS!”

“UGLY PRINCESS!”

Something small, warm, and heavy slammed into my waist. Then something else landed on my stomach. I didn’t wake up because of an alarm, but because two tiny bodies decided I was their personal playground.

“Oh God,” I rasped, my face buried in the pillow. “Why do I have two children and not just one I can return to the factory.”

“She said I’m an UGLY PRINCESS,” Gabby, or Gabriella, shrieked right in my ear, her voice sharp enough to referee a World Cup final. Her black curls were a mess, her big gray eyes already full of tears, her round cheeks flushed with outrage. Her pink pajama top with little crowns had ridden up, exposing a small round belly that usually melted me on sight.

Usually. Not in harpy mode.

AL, or Alvaro, was sitting comfortably on my thighs like his bony little legs weren’t murdering my circulation. His dinosaur pajamas were wrinkled, his darker, straighter black hair sticking up in every direction, his blue eyes glowing with satisfaction.

“Because you are ugly princess,” he said calmly. “Like… frog with tiara.”

“I’M NOT A FROG!” Gabby yanked his hair again, this time with both hands.

“OWWW—MAMI! G BITING!” AL yelled, but he was half laughing, trying to grab her back.

I sighed and forced my eyes fully open. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 7:14.

Washington, gray.

Morning rain in Washington never really fell. It just hung in the air like a lazy mood. The sky outside was milk-gray, my bedroom window dotted with water, and beyond that, a line of tall pines wrapped in thin mist.

“Stop,” I groaned, prying one of Gabriella’s hands out of Alvaro’s hair. “Fight quietly, Mami hasn’t had coffee.”

Gabby crawled closer to my face, her breath warm and milky. “Mami, he said I’m ugly princess,” she repeated, poking my cheek over and over. “I am pretty. Everybody say I’m pretty.”

“You’re very pretty,” I said, giving her butt a light pat. “You’re pretty, he’s annoying. The world is balanced.”

“HEY!” he protested.

I glanced at him. Those blue eyes stared back at me, full of a spark I knew too well. If he’d been born wearing a tie, he would’ve been a copy-paste of someone I tried very hard to forget, except for the eyes. Those were my fire on a handsome face.

“Why did you call your sister an ugly princess?” I asked, patient.

Al shrugged his little shoulders. “Because she crying. She always crying. Like drama llama.”

“I’M NOT LLAMA!” Gabby finally burst into real tears, the dam officially broken. “Mami, he’s so mean. I wanna new brother. Take him back. Give me cat.”

My bedroom door swung open without a knock, and the sound of a man whistling in a thick Bogotá accent hit the room first. “Oye, gremlins,” Arsen called. “Who destroyed la casa this time?”

My twin brother leaned in the doorway, in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his black hair tied back in a lazy knot.

The moment they saw him, my two tiny traitors abandoned me instantly.

“TÍO ARSEN!” they screamed in unison, using a sweet tone they absolutely did not reserve for me.

Al sprinted first, Gabby chased him while still trying to yank at his back. “TÍO, AL SAID I’M UGLY PRINCESS!” she yelled.

Arsen crouched down, arms wide, catching both small chaos goblins at once. “Ay, Dios,” he laughed, wrapping them up. “You’re already at full power this early, ¿no?”

“She crazy, Tío. She bite.” Alvaro pointed at a faint set of teeth marks on his arm, pure drama.

Gabriella huffed, pulling back from Arsen’s hug just enough to glare at Alvaro with maximum disgust. “You deserve it. You call me ugly princess. I’m not ugly princess. I’m queen. You are… potato.”

“Potato is cute,” Al shot back, his round face deadly serious. “Everybody like potato. Nobody like cry baby princess.”

“I’M NOT CRY BABY!”

She cried harder.

Arsen exhaled one long, saintly sigh that sounded a lot like prayer. “Okay, enough,” he said, hoisting one child on each hip like they weighed nothing. “Let’s go downstairs. Your Mami needs five minutes alone with her brain. And coffee.”

“I need hot chocolate,” Al mumbled, already over the drama, his arms looped around Arsen’s neck.

“I need pancakes with sprinkles and whipped cream and chocolate and strawberry and marshmallow and—” Gabby launched into a sugar war crime list.

“—and insulin,” I cut in, pushing myself up to sit. My back complained, but my body had been trained to survive on short sleep. Five years as a single mom was boot camp. “You’re getting regular pancakes. No birthday cake decorations on top.”

Gabby glared at me, tears still clinging to her long lashes. “You don’t love me,”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m a monster,” I said, flicking my hand. “Go downstairs. If you two keep fighting, I’m sending you to boarding school in Alaska.”

Al tilted his head, actually considering it. “Do they have snow?” he asked, hopeful.

Arsen laughed and shook his head. “God, Ara, don’t threaten them with something they think is a vacation,” he said, walking out of the room with both kids hanging off him. “Come on, drama queen. Come on, dinosaur. Desayuno.”

“AL IS A DONKEY!” Gabby screamed just before the door closed.

“You’re a bigger donkey!” Al shot back automatically.

The door shut. Their voices faded into echoes in the hallway, still trading insults in two languages. A messy loop of English to Spanish to pure baby nonsense that somehow still made sense.

I let myself fall back onto the bed for a second, staring at the ceiling. My exhale came out slow, a blend of exhaustion and… yeah. A kind of peace, because for now, all I had to survive was a morning with two tiny monsters who treated each other’s hair and self-esteem as communal toys.

I slid out of bed, my feet sinking into the soft gray carpet. This bedroom was brighter than the one back in Lake Como. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the backyard: neat green lawn, a few maple trees, and beyond them, the faint shimmer of a small lake and a line of other big houses in the fancy part of Medina, outside Seattle.

My father bought this mansion three years ago when my event planning company started landing political clients and tech bros. Big yard for the twins. Glass walls for my mood.

I walked into the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked… different. A little older. Cheekbones a touch sharper. The dark circles had mostly faded, thanks to me finally getting serious about eye retinol, but the same blue eyes stared back. The same mouth that was still too quick to say sharp things.

My long black hair was cut in softer layers now, easier to throw into a messy tie when I had to sprint from a Zoom meeting to the twins’ preschool.

Laughter floated up from downstairs. The twins, plus Arsen. Every now and then, Gabriella’s dramatic wail cut through, followed by Arsen’s “Ayyy, calma.”

I smiled before I even realized it.

Five years ago, I left Lake Como with suitcases, a shredded heart, and two red lines on a test strip I only believed after the third one. I went back to Bogotá with swollen eyes, was smothered in tears by my mamá and my sister… and judged in total silence by my abuelo’s old gray stare, the kind that didn’t speak to me for months.

Now, I woke up in a glass mansion in Washington, with two loud, soft, sticky children and a twin brother sleeping in the guest room because he had a meeting with one of the foundation’s donors in Seattle. On the dining table, there was no black folder. Just sticky notes with grocery lists and a dinosaur drawing Alvaro had made.

I clicked on the small lamp at the vanity, smoothed my hair, then stepped out of the room.

By the time I hit the stairs, their voices were crystal clear.

“G, you can’t marry Tío. Tío is old.”

“He’s not old, you potato. He’s handsome. And he likes me.”

“Tío likes me more. I’m boy.”

“Girls are better,” Gabby declared. “Boys are stinky.”

Yeah. Our version of peace was never quiet.

>...<

The lobby of GALA & Co. still smelled like coffee and a brand-new printer when I walked in.

The logo glowed softly on the glass wall: GALA & Co. Events. That name had been a stupid three a.m. idea three years ago, when two sleeping babies were passed out in each of my arms and I realized: if I couldn’t have my own wedding, I could at least sell other people theirs.

G for Gabriella.

AL for Alvaro.

GALA.

Elegant. No trace of Ricciardi anywhere.

“Morning, boss!”

My employees were way too cheerful for humans who hadn’t had a second coffee yet. I gave a lazy wave, tote bag on my shoulder, paper cup in hand. My lipstick was still on, but my soul was slightly offline.

Arsen had dropped the twins at preschool half an hour ago. They’d left still arguing about who was better at coloring dinosaurs. The house was finally quiet, but my brain hadn’t caught up.

“Ara!” My assistant, Dianna, practically launched herself up from her tiny reception desk. Her green eyes were shining like a brand rep who’d just been briefed by a sponsor. “I’ve been waiting for you. I have news. Big news. Huge.”

I sighed. “If it’s not ‘today is secretly a national holiday,’ save it.”

She ignored that completely. I walked past the small open-space area, rows of desks scattered with moodboards, laptops, and rolled-up layout blueprints. Our office on the second floor of this old brick building in Capitol Hill wasn’t big, but every corner looked ready to be photographed for a design magazine.

One of the upsides of having an event planner with visual control issues as a boss.

In my own office, I dropped my bag on the couch, shrugged off my coat and hung it on the rack, then sank into my desk chair.

Dianna walked in without waiting to be invited, iPad in hand, wearing the expression of someone whose invisible tail was wagging.

“Okay,” she said, closing the door with her hip. “Listen. You’re going to kiss me.”

“That tracks. I’m a little sick of everyone with a Y chromosome anyway. So make it quick.”

“Perfect, because this isn’t about you,” she said, plopping down uninvited in the chair across from me. “It’s about us. GALA & Co. just officially entered the big leagues.”

“Senators and tech bros are big enough, sweetheart.”

She flicked her hand, dismissive. “This is above senators. This is above tech bros. This is… crazy rich old-money world level. Think villas. Think Europe. Think Vogue calling us ‘the brains behind the wedding of the year.’”

I stared at her, one brow lifting. “If this is a pitch, you forgot the part where you tell me how much they’re paying.”

Dianna’s smile spread, slow and bright, as she opened her iPad and turned the screen toward me. An email filled it. Rough wedding outline, moodboard links, numbers.

A lot of zeros.

“Their retainer is the same as three full-service projects,” she said. “Just to lock the date.”

I leaned in a little. Okay. That number was brutal enough to make even my frozen heart twitch.

“Who are they?” I asked, voice flat.

“Referral client from D.C.,” Dianna practically sang. “Apparently, when we did Senator Whitmore’s birthday at the Willard, someone from their family was there. They said it was flawless. Their word, not mine. And they want full destination planning. Italy. Unlimited budget. Media coverage. This is going to be a dream.”

I blinked slowly, leaned back in my chair, spine hitting the leather. My heart started to beat a little harder for no good reason.

Italy.

“Names,” I said.

Dianna exhaled dramatically, like she’d been holding confetti in her lungs. “Okay,” she said quietly, eyes shining. “Ready?”

“Say it before I change my mind.”

She straightened. “Groom: Rafael Vittorio Ricciardi. Bride: Alessandra Marino.”

The hum of the AC suddenly felt too loud.

I was still in the same chair, still breathing the same air, but everything tilted half a centimeter to the side. The name hit my skull like late static electricity.

Rafael. Vittorio. Ricciardi.

My right hand tightened on the desk. The nail of my middle finger dug into the wood. I only noticed when the tiny stab of pain arrived.

“Can you imagine the press? That European dynasty? It’s like Succession, but richer and actually old,” Dianna went on. “And we—”

“No,” I said.

She stopped. “What?”

I looked at her. “Decline.”

Her carefully shaped brows pulled together. “What do you mean ‘decline’? Ara, have you seen the number? This isn’t just a wedding. This is—”

“Dianna.” My voice came out a growl. “Email them. Say thank you. Tell them our calendar is full until 2080, we can’t take it.”

She froze for two full seconds. “O… kay.” Her smile wobbled. “Small problem.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “I hate ‘small problem.’”

“I… um.” She bit her lip, clearly nervous. “I thought you were going to say yes. Everyone here thought you were going to say yes. So, uh, I already…”

“Already what?”

She lifted the iPad again and pointed to a line just below the retainer amount.

Transfer confirmation.

Sender: Fondazione Ricciardi.

Status: Completed.

“I already sent the invoice,” she blurted, words tripping over each other. “They paid the full retainer last night. Non-refundable. And…” She swallowed. “I also… uh… already replied to their email. Confirming that GALA & Co., with our CEO, Miss Arabella Garcia, will personally lead the project.”

The room seemed to shrink around us.

“So…” Dianna forced a small, nervous smile. “Technically… we’re already hired.”