Semua Bab Pregnant With My Twin Sister’s Fiancé’s Baby: Bab 111 - Bab 120

The conference room at the Museum of Modern Art was intimidating by design. Floor-to-ceiling glass, Mies van der Rohe chairs, and a panel of seven board members who looked like they ate blueprints for breakfast.I stood at the head of the table, my hands resting on the podium to hide their slight tremor. At seven months pregnant with Grace, standing for long periods was a contact sport, but I wasn't about to sit. Not for this."The future of the museum isn't just about housing art," I said, clicking to the next slide of my rendering. "It's about becoming art. The new wing shouldn't compete with the collection; it should breathe with it."On the screen, my design for the Eco-Wing appeared. It was a biophilic marvel—living walls, solar glass, and a rainwater harvesting system that doubled as a kinetic sculpture in the atrium.A murmur went through the room."This design is... ambitious," the Board Chair, a woman named Eleanor with pearls the size of golf balls, noted. "Especially compar

The deadline for the Shanghai cultural center proposal was a physical weight on my chest, heavier than Grace had been at forty weeks.I had been working until 2:00 AM for a week straight. My eyes were gritty, my patience was nonexistent, and I was pretty sure my blood type had officially changed to espresso."Aria," Noah’s voice cut through my concentration.I looked up from my drafting table in the home office. It was 8:30 PM. Noah was standing in the doorway, holding a screaming Grace. Emma was clinging to his leg, whining about a lost toy.He looked exhausted. He looked... done."I need you to take them," he said. His voice was tight, devoid of its usual warmth. "Just for an hour. I have a conference call with London that I've rescheduled three times.""Noah, I can't," I said, gesturing to the blueprints spread out before me. "The final render is due at midnight. If I don't finish this shader pass, the lighting will be off.""The lighting?" Noah repeated, his voice rising. "Aria, y

The text message arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, disrupting the quiet hum of Stone Design Studio.I was reviewing the final blueprints for the Brooklyn Public Library annex, a mug of lukewarm tea in my hand, when my phone buzzed against the desk.Sienna: Can we meet? I want to talk. No cameras, no lawyers. Just us.I stared at the screen. The name "Sienna" used to trigger a Pavlovian response of panic and nausea. It used to mean blackmail, sabotage, or a new humiliating headline.But it had been three years.Three years since the trial. Three years since she pleaded guilty. Three years since she vanished from the socialite scene to serve her probation and scrub toilets at a community center.I hadn't seen her since the day outside the courthouse. We had exchanged brief texts on birthdays and holidays—polite, distant checkpoints to prove we were both still alive.But "I want to talk" was different.I picked up the phone. I didn't reply immediately. I called Noah."Hey," he answered on

The idea didn't come from a lawyer, a judge, or a PR crisis team. It came from a grandfather holding a toddler on his knee.We were at Richard’s apartment in Tribeca for Sunday brunch. Emma was "reading" to him—which mostly involved pointing at pictures of dogs and shouting "Woof!"—while Grace napped in the portable crib.Richard looked up at Aria and Sienna, who were sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, politely discussing the weather. The truce held, but the ice was still thin."I've booked an appointment," Richard announced, his voice cutting through the toddler babble. "With Dr. Lisa Park. She specializes in family systems and trauma."Aria froze, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. Sienna blinked, looking wary."For you?" Aria asked gently."For us," Richard corrected. He looked at his daughters—the twins he had failed in two completely different ways. "I want you both to come. Just the three of us. No lawyers. No spouses. Just the Stones."The room went quiet. I watched Aria.

Five years is a long time in the tech industry. It’s a lifetime for a startup. It’s an epoch for code.But for a father? Five years is a blink.I stood in the hallway of our penthouse—not the stark bachelor pad I had lived in before, but the warm, cluttered, vibrant home we had built—and watched my daughter put on her backpack.It was pink. It was sparkly. It was big enough to hold a small colony of squirrels, yet it looked massive on her small shoulders."Do I look ready?" Emma asked, spinning around. She was wearing a dress with dinosaurs on it (her choice) and high-top sneakers (my choice)."You look ready to conquer the world," I said, my voice catching in my throat."I'm not conquering the world, Daddy," she giggled, rolling her eyes with a sass that was entirely her mother’s. "I'm going to kindergarten.""Same thing," I muttered.I knelt down to tie her shoelace, mostly just to buy myself a second to compose my face.She was five.I remembered the day she was born like it was fi