Chapter 3 - Midnight Confessions
The guest suite on the master floor was larger than Delia’s entire apartment.
A king-sized bed draped in heavy white linens dominated the center of the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moonlit courtyard. Cribs made of dark polished cherrywood had been wheeled in from the nursery and set up directly beside the bed, their occupants sleeping with a sudden, eerie peacefulness that hadn't left them since Delia entered the car.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at her hands. Her uniform felt like a costume she couldn't wait to strip off, but her bags were miles away in her tiny shotgun apartment.
A soft knock rapped against the open door frame.
Anton stood there, having discarded his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, corded forearms dusted with dark hair. He was holding a steaming mug of tea and a fresh set of clothes wrapped in protective plastic from a high-end boutique down on Royal Street.
“Mrs. Gable sent these up,” he said, setting the bundle on the armchair by the desk. “They should fit. I told her to guess your size based on... well. She’s usually accurate.”
Delia felt a hot flush creep up her neck. He means I’m fat. Even when wrapped in polite billionaire decorum, the reality of her plus-size body—the soft curves and thick thighs she had spent a lifetime learning to armor against casual cruelty—hung in the air between them.
“Thank you,” she murmured, not looking up.
Anton didn't leave. He lingered by the doorway, his broad shoulder leaning against the wood paneling. “You think I insulted you.”
“Did you?”
“No,” he said simply. “I stated a fact. You are a voluptuous woman, Delia. In my world, men spend millions trying to impress women who look like you, and spend half their lives pretending they care about anything other than surface-level glamour. I am not most men.”
“No,” she shot back, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. “You’re a mafia boss who kidnaps waitresses and traps them in a fortress.”
A low, rich rumble of amusement escaped his chest—the first genuine sound of humor she had heard from him since they met.
“Fair,” he admitted, walking slowly into the room. He stopped two feet from the cribs, looking down at his sleeping sons. The harsh, carved lines of his face softened, revealing the profound, bone-deep exhaustion underneath. “When Isabella died... I thought the world stopped spinning. She was light. She was laughter. She filled this cold house with music and noise. And when she crashed into that guardrail, she took every decibel of sound with her.”
Delia’s chest tightened. She knew that grief. She knew what it felt like to have your future ripped away in a heartbeat.
“You lost a pregnancy too,” Anton said softly, shocking her so completely she stopped breathing.
“How... how could you know that?”
“Donovan is very thorough,” Anton said without apology. “He read your medical file from eighteen months ago. You went to Ochsner alone. The father of the child walked out the moment you told him you were keeping it. You suffered a placental abruption in your seventh month. You delivered a stillborn baby boy, and you spent six months volunteering in the NICU trying to heal a heart that wouldn't stop bleeding.”
Tears sprang hot and fast to Delia’s eyes. The violation of her most private pain should have made her furious. But looking at Anton—at the shared, jagged edges of their mutual devastation—she felt only a strange, terrifying resonance.
“It breaks you,” Delia whispered, her voice cracking. “It makes you feel like your body is broken. Like you failed at the one thing women are supposed to be naturally built to do.”
Anton stepped closer. He didn't touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from his massive frame.
“You didn't fail,” Anton said, his voice dropping into a dark, resonant register that vibrated straight through her bones. “My sons didn't call you Mama because of a coincidence, Delia. They called you that because their souls recognized the woman who was meant to hold them.”
May you like
Before she could process the terrifying implications of his words, Anton turned sharply and walked toward the door.
“Get some rest,” he said over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, we figure out what comes next.”
