Chapter 23 – Bellamy
BELLAMY
Music blasts through the speaker of my phone as my hips pop and groove to the upbeat, catchy song.
Zayer loves to dance his little heart out and there is nothing like music to get your body moving.
It’s been a week. A week of madness and heartache and just…
uncertainty. It’s been one thing after another for Sebastian.
For us.
But more than that, I’ve heard the murmur of it from the staff.
Curse.
That word. That fucking word.
They want it to explain my father’s death—does it?
They want it to explain the strike Sebastian quickly resolved—I’m not sold.
They’ve heard the rumors about Desta and the woman who took her—why is it all coming out now?
It’s easy to blame the curse. And I’ll admit, there is a part of me, the weaker part of me, who wants to question.
But where will that get me? Where will that get my family?
We can’t go back to those dark ages. I won’t do that to the children. So I walk around like the Bellamy of old. Bright smiles and quick laughs and teasing banter. I ignore the pang in my chest that feels like the definition of heartbreak. I ignore the doubts and questions that lurk in my mind.
Because once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I found myself to be resilient. I found myself to be a woman who could survive anything. And I am determined to be that woman once again.
“It smells like fish.” The aroma of clam chowder simmers on the stove, mingling with the scent of freshly baked cake in the palace kitchen.
“That’s because it is. Clams go into the soup, but we’ll make lobster salad once the lobsters finish steaming.”
Sabrina’s and Phaedra’s noses scrunch up, and I can’t blame them for that. I wanted to make them a Boston meal. But to do that, I had to order frozen clams. That was the easy part. And fucking lobsters. Whole goddamn lobsters. Live motherfucking lobsters.
I shrieked at the top of my lungs when I opened the Styrofoam box that I would have sworn was carrying a kidney or two in it and found four live lobsters in there crawling around.
I felt like a murderer. Like an evil monster.
They were trapped in a box, unable to get out, likely suffocating. It was awful.
Until Margarite tossed each one into the pot of boiling water and told me to get over it. Very politely. In French, which automatically makes it sound better than it does in English.
“You’ll love it,” I promise the kids, who don’t quite believe me yet. Still, my heart swells with nostalgia as I carefully mix ingredients for a Boston cream pie. It was one of those recipes my mom taught me when I was young, a piece of my childhood that I cherish.
“Mommy, can I help?”
And just like that, my freaking world stops.
I stare down at Zayer as he stares up at me with those big blue-gray eyes. He’s called me Mama before, and that was a trip. It was sort of a one-and-done thing last week when we were on the boat. But Mommy? Fucking Mommy?
Phaedra and Sabrina stop moving along with me, and I know I’m starting to cry because it’s hormones, but…Zayer just called me Mommy. Not Mama, but Mommy.
My voice cracks all over the place as I push out, “Of course, baby boy.”
Cue the sob, because it comes after I say that.
“Why are you crying like that?” Phaedra asks, her eyes wide with curiosity as she stands on her tiptoes, trying to see the contents of the mixing bowl.
“Zayer called me Mommy.”
“I know. I heard him.”
Oh, Phaedra. Always so exact and queenlike.
“It’s a big deal for me,” I tell her. “I’m not technically your mother, and I’d never ever want to replace the mama you had, but…I want you all to think of me as your second mama.”
“So, if we call you Mommy, is that different from Mama?” Sabrina questions, and I swear, my hormones are not strong enough to fend this off.
“It is. If you think of it that way.”
“Okay.” She shrugs because that’s Sabrina. Always go with the flow while creating havoc.
Phaedra isn’t ever so easily won, but she turns to me and stares straight up at me with those blazing green eyes of hers. “Mommy is different from Mama.”
I’m about to pass out.
I nod jerkily.
“I think I can call you Mommy and still know I had a mama.”
Oh shit. I’m a legit mess of tears. “You can.”
“Are you okay with that? Because you’re crying a lot so I’m not sure.”
“I’m so much more than okay with that. I would love for you all to call me Mommy if you’re okay with it. These are happy tears.”
“Okay. That’s what I’ll call you,” Phaedra says as if it’s not the biggest deal in the world. “Can I help?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” I reply, handing her a whisk and guiding her hand as we stir the thick batter together.
I’ve forced myself to stop crying, but I want to run to the highest spire of the palace and scream from the rooftops that my stepchildren want to call me Mommy.
I feel like that smacks the bitch out of every fairy tale stepmother in existence right there.
Sabrina and Zayer eagerly join in, each taking turns adding ingredients to the mix.
Their laughter and excitement add to my own as we sing and dance and cook and bake.
And this is why I don’t believe in the curse.
Because if this family is cursed, how on earth did I get here and get so lucky? Impossible, right?
But as we work together in the kitchen, I can’t shake the thought of having a conversation with Sebastian about not hiring a new nanny. I agreed. Fully. Completely. I was one hundred percent on board.
But…over the last week, with everything that’s been happening, I’ve been with the children. And…I’ve felt like my old self again. The Bellamy I know. Not the one dancing around political opponents or dealing with the cattiness of other women.
I’ve been hanging out with the children.
I’ve been playing with them and Arthur, who they can’t get enough of.
I know Sebastian is under immense pressure lately, managing both his royal duties and his concern for my well-being after losing my dad.
Bringing up the subject would only add to his stress, but the idea of sharing these precious times with someone else weighs heavily on me.
“Mommy, what’s next?” Sabrina inquires, snapping me out of my thoughts. Because I’m not sure their calling me Mommy will ever get old.
“Next, we thank our lucky stars that Margarite was willing to handle the lobsters, because I was not brave enough for that. But now that we have all the meat, we’ll make the lobster salad that we’ll put onto the rolls,” I announce, pulling out the ingredients and setting them on the counter.
The children gather around, eager to assist, and I can’t help but smile at their enthusiasm.
“Can I butter the bread, Mommy?” Zayer asks, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
I swear, now they’re just throwing the word out to make me cry.
“Yes!” Clearly, I’m having trouble controlling my emotions. “Just be careful not to use too much or the bread will be soggy,” I advise, handing him a small butter knife and watching as he with childish expertise spreads a thin layer onto each slice.
Phaedra and Sabrina chop the cooked lobster and mix it with a touch of mayonnaise and lemon juice while I make sure everything is just right for our Boston meal. The children chatter excitedly as we work, sharing stories about their day and asking questions about the origins of my Boston favorites.
“Mommy, did Grandpapa teach you how to make all this?” Phaedra asks, her eyes full of wonder.
“Sort of,” I admit. “The Boston cream pie was my mom’s favorite, so my dad and I would make it for her birthday.
But the chowder and lobster rolls we’d go out for.
” I reply, my heart aching with longing for my dad.
As we continue to prepare our feast, I find comfort in sharing a piece of my father’s legacy with my children.
It feels like he’s still with us, somehow, smiling down on our little family as we bond over food and laughter.
Over Boston.
The thought of discussing my new reluctance to hire a nanny with Sebastian gnaws at me.
I know it won’t be an easy conversation, but I can’t ignore my growing desire to cherish every moment with the children.
Gazing at their happy faces, stained with flour and bursting with pride at their culinary creations, I resolve to speak with my grump of a husband tonight.
For now, though, I’ll create memories that will hopefully last a lifetime.
“How do you know when the rolls are done?” Sabrina asks, her brow furrowing in concentration as she checks the oven.
“Keep an eye on them,” I advise. “When they’re golden brown and crispy, they’ll be ready.”
“Got it!” she replies, her determination evident as she stands on a kitchen chair and peers through the oven door.
Zayer, meanwhile, focuses on his task of whipping up the cream for our Boston cream pie.
He looks at me with a mixture of awe and curiosity at how the cream comes together.
Their laughter and enthusiasm echo in the room, filling the void left by the absence of my parents.
This Friday night ritual of cooking and watching movies has become more than just a simple family tradition.
It’s become a lifeline connecting me to my past.
Suddenly, a blur of movement catches my eye. Arthur, our mischievous ferret, darts into the kitchen, his little paws kicking up flour that spilled onto the floor.
“Arthur!” I exclaim, trying to contain my laughter.
“Arthur!” all three children cry as well, their eyes sparkling with delight at the unexpected visitor.
“Get him!” Sabrina squeals, and like a shot, they’re off, chasing the tiny whirlwind around the kitchen.
“Be careful, you guys!” I call after them, though I know it’s fruitless. The thrill of the chase has taken hold, and there is no stopping them now. Hell, their favorite pastime is chasing Arthur around the palace.