Chapter 12 Aristides
“Getting cold feet, nephew?” Dimitrios asked, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror.
Chrysanthos snorted. “Absolutely not. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
I approached him, making a show of examining my tuxedo in the mirror, though my attention remained on Chrysanthos. My only son’s wedding should have filled me with pride, yet I found myself counting down the minutes until the ceremony began.
It had been three months, three weeks, and five days since I saw Dede. Not that I was counting.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Like a man who nearly lost everything and somehow got a second chance.”
Konstantin entered the room, his expression carrying the same grimness that had settled over him for months. The tension between him and Matthaios crackled as my cousin lounged on the chaise near the fireplace, scrolling through his phone with indifference.
“Any news about Simone?” Chrysanthos asked Matthaios.
Matthaios’s jaw tightened. “Nothing. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t destroyed her life, she might still be speaking to you,” Konstantin remarked coldly, pouring himself a drink without offering one to anyone else.
Matthaios’s eyes fixed on Konstantin with dangerous precision. “You should focus on your own non-marriage.”
I understood their pain more than I cared to admit. Lost women. Choices that couldn’t be unmade.
“Enough,” I commanded. “This is my son’s wedding day. Save your squabbling for tomorrow.”
Silence fell immediately. Good.
“Well, never let it be said that a Christakis wedding lacks drama,” Dimitrios announced, helping himself to another whiskey. “Santo, you never mentioned Deanna’s pregnancy.”
My head snapped up before I could control the reaction. “She’s pregnant?”
“It’s not my business,” Chrysanthos shrugged, adjusting his cufflinks again. “Tia’s embarrassed about her parents having another child at her ‘big age’.”
I turned back to the window, forcing my expression into neutrality while my body raged. Pregnant? How was that possible?
She told me she was sterile. It’s why we never—
A knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts. The wedding coordinator’s anxious face appeared. “Five minutes, gentlemen. Everyone is seated.”
The mood shifted instantly. We straightened bow ties and adjusted jackets, the previous argument momentarily forgotten in the rush of ceremony.
I moved to stand beside Chrysanthos, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready since the day I proposed.”
Pride swelled in my chest.
We filed down the stone staircase, me leading as best man, followed by my brothers and cousin. The Swiss castle’s great hall was festooned with white roses and evergreen boughs, a winter wonderland perfectly suited to a Christmas Eve ceremony. Exactly as Tia had envisioned it.
I took my position beside Chrysanthos at the altar as Bach’s “Air on the G String” began. The doors at the end of the hall swung open, revealing the bridal party in midnight-blue gowns.
When Dede finally appeared in the doorway, escorting her daughter down the aisle, my breath held. She was radiant in champagne silk, the fabric draping elegantly over fuller and more pronounced curves.
Beautiful.
Pregnant.
A jarring stab of jealousy restricted my breathing. The thought of Dede carrying her ex-husband’s child left an unexpectedly bitter taste.
As the officiant began speaking, our eyes met. That momentary connection carried enough force to make me look away first. I could not bear to hold her gaze and allow her to see what her choice had done to me.
I refocused on the ceremony with effort. Today was about Chrysanthos, not the emptiness I’d experienced since her departure. Not about the months of silence broken only by three brief calls about our children. Not about the nights I’d reached for her in my sleep, only to wake up alone.
Every word the officiant spoke about love, commitment, and partnership was a painful reminder of what I would never have. Chrysanthos slipped the ring onto Tia’s finger with the deep solemnity the act commanded, and my son’s face transformed with joy as he kissed his bride.
The reception that followed was an exercise in avoidance. We moved through our respective duties, ensuring our paths crossed only when absolutely necessary.
I made my toast, danced with relatives, and accepted congratulations on behalf of my son. By the time the newlyweds secretly departed, my jaw ached from maintaining the facade of celebration while my mind circled endlessly around one question.
How had I lost her so completely?
I just needed to endure a little longer. Soon I could retreat from this situation entirely. Soon I could stop watching her move through the room as if she hadn’t spent two months in my bed, in my life, under my skin.
Then I noticed her speaking with Tia’s father. I could read the tension in her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth. She didn’t seem happy in his company, and something protective flared in my chest.
I approached directly, cutting through the remaining guests without hesitation. “Excuse me, Deanna.” My voice was even. “I need to speak with you regarding our children, yes?”
Kevin straightened, meeting my gaze. “Whatever you need to discuss with Dee, I should be part of it. I’m Tia’s father.”
The presumption in his tone ignited my anger. This man had betrayed Dede while their daughter battled cancer, then compounded his failures by relocating and abdicating his paternal responsibilities.
“I was under the impression Tia and Deanna, they managed without you for years. And you are only here because your mother, she asked it.”
His expression shifted from confidence to discomfort. It was a small but satisfying victory.
“I was about to retire for the evening,” Dede interjected. “You can walk with me, Mr. Christakis.”
I followed without hesitation. My heart hammered against my ribs with each step, my mind cycling through everything I wanted to say, every accusation and question I had no right to voice.
When she unlocked her door, I followed her into the room and closed the door behind us. She turned to face me, and the reality of being alone with her again was suddenly, utterly overwhelming.
I dispensed with pleasantries. “This happened when?” I demanded, gesturing toward her abdomen.
“August 27th, in the master bedroom of your penthouse apartment in Athens. Though I can’t tell you whether I conceived while I was on top, or when you had my legs folded so far back that my feet were touching the headboard.”
The words registered slowly, my brain struggling to reconcile her statement with what I’d been told by my son.
August 27th. The gala. Our last night together.
My mouth went dry. “That means I’m—”
“Go on.” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You’ll get there, eventually.”
“—the father,” I finished, the words emerging hoarse.
Her lips curved into a triumphant smile. “Bingo. You’re going to be a father again.”
This revelation provided no comfort. I retreated until I encountered the bed and sat down heavily.
“But pregnancy, it was impossible. You underwent the procedure to prevent conception,” I reminded her, grasping for a rational explanation.
Had she deceived me?
“I had a tubal ligation,” she confirmed. “But the doctor explained they can reverse themselves without medical assistance. Apparently, it happens in about one percent of cases.” She gave me a pointed look. “Congratulations. We beat the odds.”
I stared at her, trying to organize my thoughts into some semblance of coherence.
“I’ll give you a moment,” she said, stepping out of her shoes. “This dress is making me hot.”
To my astonishment, she began removing her dress as though I weren’t present. The zipper descended slowly, revealing the elegant line of her spine and her bra.
I should have looked away. I didn’t look away.
When she stepped out of the gown, I was confronted with the full reality of her transformation. The body I knew as intimately as my own had become foreign territory.
And her belly—
Christós.
The curve was impossible to ignore, stretching her skin taut. A dark vertical line bisected her abdomen from navel downward.
I cataloged every change. The way her skin glowed. The fullness of her hips. The heaviness of her breasts that would soon feed our child.
She was lush, ripe, unmistakably fertile. And I wanted her with an intensity that bordered on feral.
“I’m aware I’m not exactly how you remember me.”
“You are wrong.” I forced myself to look away. “You should sit. You have been on your feet for hours, yes?”
“I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
But she sat anyway, and I was grateful. Because if she’d remained standing there, half-naked with the evidence of what we’d created, I might fall to my knees and beg to kiss between her legs.
“When did you find out?” I asked, hearing the accusation in my voice.
“Mid October. I started throwing up in the mornings and being more exhausted than usual. I went to my doctor, and the blood work revealed I was pregnant. I didn’t believe until they did an ultrasound to confirm.”
“You said nothing?”
“I was waiting to tell you in person.” By now she had changed into pajamas. “I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone. I didn’t want you to find out from a text message or a voicemail. I thought—” Her voice wavered. “I thought you and our children deserved better than that.”
“Naturally, Chrysanthos and Tia, they should be told in appropriate manner.”
She held up one hand. “We definitely need to figure out how to break this news to Tia and Santo. But when I said ‘our children,’” she placed both hands on her swollen belly, her expression shifting to something tender, “I was talking about these children.”
“Theó mou,” I muttered, pressing my palms against my eyes. “How many?”
“We’re having twins. A boy and a girl.”