Chapter Forty-Six-Remy
Sharing our belated wedding reception with my wife’s first official art showing should feel like juggling grenades—two massive, high-stakes events stacked into one day.
But honestly? It feels perfect.
Like fate itself couldn’t have scripted it better.
The lobby of the Stargazer Hotel gleams with glass, marble, and golden light, every inch of it screaming prestige.
And there’s Andy—my Andy—floating through the crowd like she owns the place.
Head-to-toe gold.
A gown that drapes and clings in all the right places, subtle low heels that let her glide from group to group without losing her balance.
Her hair’s swept back in soft waves, her hazel eyes alive with light, and everywhere she goes people turn to stare.
But she doesn’t see them.
Not really.
Her focus is on her work—the stark, emotional photographs hung across the lobby walls under her pseudonym, A. Ram.
Urban landscapes, hidden corners of the city, stolen moments of quiet beauty in chaos.
People are already murmuring about how raw and powerful the collection feels.
Exclusive. Priceless.
All the proceeds are being donated to stopping human trafficking, and I couldn’t be prouder of my wife than I am right now.
Honestly. Me? I’m just grinning like an idiot. Watching her shine.
We’ve got the afternoon showing, three to six, then a reception dinner at seven sharp.
Between the two, we’ll sneak upstairs for an hour of breathing space, maybe even time for me to get my hands on her if I’m lucky.
And speaking of upstairs—thank God for family.
With the entire penthouse floor secured, one suite has been converted into a Volkov Clan nursery.
On-call nurse, professional nannies, and a rotating crew of grandparents, aunts, and uncles all fighting over baby duty.
Callie, Andrew, and Elena have toys stacked higher than the Christmas tree last year. They’re spoiled, adored, safe.
It means Andy and I get to be here. Together.
And finally, after making her rounds—smiling at critics, laughing softly with patrons, listening to some pretentious collector wax poetic about negative space—she’s at my side.
Right where she belongs.
“Hello, Mrs. Falco,” I murmur, letting my hand slide over the curve of her waist, pulling her just close enough to remind her—and everyone watching—that she’s mine. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
Her lips curve, eyes sparkling as she leans in, whispering just for me.
“You might have mentioned that, Mr. Falco. But I can stand to hear it again.”
My grin widens, chest tightening with that familiar, all-consuming need I’ll never shake.
God, I love this woman.
That she chose me—that she decided to make me the father of her children, that she stopped running from what we were and picked me—I swear it makes me the luckiest fucking man in the whole world.
And I’ll never let her forget it.
Not tonight. Not ever.
I’ve been watching her work the room, pride swelling with every soft laugh, every smile, every person clearly blown away by her photographs.
But the second I see the slick-haired bastard in the blue suit step out of the pack, notebook in hand, I know trouble’s coming.
He’s got that smug, sharp glint in his eyes—the kind that doesn’t come here to admire. It comes to poke, prod, and tear down.
“A. Ram? Or is it, Mrs. Falco,” he says, cutting across her conversation with a collector. “Wait, I know, I should say Andrea Ramirez, daughter of Andres and Ellie Ramirez?”
Andy stiffens at my side. I squeeze her waist in warning.
The man smiles thinly, flipping his notebook open.
“I’m with the Times. Lovely collection. Striking, even. But tell me—how does a woman from such a powerful dynasty manage to break into a scene as competitive as fine art photography?”
Andy blinks. “I—”
“Because surely it wasn’t merit alone,” he continues, oozing false politeness. “Surely your family’s name, your marriage, your money paved the way?”
I feel my pulse spike.
My vision narrows.
I could break every bone in this man’s smug face before he drops his pen. But Andy? She’s got this.
My wife even surprises me with her grit and elegance.
Her chin lifts. Her hazel eyes sharpen, fire flashing there. And when she speaks, her voice is clear, steady.
“You’re right,” she says, and the reporter blinks like he wasn’t expecting her to agree. “My family has power. Money. Influence. All of that could and does pave the way.”
A pause.
“And it will help me raise the funds we need for the Save Our Children Anti-Trafficking Foundation. But these photos? I took them. I developed them. I did this work. No one but me. And if you’d like to confirm that, feel free to ask the gallery owner who rejected me three times under a pseudonym before finally hanging my work—without ever knowing my real last name. ”
The man falters, frown tugging at his lips.
“See,” Andy continues, sweet as poison, “what you’re really asking me is if I belong here, in the art world.
And the answer is yes. I belong. Not because of who my father is.
Not because of who I married. But because my art speaks for itself.
So maybe the better question is—why are you here?
To report on art, or to gossip about families with more money, power, and responsibility than you can even fathom? ”
The crowd nearby chuckles.
A few clap softly.
The collector Andy was speaking to actually smirks, raising his champagne.
And me? I’m two seconds from dragging my wife into the nearest dark corner and fucking her senseless for being the fiercest, most brilliant woman alive.
The reporter recovers enough to stammer, “Well. That’s, um, certainly one perspective.”
“No,” I cut in, voice low and lethal. He startles, looking up at me. “That’s the perspective. And if you twist a single word of hers into anything else, I’ll make sure every photo desk in this city knows you for what you are, and I guarantee you will be unemployable.”
His throat bobs. He mutters something about deadlines and retreats fast, tail tucked.
Andy exhales, shoulders sagging. Then she looks up at me, hazel eyes dancing despite the tension.
“Too much?” she whispers.
I shake my head slowly, leaning down so only she can hear.
“Perfect. You were perfect, Baby. And I’m gonna spend the rest of the night showing you just how proud I am.”
Her blush is everything.
And suddenly, the whole world could fall away, and I wouldn’t give a damn—because this, right here?
This is ours.