Chapter 21
Claire
The wedding planner's face has frozen in that particular expression people get when they're trying very hard not to judge you. Her botoxed forehead doesn’t wrinkle, but her eyes tell the whole story—confusion, disapproval, and the desperate calculation of whether this commission is worth the professional risk.
"So, let me make sure I understand," Melissa says carefully, her manicured finger tapping against her leather portfolio. The sound echoes in Lottie's sun-drenched living room, where we've gathered for this increasingly awkward meeting. "You want a commitment ceremony with... four participants?"
"Yes," I confirm, my hand instinctively moving to my belly, which has rounded noticeably in the past few weeks. At seventeen weeks, I'm definitely showing, the bump undeniable beneath my flowing tunic.
"And all three men will be... marrying you? Simultaneously?"
"It's not a legal marriage," Dane clarifies from his position on the couch, laptop balanced on his lap.
His reading glasses are perched on his nose, making him look every bit the professor explaining a complex concept to a struggling student.
"Legal marriage in New York can only involve two people. This is a commitment ceremony."
"I see." Melissa's tone suggests she very much does not see. "And the vows? How will those work?"
"We'll each exchange individual vows," Stuart says, his voice carrying that controlled edge that means he's two seconds from dismissing her entirely. He's standing by the window, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else than here right now. "Claire to each of us, and us to her."
"That could take quite a while," Melissa ventures carefully.
"We’re aware," Jonathan says with his usual warmth, though I can see the tension in his shoulders. He's sitting beside me, close enough that I can feel his body heat. "This isn't a traditional fifteen-minute ceremony. We want to do it right."
"Right," Melissa repeats, and I hear the silent addition: if such a thing is even possible.
Lottie, bless her, has been watching this entire exchange with growing impatience. She's in full glamorous aunt mode today—purple silk caftan, huge strands of beads around her neck, perfectly applied makeup despite it being 10 AM on a Tuesday.
"For heaven's sake, Melissa," she interrupts, setting down her mimosa with enough force to make the crystal ring.
"These four people love each other. They're creating a family.
Either you can help them celebrate that, or I'll find someone who will.
I have three other planners on my list who would kill for a commission this size. "
The mention of money makes Melissa's expression shift. Her eyes dart to the clearly expensive furniture, the original artwork on the walls, the general air of wealth that permeates everything Lottie touches.
"Of course, of course," she says quickly, her professional mask sliding back into place. "I apologize if I seemed... hesitant. This is just a unique situation, and I want to make sure I understand your vision completely."
"Our vision," I say carefully, "is something intimate but meaningful. Maybe fifty guests. Somewhere beautiful but private. We want to celebrate our commitment without turning it into a spectacle."
"Private might be challenging," Melissa says, pulling out her tablet. "Given the media attention you've been receiving."
That's putting it mildly. Ever since Jonathan's confrontation with Ainslee at the charity event two weeks ago, our lives have been under a microscope.
His declaration went viral within hours—the footage of him pulling me close, hand on my pregnant belly, publicly claiming me and our family.
The internet had opinions. Many, many opinions.
Some were supportive, calling us brave, progressive, revolutionary.
Parenting blogs wrote articles about chosen families and modern love.
Progressive podcasts invited us for interviews that we politely declined.
But the backlash was just as intense—conservative commentators labeled us immoral, religious groups called us sinful, traditional family organizations cited us as evidence of society's moral decay.
And then someone leaked information about our planned commitment ceremony to Page Six.
Now there are photographers outside our gate.
Not constantly, but enough that leaving the house requires strategy.
My clinic has had to hire additional security after protesters showed up calling my practice a "den of sin.
" Stuart's hospital received letters demanding his termination.
Dane's publisher faced calls for boycotts.
Through it all, we've tried to maintain normalcy, but it's exhausting.
"We'll handle the media," Stuart says flatly. "What we need from you is a plan for a meaningful ceremony that honors us all equally."
Melissa nods, fingers flying across her tablet. "Okay. Let's start with location. Indoor or outdoor?"
"Outdoor," Dane and I say simultaneously.
"But with contingency for weather," Stuart adds, because of course he does.
We spend the next two hours discussing details—flowers (peonies, my favorite), colors (sage green and cream to match the future nursery), music (a string quartet for the ceremony, a DJ for the reception).
Melissa gradually warms to the project, especially when Jonathan mentions his YouTube following might provide exposure for her business.
"We could do a botanical garden," she suggests, sketching layouts on her tablet. "The New York Botanical Garden has spaces that can be made private. Or we could consider a vineyard in the Hudson Valley—several offer exclusive use for events."
"Too public," Stuart says immediately. "Any established venue will have staff who could leak details."
"What about here?" Lottie suggests. "My property is large enough. We could set up in the garden, use the house for preparations. Complete privacy, and I'd love to host it."
We all turn to look at her, considering. Lottie's estate is indeed spacious—the garden alone is half an acre of manicured beauty. The property is already familiar, comfortable, ours in a way that no rented venue could be.
"That’s so sweet of you to offer," I say, quickly warming to the idea. "And it would be perfect. Personal, private, beautiful."
"I'll need to bring in additional landscaping," Melissa says, already making notes. "Lighting, seating, a proper aisle runner, an arch or structure for the actual ceremony—"
"Nothing too elaborate," I interrupt. "We want it to feel natural, not staged."
"Elevated natural," Melissa compromises. "Trust me. I'll send you mood boards by tomorrow."
After Melissa leaves, we collapse in Lottie's living room. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, casting golden light across the Persian rugs and expensive furniture. Outside, I can see the garden where we'll commit our lives to each other in front of fifty witnesses.
"This is really happening," I say, the reality settling over me like a weighted blanket. "We're actually doing this."
"Getting cold feet?" Jonathan teases, but I hear the genuine worry underneath.
"No. Just... overwhelmed. Good overwhelmed, but still." I stand, needing movement, pacing to the window. From here, I can see our house next door. The nursery window is visible, the room nearly complete now. "Everything's changing so fast."
"We can slow down," Stuart says, coming to stand beside me. His hand finds my lower back, warm and steady. "Push the ceremony back, give ourselves more time."
"No. I want to do it before the baby comes. I want us to be official—or whatever we are—before they arrive." I lean into him, grateful for his solid presence. "I just wish we could do it without the circus."
As if summoned by the mention of media attention, my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
"What now?" Dane asks, already pulling out his own phone.
I open my notifications and my stomach drops. Page Six has published a new article, this one complete with photos someone took with a telephoto lens—me at my clinic this morning, my pregnant belly clearly visible beneath my scrubs. The headline makes my blood run cold:
"Baby Mama Drama: Inside the Polyamorous Pregnancy Scandal"
The article is worse than the headline. It speculates about paternity, includes quotes from "sources close to the situation", and somehow has details about our planned ceremony that only Melissa could have known—dates we discussed, the guest count, even the color scheme.
"She signed an NDA," Jonathan says, reading over my shoulder, his voice tight with anger.
"Which her lawyer will argue doesn't cover information she observed before signing," Stuart says grimly. He's already on his phone, presumably calling his attorney. "This is exactly what I was afraid of."
"It gets worse," Dane says quietly, his face pale as he stares at his screen. "Someone posted your clinic's client list online. Not medical records, but names and appointment times.”
My hands start shaking. My clients—people who trusted me with their health, their privacy—are being targeted because of my personal life. "I need to call them. Apologize. Offer to transfer their care—"
"You will do no such thing," Lottie interrupts firmly. "Those clients chose you because you're excellent at what you do. If they can't handle your personal life being unconventional, they don't deserve your expertise."
"But the harassment—"
"Will blow over," she insists. "Everything does, eventually. The internet has the attention span of a goldfish."
Stuart’s phone rings and his face goes carefully blank as he answers, moving to the far corner of the room for privacy. But I can hear the tension in his clipped responses, the way his free hand clenches and unclenches.
When he hangs up, his face is ashen.
"The hospital board wants a meeting," he says flatly. "About how my 'lifestyle choices' are affecting the hospital's reputation."