Chapter Three
Fallon
“Ms. Fallon, you have a delivery.”
Cindy’s voice carries through my office, followed by a light knock on the doorframe.
I blink up from my laptop, momentarily pulled out of the chaos of emails, store reports, and my ongoing investigation into potential employee incompetence.
The past few days have been a blur of driving between my local stores, getting the lay of the land, and making sure I haven’t accidentally employed any more Marline’s. Stupid fucking name if you ask me.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the ache of sitting hunched over spreadsheets for hours and glance toward the doorway.
Cindy stands just inside, her hands clasped in front of her, grinning so hard I think her face might break.
She’s in her usual maid’s uniform, even though I’ve told her at least a dozen times she doesn’t have to wear it.
But every time I bring it up, she waves me off with: “I’m not cleaning other people’s houses in my own clothes. ”
I can’t argue with that. She’s probably in her mid-twenties, blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, her bright blue eyes practically sparkling with whatever amusement she’s holding in.
“Oh? A delivery?” I push my chair back and stretch, already curious.
My office is sleek and organized but still cozy, making it feel like mine.
A massive glass desk sits in the center, stacked with business files, color-coded sticky notes, and a mug of coffee that’s been reheated at least three times.
The walls are a soft cream color, and the bookshelves lining one side are filled with fashion design books, old sketch pads, and decorative storage boxes filled with Gods knows what.
The large window behind me overlooks the garden, spilling in the warm afternoon light.
I follow Cindy out, padding barefoot down the polished hardwood hallway toward the dining room. The scent of vanilla and fresh linen from the house candles lingers in the air, making everything feel calm and normal.
That is, until I step into the dining room and see it.
A huge wicker basket sits in the center of my long oak dining table, practically overflowing with gifts, luxurious fabrics, small wrapped packages, and what looks like an expensive bottle of wine tucked in the corner.
I blink. Once. Twice.
“What in the world?”
Cindy bounces on her toes, hands clasped behind her back like she’s barely containing herself.
I move forward, reaching for the card nestled at the front.
There’s something thrumming in my chest, something light, excited—maybe even a little nervous.
Because I can guess who sent it. And I’m not entirely sure what that means.
To Our Future Wife,
In two days, you’ll be ours. Legally, officially, completely.
We know this isn’t traditional. Nothing about this situation is, but that doesn’t mean we don’t intend to court you properly. You deserve to be spoiled, indulged, and adored; we take that responsibility very seriously.
So, consider this basket a down payment on everything we plan to give you. Comfort, pleasure, security, whatever you want, whatever you need, it’s yours. We’ll learn your favorites, your quirks, the little things that make you you.
You don’t have to love us. Not yet.
But trust us when we say—we’re already devoted to you.
– Kingston, Voss, Jace, Romano
P.S. Hope you like the gifts. If not, let us know—we’ll keep trying until we perfect it.
I laugh softly, warmth bubbling in my chest as I carefully set the card aside.
Then, unable to resist, I reach into the basket, fingertips brushing over plush fabrics and carefully selected items, each one wrapped with an almost ridiculous amount of care.
The first thing I pull out is a sage green blanket, neatly folded, the material buttery soft beneath my fingers. When I lift it, the weight is perfect—heavy enough to feel like a comforting hug but light enough that I know it’ll be ideal for curling up in.
A pair of lime green plush socks come next, so thick and ridiculously fluffy that I can already tell my feet will never know cold again.
I let out a breathless laugh as I pull out an emerald green robe, the fabric sliding over my hands like liquid silk. It’s luxurious, something straight out of a spa catalog, and when I press it against my cheek, it’s cool and smooth, whispering promises of absolute comfort.
Bath salts follow, packaged in a heavy glass jar; the label says the scent is a mix of vanilla, honey, and herbal. Nestled beside them are a few bath bombs wrapped in soft paper, their colors varying between deep greens and pale golds, flecks of shimmer catching in the light.
I exhale slowly, my heart squeezing just a little.
Next, I find an eye mask, the fabric velvety beneath my fingertips, lined with something soft and cooling. Then, a set of jade facial rollers, cool to the touch, had their weight solid and grounding in my palm.
And when I think they’ve thought of everything, I pull out a set of face masks, each one carefully chosen, the packaging sleek and high-end.
I pause, looking down at the collection of gifts now spread out across the table. This… this is the sweetest gift I’ve ever received. I turn to Cindy, still standing there, beaming like she orchestrated this herself.
“Is there a way to send them a response?” I ask, voice a little breathless, a little unsure. Because for the first time since this whole arrangement started, I don’t just feel like someone’s contracted wife-to-be.
I feel… wanted.
Voss
February 13th
6:45 P.M
“She sent a response!!!”
Romano dances into the room, practically vibrating with excitement, waving a light green envelope in the air like he just won the lottery.
I barely lift my head from where I’m stretched out in the armchair, but Jace is already behind him, silent, watchful, the momentary flicker of amusement on his face vanishing as quickly as it came.
When we were kids, Jace sort of appointed himself Romano’s bodyguard.
Not because Romano can’t handle himself—he can.
But because his heart is soft. Too soft, sometimes.
And because Romano is also crazy as fuck, and someone must make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.
“She responded?” I prompt when Romano throws himself onto the couch, legs sprawling, the envelope held up like a sacred artifact.
Kingston, drawn by the noise, leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his sharp green eyes locked onto the letter like it might explode.
“Well, let’s hear it,” Jace says, his voice low, gravelly commanding. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, he’s either amused or demanding answers. I’ve seen the guy stare someone into submission.
Romano grins like he’s about to open the gates of heaven, carefully sliding a finger under the envelope’s seal, slow, deliberate, making sure not to tear it.
The room is silent, the anticipation thick, as he pulls out the white card tucked inside.
To My Soon-to-Be Husbands,
I’m not going to lie. I stared at this letter for a solid ten minutes, trying to figure out how to respond.
Because, really? What does one say when their terrifying, possibly-mafia fiancés send them the perfect courting gift basket and a note that somehow manages to be both romantic and slightly ominous?
Thank you. Seems too small. But since I value my life, I’m going to go with it anyway.
Thank you. For the gifts. For the thought behind them. For somehow nailing every single thing I love despite the fact that we’ve never met. I don’t know whether to be flattered or mildly concerned about how well you already know me.
And as for the spoiling, indulging, and adoring part?
Well.
I suppose we’ll see if you live up to the hype.
– Fallon
P.S. See you tomorrow. I’ll be the one in the wedding dress.
Romano breaks out into that weird-ass giggle-laugh of his, the one that usually means he’s found something wildly entertaining or is about to make a terrible decision.
“I think I’m in love,” he declares, still sprawled across the couch, grinning like an idiot as he waves Fallon’s letter in the air.
Kingston chuckles, shaking his head as he plucks the card from Romano’s grasp. Instead of rereading it, he brings it up to his nose, inhaling deeply, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t say I blame you.” His green eyes glint with amusement as he lowers the letter, glancing around the room. “She really thinks we’re the fucking mafia.”
I snort, stretching my legs out in front of me. “To be fair, we don’t exactly do much to disprove that theory.”
“Yeah,” Romano grins, “but I love that she just accepted it. No panic, no questions. Just, ‘Oh, cool, my new husbands are criminals. Let’s roll with it.’”
Kingston chuckles again, the sound dark and amused. “Speaking of business.” He straightens, flipping the card between his fingers before propping it up on the mantel above the fireplace. “Jace?”
Jace is already adjusting his sleeves, looking every bit the man who handles problems without hesitation. “I’ve retrieved the asset you requested,” he says, his gravelly voice filling the room. “He’s at our usual place.”
We always talk in code. Not because we don’t trust our security but because I make sure our systems are airtight. But because paranoia is what keeps men like us in business.
“Voss,” Kingston turns to me next. “I need you to inquire about the missing numbers.
I nod once. “If there’s anything to know, I’ll find it.”
“Romano,” Kingston continues, shifting his gaze. “Go through the finances. I want to be sure we haven’t missed anything.”
Romano heaves himself up from the couch with a dramatic sigh, stretching before grabbing his phone.
“On it, boss.” I follow suit, pushing off the armchair and stretching out the stiffness in my muscles.
Kingston exhales with one last glance at Fallon’s letter, his expression settling into something colder, more focused.