Chapter 32
ASHER
Order is restored.
The server architecture is stable, the breach has been sealed, and for the first time in weeks, the Unit is functioning at optimal capacity.
It’s been three weeks since the night Ethan knelt on the rug and we declared war on the world.
We have spent the last three weeks in a cold war.
I spent forty-eight hours dissecting Nebula’s servers.
The payment trail from Markus Vance to Greg is fully documented.
The corporate espionage strategy documents are secured on my hard drive.
We have the data to destroy him, but Ethan ordered me to hold the payload.
We are waiting for Vance to make a mistake, to step out of the shadows so we can sever his network permanently.
Until then, the perimeter is secure. This leaves only one variable undefined.
“We’re going to be late,” Ethan says, checking his watch for the third time in thirty seconds.
He’s pacing the entryway of the penthouse, wearing a bespoke suit, yet he looks like he’s about to face a firing squad.
“We aren’t late,” I correct him, checking the traffic data on my phone. “The clinic is twelve minutes away. Traffic density is light. We’ll arrive with four minutes to spare.”
“Do you have the bag?” Owen asks, coming out of the kitchen with a green smoothie smelling strongly of spinach and ginger. He hands it to Tessa. “Drink. Folic acid. Asher’s orders.”
Tessa takes the cup, wrinkling her nose, but she drinks it.
She looks radiant. The pallor of the first trimester is fading, replaced by a glow defying standard biological fatigue.
She’s wearing a loose sundress and a denim jacket, trying to look casual, but the slight tremor in her hands gives her away.
“I have the bag,” I confirm, adjusting the leather satchel over my shoulder. It contains her medical file, insurance documents registered under a shell LLC to protect her privacy, and three water bottles.
“Let’s move,” Ethan commands, opening the door. “Service elevator. I don’t want the doorman seeing us leave together in the middle of a workday.”
Moving as a unit, we flank her—Ethan in front, Owen behind, me at her side. A phalanx.
We take the service exit to the garage and pile into Ethan’s black SUV, relying on the tinted windows and reinforced panels. I drive. My reaction times are faster than Ethan’s aggression or Owen’s distraction.
“Are you nervous?” Owen asks from the backseat, his hand resting on Tessa’s knee.
“Terrified,” Tessa admits. “What if something is wrong? What if the stress from the hack hurt the baby?”
“The probability is incredibly low,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “Your vitals have been optimal for fourteen days. You’re sleeping seven hours a night. You’re eating. The data is sound.”
“Thanks, Ash,” she says softly. “But data isn’t everything.”
I reach over the center console and squeeze her hand. Her skin is warm. Her pulse is steady.
We arrive at the clinic. It’s a private facility on the outskirts of Austin, catering to high-profile clients who value discretion above all else. No names on the waiting list. Private entrances. But the lot isn’t secure. The walk from the car to the door is still public enough for a long lens.
We’re ushered into a back room immediately.
Dr. Aris is a woman in her fifties with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. She surveys the four of us crowding into the small examination room—Ethan pacing, Owen sitting on the counter, me standing by the monitor, Tessa on the exam table—and she doesn’t even blink.
“Crowded house,” she notes, pulling on her gloves. “Who is the father?”
A heavy stillness drops over the room.
This is the question. The variable we haven’t solved because we haven’t wanted to. Ethan stops pacing. Owen stops swinging his legs. I look at Tessa.
“We don’t know,” Tessa says, her voice remarkably steady.
Dr. Aris nods, typing something into her tablet. “We can do a non-invasive prenatal paternity test today. It requires a blood draw from the mother and cheek swabs from the potential fathers. We can have results in about a week.”
She waits for the go-ahead.
Logic dictates we should know. Genetic history is a crucial data point for medical treatment. Knowing the biological father simplifies legal paperwork, inheritance, and medical predictive modeling. It’s the efficient choice.
“No,” Ethan says.
“No?” Dr. Aris looks up.
“We don’t want the test,” Owen adds, hopping off the counter to stand next to Tessa, taking her left hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. I stand on her right side, taking her other hand. “DNA is irrelevant. The child is ours.”
Tessa is crying happy tears, her hazel eyes welling over. She squeezes my hand hard.
“No test,” she confirms to the doctor. “They’re all the father.”
Dr. Aris smiles, a genuine expression softening her face. “Alright then. Let’s see how the baby is doing. Since it’s early, we’ll need to do a transvaginal ultrasound to get a clear picture.”
She hands Tessa a paper sheet. “Everything from the waist down, please. Gentlemen, if you could give her a moment?”
Ethan, Owen, and I turn around instantly, forming a wall of privacy while she changes. When Tessa is settled and covered, Dr. Aris gives the word, and we turn back, keeping our eyes fixed on Tessa’s face until she nods her comfort.
Dr. Aris inserts the wand. Tessa shifts uncomfortably, but then the screen flickers. Static. Gray noise.
“There we go,” Dr. Aris says, adjusting the contrast.
A sound fills the room. Swish-swish. Swish-swish.
It’s chaotic and overwhelmingly loud. It sounds like a server room at full capacity. It sounds like life.
“The heartbeat is strong,” Dr. Aris says. “150 beats per minute. Perfect.”
Ethan lets out a loud, ragged breath. “It’s okay? Is it healthy?”
“Very healthy,” Dr. Aris says, adjusting the angle of the probe.
I frown.
As I watch the monitor, I analyze the visual data. The sac is present. The fetal pole is clear. But there’s a shadow. There’s a duplication in the frequency.
“Wait,” I say, stepping closer to the screen. “Review that sector again. Quadrant two.”
Dr. Aris pauses. She looks at me, then back at the screen, shifting the probe slightly to the left.
The sound changes. The rhythm syncopates. Swish-swish-thump-swish.
“You have a good eye,” Dr. Aris says, her eyebrows shooting up. “Or a very good ear.”
“What?” Owen asks, leaning in. “What is it?”
“Is something wrong?” Tessa panics, trying to sit up.
“Lie back, Tessa,” Dr. Aris says gently. “Nothing is wrong. Actually, everything is double.”
She points to the screen. Two distinct shapes appear in the static, each with its own fluttering pulse.
“Here is Baby A,” she says. “And here is Baby B.”
The room drops into absolute stillness.
“Two?” Ethan whispers. He goes perfectly still, a sudden flush rising to his neck.
“Twins,” Owen breathes, a massive grin breaking across his face. “No way. No way.”
“Twins,” I repeat. My mind instinctively pulls up the probability models—dizygotic twinning, genetic factors, a one-in-250 chance—but the data feels entirely inadequate for the weight suddenly pressing against my ribs.
I look at the screen. Two heartbeats. Two lives.
“Oh my god,” Tessa whispers, covering her mouth with her hands. “Two? We’re having two?”
“Well,” Owen laughs, kissing her temple loudly. “That settles it. We definitely don’t need a paternity test now. Two out of three isn’t bad. Who wants to draw straws?”
“Owen, shut up,” Ethan says, but he’s smiling. He’s actually smiling, staring at the grainy black and white image with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. He reaches out and touches the screen with one finger. “Two.”
“We’re going to need a bigger stroller,” Tessa says.
“I will redesign the nursery schematic,” I state, as I rotate furniture arrangements to manage the overflow. “We need double the square footage. We need to reinforce the soundproofing.”
“We’re having twins,” Ethan says again, as if saying it makes it real. He looks at me. “Ash. Two.”
“Two,” I repeat. The word feels massive. A strange, heavy warmth builds in my chest, expanding to make room for the new reality.
We leave the clinic in a daze. Ethan pauses by the open door of the SUV, staring at the two grainy photos printed on thermal paper. The stress of the company suddenly feels insignificant. He turns and pulls Tessa in, his hand resting flat against her lower back as he kisses her.
Owen crowds close, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple, and I step up to take her hand. We stand there in the humid parking lot, anchored together around the new reality, before we finally climb into the vehicle.
We return to the penthouse. It’s become our de facto headquarters. Tessa’s apartment is too small, and Owen’s is too chaotic. Ethan’s place is a fortress.
But today, the fortress is under siege.
“Surprise!”
The elevator doors open directly into the living room. Owen gave Harper the emergency override code three years ago—a security flaw I have repeatedly told him to patch—and now she’s standing in our kitchen.
Our sister. Tessa’s best friend. The one person we’ve successfully ghosted for three weeks because we didn’t know how to look her in the eye without spilling our secrets.
She’s holding a pizza box. She looks like us—dark hair, sharp eyes—but she possesses a lightness we lost years ago.
“Harper,” Ethan says, stopping dead in his tracks. He quickly shoves the ultrasound photos into his inner suit pocket.
“Don’t ‘Harper’ me, Ethan Richard Branson,” she scolds, marching over. “I’ve been texting you for a month. I haven’t seen Tessa in weeks. I flew back from Paris, worried because you idiots ghosted me, and I find my own brothers holding my best friend hostage in a penthouse?”
She stops, eyes darting between us.
She takes in our stance: Ethan in front of Tessa, Owen and I flanking her. Protective. Intimate.
Her gaze lands on Tessa.