I Left the Masquerade Pregnant

Chapter 30

One year later

Our suburban house is loud.

Milo sits in his high chair, systematically smashing banana into his dark hair like he's discovered the secret to modern art. His storm-gray eyes sparkle with pure toddler chaos as he surveys his masterpiece.

"You're supposed to eat the banana, little man."

Caspian laughs, the sound filling the kitchen like something I forgot existed while he tries to wipe yellow mush from our son's eyebrows.

"It goes in your mouth, not your hair. We've discussed this."

"Da-da-da," Milo responds, grabbing another fistful and launching it directly at his father's shirt.

"Well, that's what you get for wearing white to breakfast." I lean against the kitchen doorframe, coffee warming my palms. "Rookie mistake, Voss. I thought you were supposed to be some kind of business genius."

"Business genius, yes. Banana warfare strategist, apparently not." Caspian catches my eye across the chaos. "Your son has declared war, and I'm severely outmatched."

"He's only my son when he's causing property damage. When he's sleeping peacefully, he's all yours."

Maria's voice drifts from the stove where she's humming something Spanish and beautiful, a melody she's been singing for forty years.

She moved with us without hesitation, claiming the guest cottage as her domain and immediately filling it with plants and photographs and the smell of fresh bread.

"You two argue like children yourselves," she calls over her shoulder. "The baby is more mature than both of you combined."

"She's not wrong."

Tessa appears from the dining room, wine glass already in hand despite the fact that it's barely noon.

"I've seen corporate negotiations with more dignity than whatever this is."

"The wine is for later, Tessa."

Rowena's voice carries the same imperious tone it always has, but there's something softer underneath now.

"We haven't even served lunch yet, and you're already three glasses in."

"It's Sunday, Rowena. Sunday means wine before, during, and after whatever meal we're pretending is the main event. Besides, this Bordeaux is wasted on people who can't appreciate it properly, and I refuse to let Victor pair it with that barbaric cheese plate he keeps suggesting."

"The cheese plate is traditional."

Victor settles into his chair at the head of the table—no, not the head anymore. He sits at the side now, leaving the head for Caspian. A small change that took months to negotiate but means everything.

"My father served that exact combination at every Sunday gathering for thirty years."

"Your father also thought women shouldn't vote, Victor. Times change. Let them change the cheese."

"For what it's worth," Caspian interjects, wiping banana from his collar, "I actually like the cheese plate."

"Of course you do. You're a Voss. You'd eat cardboard if someone told you it was traditional."

"Rowena, are you going to let her speak to your son that way?"

"My son married her, Victor. He knew what he was getting into."

Rowena catches my eye across the table, and something passes between us—not warmth exactly, but recognition. Truce.

"Besides," she adds, "Tessa's not entirely wrong about the cheese."

Victor's sputter of outrage is drowned out by Milo's delighted shriek as he discovers he can make the high chair tray sound like a drum.

I watch the argument unfold with something close to wonder.

Our table now hosts Sunday chaos. Tessa arguing with my in-laws about wine pairings. Maria is singing while she cooks. Milo is contributing his own banana-fueled commentary. And Caspian is standing in the middle of it all, covered in fruit and laughing like a man who finally remembers what joy feels like.

Voss Global has recovered. The restructuring took months—endless board meetings, damage control, rebuilding trust with investors who'd watched the scandal unfold across every financial news outlet in the country.

Victor stepped down three months after Rhys's arrest, citing a desire to focus on family and legacy. The truth is more complicated: he saw what his blindness nearly cost, and he chose to step back before his stubbornness destroyed anything else.

Caspian leads differently now. Less ice, more presence. He comes home for dinner. He leaves notes in my books again—small folded papers that say ridiculous things.

I keep every single one.

"The Harrison contract came through, by the way."

Tessa drops into the chair beside me, finally surrendering her wine glass to Rowena's disapproving glare.

"My father wants to take you to dinner to celebrate, but I warned him you're insufferably domestic now and probably need three weeks' notice for any social engagement."

"I'm not insufferably domestic. I'm appropriately domestic."

"There really is no difference, but I love you anyway." She squeezes my hand. "Michael knows, by the way. About the whole Mrs. Marlowe situation. Has known for months, apparently."

"He told me last week. Said good strategists are hard to find and he doesn't care what name is on my driver's license, as long as I keep landing accounts that make his competitors weep."

"That sounds exactly like something Michael would say. The man has the emotional range of a quarterly earnings report, but at least his priorities are consistent."

Some mornings I still wake up sick with guilt. The memories don't disappear just because time has passed—the texts I sent Rhys in the dark, the night I spent in his bed believing I was finally choosing myself when I was actually walking deeper into a trap.

Some nights Caspian still flinches when my phone buzzes, a reflex he's working to unlearn.

We're in therapy. Separately and together, twice a week, with professionals who specialize in trauma and betrayal and the complicated work of rebuilding trust after everything has shattered.

Healing isn't linear. Some weeks feel like breakthroughs, and others feel like we're back at square one, drowning in things we can't unsay.

"A letter came yesterday." Caspian's voice is low, meant only for me. "From the prison. I burned it without reading, same as all the others."

"Good. That's good."

Rhys sends letters that we never open. Whatever justifications he's crafted, whatever apologies or accusations or attempts at connection—they go directly into the fireplace, unread. Some doors are meant to stay closed.

"Do you ever wonder what they say?"

"Sometimes. But then I remember that curiosity is how he got me in the first place, and I decide I'd rather not know."

I still carry scars. The bullet wound has faded to a puckered circle beneath my collarbone, a permanent reminder of the night I chose someone else's life over my own safety.

Some nights I still wake gasping, certain I'm back at that masquerade with a stranger's hands on my skin, believing I was finally reconnecting with the man I married.

But then Milo cries. Or Caspian pulls me close, his heartbeat steady against my cheek. Or morning light pools golden through the nursery window, catching dust motes that dance like tiny promises.

"Hey." Caspian's hand finds mine under the table. "Where'd you go?"

"Just thinking about how different everything is."

"Regrets?"

"Not anymore. You?"

He looks at me the way he used to before everything went wrong, the way he's learning to look again, and shakes his head slowly.

"Not a single one."