Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The following is a snippet from a transcript of an interview that took place three months before I was born—or should I say before I arrived screaming bloody murder, my face wrinkly and red, and clung to my mother’s chest with all the might I could muster with my little hands. I was a surprise in more ways than one; from conception to birth I made sure to keep my parents on their toes and I didn’t stop there. There are many stories I could tell you about myself and my family—my wonderful, loud, intrusive, supportive, drives me crazy but would never change for anything family.

But first, let me take you back to the year 2022.

INTERVIEWER: So, you’re expecting a child.

LUKAS MATSSON: That’s not a question.

INTERVIEWER: No, it’s a precursor to a question.

LUKAS MATSSON: Fine. What is the question?

INTERVIEWER: In the beginning of January, you made a statement that you were going to return from your sabbatical and retain majority ownership of GoJo. You were prepared to weather your ship through the storm brewed by Ebba Lindgren. By this point, you weren’t aware you had a child on the way, correct?

LUKAS MATSSON: Correct, but I fail to see the relevance.

INTERVIEWER: Well, as we are now in mid-May, and you’re gearing up to sell your entire company, one has to wonder how much this child affected your decision?

LUKAS MATSSON: I don’t think anybody is wondering that.

If it seems as though he’s pressed about seemingly innocent questions, there is something you should know about how the news of me being in my mother’s womb came to be public knowledge, but before we get to that, I think it’s important to note that though I was a surprise, that some may go as far as to call an accident, I was most definitely a product of love and my parents welcomed me into the world happily. That, too, was under question at certain points in time. The downside of a whirlwind romance is that there will always be people who question its validity—especially as my father was, eh, a bit of a weird egg in the eyes of the general public. But I digress.

INTERVIEWER: People say you’re not the captain, you’re just a rat leaving a sinking ship. The baby provides a convenient excuse.

LUKAS MATSSON: A convenient excuse?

INTERVIEWER: You come out looking like a family man. All is forgiven and forgotten. 

LUKAS MATSSON: What a naive perspective.

INTERVIEWER: Is it? Your new wife volunteers in soup kitchens. She has turned the Lukas Matsson Foundation from a tax write-off scheme into a worthwhile cause. One has to wonder if it’s a coincidence.

LUKAS MATSSON: If what is a coincidence?

INTERVIEWER: People like you more, now. Perhaps it’s damage control.

LUKAS MATSSON: Are you calling my wife and baby a PR stunt?

INTERVIEWER: I’m just asking questions.

LUKAS MATSSON: Questions? [unintelligible snort] That’s fucking rich. But do you want the truth?

INTERVIEWER: If you have one to give.

LUKAS MATSSON: I’m selling my company before I run it into the ground. It has become obvious that I can not please the general public or the shareholders. I’m too volatile, too fucking controversial. I built that shit from the ground and yes, I made mistakes—

INTERVIEWER: Mistakes? You mean federal crimes?

LUKAS MATSSON: Let’s not even fucking go there. People want to pin every little thing on me? Fine. I can accept responsibility. But not giving me a chance to fix things? That’s fucked. Everything I do is a PR move, right? Everything’s damage control, fake. I can not fucking deal with this anymore. I married a literal angel on earth and you people just—

INTERVIEWER: Mister Matsson, please—

LUKAS MATSSON: This interview is over.

They printed this as is. Dad was insistent on it, word for word or not at all. No editor’s notes, no changing the questions, no nothing. Why? I’m not sure. The interview doesn’t say. I think he wanted people to perceive him through his own words for better or worse.

A week later he sold his company. The press release stated that Lukas Matsson plans to spend his time raising his child.

And for the most part he did, I think. I can’t fault him for having ambitions.

When we were kids, he used to tell us about how he liked listening to my nonna and nonno talk about mom and aunt Franny’s childhood. Nonno worked, of course—they were comfortably middle class on one income and it worked for them—but he was there for all the important parts. He watched aunt Franny take her first steps on a dirt road in the French countryside; he taught mom how to ride a bike and when she fell down, he knew to offer her the Barbie band-aid and not the Minnie Mouse because Minnie Mouse was for babies and mom was not a baby. He knew their favorite colors and the names of their friends.

It was very different from how dad had grown up. He’s never told us much about what that was like, but in the fifteen years I’ve been alive, I’ve only met mormor a handful of times. She has a PhD. Blonde hair. Kick-ass genes, though; she ran marathons well into retirement.

Correction: She had a PhD.

She died at 88.

We’re currently debating whether or not to attend the funeral. My sisters don’t care. Dad doesn’t really care, either; I think he made peace with her death long before it happened. Mom wants to go, but she’s heavily pregnant and nostalgic about a childhood dad never even had.

We won’t go. I’m sure of it. Dad won’t let mom on a plane, not with her track record of pregnancy related drama, and the fact that this is a geriatric pregnancy—

“A geriatric pregnancy?”

The sound of Gia’s voice pierces through the silence that’s so far been broken only by the clattering of keys on the keyboard and soft instrumental music in Astrid’s headphones.

Astrid turns around. She drops her headphones around her neck.

“Well, mom, you’re, like, forty-five,” she says. “And you’re not allowed to read my unfinished work, so please, avert your eyes from the screen.”

She’s sitting cross legged on the sofa with her laptop, wearing a hoodie that’s two sizes too big. Her dark hair is pulled into a half-hearted bun that’s probably been redone a dozen times today. There’s a collection of faded ink smudges on her fingers, the sign of someone who still takes notes by hand, even when she doesn’t have to.

“I will if you delete the words geriatric pregnancy.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Astrid rolls her eyes. The late afternoon sun casts a golden haze through the windows, flooding over the wooden floors. Gia’s balancing a laundry basket against one hip like a woman in colonial times. Mismatched, lonely socks hang off the edge like they’re about to jump because the world isn’t worth living in without a partner.

“Where did you even find that interview?” Gia asks.

Astrid shrugs. “I have an extensive collection.”

“Uh-huh,” Gia hums and points to the screen. “And what’s this for?”

“School.”

“What’s your assignment?”

“Family.”

“Family? That’s it?”

“It’s for my creative writing class. The prompt is open to interpretation.”

“Ah.”

Gia places the laundry basket beside the couch and sits down, picking up a kitchen towel to fold. Astrid types. Deletes. Types again. Deletes. Her mouth is pressed in a thin line; a little crease forms between her eyebrows and in that moment, she reminds Gia so much of Lukas.

Even the keyboard sounds frustrated.

Astrid turns to her mother. “What was he like? Before I was born? What were you like?”

It’s not a difficult question by any means, but it seems heavier than it should. Gia shrugs. “More or less the same as now.”

“Mom,” Astrid groans, dragging the word out. “That doesn’t really make for very compelling writing.”

Gia laughs. “What do you want me to say? You know the story. We met, we fell in love. A few twists and turns happened along the way. We got married. Had you.”

“I know the version you’ve told me, yes. The clean version,” Astrid says in a pointed tone. And then, her face softens. She looks down at her hands. “But I've been reading all these things about him from back then, and sometimes it sounds like they’re talking about a stranger.”

“I know. I did that once or twice,” Gia says. She places another towel on the finished pile. It still surprises her, how the most important conversations seem to sneak up at the most mundane times.

Astrid is silent for a while. Then, she asks, her voice hopeful like a little child’s, “Did you change him?”

“No. People don’t really change.”

“But he did change,” Astrid insists. “With you. He was different.”

“No. He was happier. That’s not the same thing.”

Astrid doesn’t like that answer. It’s visible in how her fingers fidget with the sleeves of her hoodie, how her jaw tightens. Gia smiles.

“I mean… circumstances change. People adjust. But fundamentally? Lukas was always intense. Complicated. In many ways he was smarter than probably anyone I’d ever met and in some ways he was extremely dumb. And he was restless. Didn’t do moderation. Not in work, not in love. Not in anything.” She pauses. “He was in charge of a billion-dollar company and it didn’t faze him at all. Then he met me and… he slowed down for a bit.”

“A bit?”

“For as long as he could,” Gia says. “Then he met you and, well, he slowed down for a bit longer.”

Astrid is not buying it. Her eyes narrow in on Gia. “Just like that?”

“Definitely not. Being a father was an adjustment for him. And being a mother was an adjustment for me. A different kind than what I’d expected, but still.”

“I think you saved him,” Astrid offers.

Gia shakes her head. “I don’t have that kind of power.”

They sit in the silence that follows; the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled, but Astrid fills it anyway—because she has to.

“He was under investigation. For federal crimes. He let really bad things happen under him,” she says, and there’s a small crack in her voice now.

Gia nods. Astrid waits for an explanation that doesn’t come.

“I don’t know what to do with that information,” she says.

“Nothing,” Gia replies.

“Nothing?”

“It’s not that simple. You can’t reduce him to the worst things he’s done,” Gia says. “You have your collection of articles and transcripts, but those weren’t written to understand him. They were written to bury him.”

“I feel like I’m uncovering some dark family secret. He never talks about GoJo.”

“It’s ancient history,” Gia says with a shrug. “Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it’s over.”

Gia shifts in her seat, trying to offset the pain of simply existing while pregnant. “The life he had before me… before you, before your sisters—it was loud. And brutal. Addictive in a way that I’ll never understand. He built an empire out of nothing and then did everything he could to keep it. Some of it was ugly.”

Astrid doesn’t say anything.

“And he was built for that. He was built for chaos,” Gia says. “And then, my life—well, it was a different kind of chaos. I was broke, trying not to go bankrupt. Trying to keep my sister out of trouble. Trying to find time to make a difference in the world.”

“For him that was peace,” she concludes.

“And he wanted that?”

“He did. He used to say he wanted to run away with me.”

“He still says that.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Gia says with a small laugh. In the midst of chaos—like when there are three bowls of cereal on the floor because somebody wanted to play Simon Says at breakfast—Lukas will lean over to her ear and whisper, ‘We could leave, they’ll never find us.’

Astrid is quiet—the heavy kind of quiet, the kind that begs for answers without knowing the questions to ask. Her eyes drift off to the side of the room. The laptop screen has turned off. Soft instrumental music is still playing in her headphones.

There’s something so grown about her in this moment, and yet, something so young.

“Look,” Gia says gently. “You’re looking at him from someone else’s perspective. That happens. But you know your dad. And you got the version no one else did.”

“The one who knows how to French braid?” Astrid asks, her mouth curving up into a small smile.

“The one who let you sleep on his chest when you were sick.”

“And read ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ to me eight hundred times.”

“The one who rented out The Museum of Natural History for your tenth birthday party.”

Astrid nods along. “My Jurassic Park phase.”

“Phase?” Gia raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, small scale obsession.”

Gia reaches over, planting a small kiss on Astrid’s forehead. To her surprise, Astrid doesn’t squirm away, doesn’t even protest. And then, she begins typing again. Gia sorts through the laundry, wondering just how many socks have to go missing until she admits that Lukas’s one brand, one color sock policy is actually genius.

For a minute—maybe two—they exist in comfortable silence.

Then the front door slams open like a warning.

“Mom! Lottie took my phone!” Frida shouts out, kicking off her shoes and stomping into the room like a tornado, her blonde curls messy and her green eyes full of the kind of rage only a thirteen-year-old can feel.

“Give Frida her phone back,” Gia says without looking up.

Liselott strolls in after her sister.

“I need it,” she says with a shrug that’s far too casual to be innocent. A menace in head-to-toe baby pink.

“For what?” Gia asks.

“To text the boy she likes.”

“What boy?”

“I know something you don’t,” Liselott says, stretching the last word into a song, dangling the phone high above her head. Frida seizes her opportunity and snatches it back with surprising speed. Liselott shrieks and bolts for the stairs.

“There’s a boy?” Gia asks, turning to Frida now.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Frida replies.

“Uh-huh.”

Frida groans and holds up the battered, half-cracked phone like it's exhibit A. “Dad was gonna get me a new phone because this thing is literally rubbish. And we were at the store, and this kid from my class showed up. I said hi. Apparently that means I’m in love with him.”

“Well,” Astrid says, raising an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Frida looks genuinely offended. “He plays football. American football.”

Astrid makes a gagging sound and twists the volume dial on her headphones. The front door creaks open again. Lukas walks in, shopping bags in hand. He looks like he’s just run a marathon—no, actually, he looks worse than when he’s run a marathon.

“Next time I volunteer to go shopping with our gremlins, please shoot me.”

Gia laughs. He walks across the room and kisses her—soft, familiar. Like he’s done it a million times before and he’s just getting started.

“Ew, don’t,” Frida groans.

“It’s sweet,” Liselott calls from somewhere halfway up the stairs, peeking down like a nosy little elf.

Lukas collapses onto the couch. He reaches out and presses another kiss to Gia’s forehead. She leans into it. Frida makes a dramatic noise of protest, and gestures to the space around them. “Excuse me? This is a shared space.”

“Yeah?” Lukas says, eyes closed. “Cough up some rent and then we’ll talk.”

Frida rolls her eyes. Hard. Dramatic. But Gia can see the hint of a soft smile, the kind you only give someone who embarrasses you out in public, but also knows you used to sleep with a giant stuffed teddy and sometimes still do.

“Whatever. I’m going upstairs to kill Lottie.”

As Frida bounds up the stairs to commit sororicide, Astrid shuts her laptop with a definitive snap and rises like someone preparing for battle. She fixes Lukas with a look. “I have some questions for you. I would like to schedule an interview.”

Lukas blinks. “Regarding?”

“The lies that I have been told.”

He glances over at Gia.

“She’s being dramatic,” Gia says, folding a baby onesie.

“Fine,” Astrid concedes, one hand on her hip and the other one clutching her laptop like it holds the secrets to the universe. “Let’s call them truths that were omitted for narrative purposes.”

Gia sighs, barely suppressing a smile. “Astrid’s writing a story. She’s decided your life is her new obsession.”

Lukas groans. “Well, fuck. That can’t be good.”

His eyes are tired. He hasn’t shaved today. He looks half defeated and half amused. And Gia loves him so stupidly.

“I think it’s something every child must eventually go through,” Astrid says, her voice lofty. “The revelation.”

“What revelation?”

“That their parents are—oh, god—human. Does eight p.m. work for your public reckoning?”

Lukas exhales. “Sure?”

“Perfect.” Astrid gives him a mock-professional nod and grabs her empty coffee mug off the sofa table. “I will be in my room preparing. I might skip dinner.”

“No,” Gia says.

“I will be having dinner in my room.”

“No,” Gia repeats, this time amused.

Astrid groans and heads up the stairs.

Lukas watches her go, then turns to Gia, his hand drifting to her stomach like it always does now, like it’s second nature. “Promise me this is the last one.”

Gia raises an eyebrow. “This was your idea.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Oh, I distinctly remember it. ‘Let’s have one more, babe. Just one. One baby is easy.’”

“We were on vacation,” he says defensively. “Without the other three. I was high on silence.”

Gia laughs, tilting her head back. Then she drops the laundry back into the basket and settles into the nook of his arm. “Astrid asked what we were like before her."

“Less tired. Fewer grey hairs.”

“I ate bread for dinner at least three times a week.”

“I was so fucking in love with you,” he says, and it’s not dramatic. It’s just true.

Gia’s smile softens. “I know.”

“Still am.”

Their moment is interrupted by a high-pitched scream from upstairs. Lukas closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as though he’s imagining being anywhere but here.

“Astrid is writing that I’m a typical middle child!” Frida yells down.

“It’s a fact!” Astrid shouts back.

“Frida has an R-rated movie on her laptop!” Liselott screams, seizing the moment to make herself relevant.

“Why would you—Lottie, come here, I’m gonna—ugh, you’re so dead!”

Feet thud. Doors slam.

“Let’s give them five minutes. Battle royale,” Lukas suggests.

“Who would win?” Gia asks. He tilts his head as though there’s even a question. She laughs. “Frida?”

“Frida,” he confirms, no hesitation.

Upstairs, music starts blaring. Some sort of angry teenage rebellion punk rock. Five seconds later it has competition. 80’s pop. A cacophony if there ever was one.

“You’re up,” Gia says.

“I know,” he says, already getting up from the couch. “You’re benched for the season.”

She watches him go up the stairs. The third step creaks—always has. He refuses to fix it, claims it’s their built-in security system for catching teenagers sneaking in after curfew. She doesn’t bother reminding him there’s a perfectly climbable trellis right outside of Astrid’s bedroom window. Franny’s express route for two years straight.

She turns back to the laundry basket and picks up a onesie—new. Most of the old ones went to Goodwill after Liselott’s fourth birthday. Back when ‘no more kids’ was a firm decision and not a running joke.

The music dies down. The chaos subsides for a moment. It always does.

Then, another scream. This one is more frustrated. Astrid runs down with her laptop tucked safely under one arm and her army green tote hanging from the other. “I can’t work in these conditions. I’m going to your office.”

“As long as you’re back for dinner,” Gia says. The front door closes with a soft click.

Two doors slam almost simultaneously. Lukas comes back and slumps down next to her.

“Frida wrote a program to cut off Astrid’s Wi-Fi every other minute.”

“Huh,” Gia says. “And Lottie?”

“Posted an unflattering photo of Frida.”

“Sure, sure.”

“They’re monsters,” he says with an exhale.

She tilts her head. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Lottie likes the football player. The one she thinks Frida likes.”

“She’s eleven.”

She shrugs. “I’m telling you.”

“And Frida?”

“She’s upset that Astrid’s writing about family, and made you the main character instead of her.”

“Do I need to worry about what she’s writing?”

“Not really.”

“You’re still the worst liar I’ve ever met,” he says.

Gia laughs. For a while she doesn’t say anything, just stares at the pile of laundry that seemingly never ends, as though she’s willing it to fold itself through sheer determination.

“Astrid is collecting old articles about you,” she says.

Lukas shifts beside her. “Not good.”

“But inevitable. And she’s fine,” she says. “I mean, finding out you were under investigation for federal crimes was a bit of a shock to her, but you know. She’s smart. She’s ambitious. She’ll get it.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Honestly I think she’s just trying to make sense of herself. And you happen to be a big part of who she is.”

“Great,” he says, his tone flat.

“I think so,” she replies with a soft smile.

And when he looks at her, she can almost read his mind. He’s going through it, all of it—the good, the bad, the ugly—and he wouldn’t change it, this she knows.

Because all of it led to this. A different kind of chaos. An imperfectly perfect life.

Their version of peace.

Chapter Text

Matsson Returns From Self-Imposed Exile

The tech world’s favorite fugitive is back in the headlines.

Lukas Matsson, chaotic billionaire and CEO of GoJo, has reappeared on U.S. turf after a two-month disappearance that happened to coincide with the start of multiple investigations into GoJo’s financial statements, treatment of employees and other unethical practices exposed by former employee Ebba Lindgren. The GoJo founder—whose last act before vanishing was to say nothing at all—returns with no press conference, no apology, and one recycled promise to “steer the ship” through its current storm.

The ship, notably, is taking on water. Fast.

GoJo, once a cultish darling of the tech world, now finds itself in freefall with stock down, morale shaky, and insiders quietly bracing for impact. The Matsson strategy of “disrupt, disappear, reappear” may have worked when the only consequences were aesthetic. Now, with regulators circling and credibility crumbling, the same tactics look less like genius and more like flailing.

Matsson made billions on unpredictability. But the market—like the SEC—is no longer entertained.

Lukas is burning the garlic.

He watches it blacken in the skillet and thinks perhaps today is not the day.

But today has to be the day.

The recipe is very clear; one of Gia’s favorites from her recipe book. It’s simple, or should be simple. Would be simple for someone who cooks. He doesn’t, not really. It’s too domestic, too human, too normal. Or it was, anyway, before he became a little more domestic, human and normal. Now it’s just something that he does, sometimes. Inconsistently, with the kind of obsessive overcompensation that makes it feel like a competition rather than a relaxing pastime. She’s taught him some things, and he’s not an idiot, so he can follow a recipe. Usually, he can. Perhaps it’s the nerves kicking in, perhaps it’s just the fact that he has never made this recipe before. Whatever it is, her recipe book sits on the counter like it’s mocking him. Challenging him.

He should’ve just ordered from the place she likes—the one with the passive aggressive host who always calls him Wall Street like it’s an insult—but no. No, he had to play house. He had to make it himself, to make it special, as if the act of proposing isn’t special in itself.

There’s a ring burning a hole in his pocket. Well, not his pocket, technically—it’s in a drawer in the kitchen, underneath some expired painkillers and tangled charging cables. Romantic? Not so much. It’s her junk drawer and she never, ever looks in there, so it’s a safe place.

He was going to do it already. Really. He’s been ‘going to do it’ for weeks. He’s been carrying the damn thing around all over Europe, the idea of a semi-planned yet spontaneous proposal deeply rooted in his mind, and there have been many perfect moments: sunsets and candlelit dinners, beautiful views of the Italian countryside and every romantic corner of Paris, but none of them have felt right. Not because they weren’t romantic enough, aesthetic enough, special enough—fuck, the castle he took her to outside of Paris practically screamed engagement shoot—but because every time he reached for the ring, it always felt like he was living inside someone else’s fantasy: a cookie cutter, clichéd, worn-out-to-death idea of romance. Of marriage.

The problem isn’t the proposal, not really. It’s what it represents. Commitment. Permanence. That terrifying little concept called forever . He wants it—he does —but wanting it doesn’t make it less harrowing. In his world, nothing lasts. Companies implode, stock prices nosedive, competitors get swallowed or wiped out, alliances dissolve over rumors that amount to nothing more than he said–she said. Marriages end. Fourth wives inherit the beachfront property. Fathers die. Mothers vanish into academic obscurity or Nordic silence. Permanence is a myth told to children and shareholders.

He’s built an entire life on volatility. Controlled chaos. Exit strategies.

And yet, every time she laughs, or says something kind, or looks at him like she might actually believe he’s a decent human being, he thinks, this is it. This is what forever feels like, what he wants it to feel like. He almost popped the question as she brushed her teeth next to him one morning while wearing one of his shirts, her hair all mussed up and tied back with a pink velvet scrunchie. That one moment epitomized the kind of life he wants with her where the mundane, boring aspects of living are simply better, damn near perfect, because she’s there.

In his world, nothing lasts, but this isn’t just his world anymore.

He pulls out his phone. Opens Notes.

Proposal

Gia,

I love you. I fucking love you. I will not stop loving you. Ever. That’s a promise and I would rather die than break it.

Jesus fucking Christ. He sounds like a serial killer. A psychopath. He deletes it. Again. He’s lost track of how many there’s been; no use in wallowing in his own inaptitude. He writes down another one. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Perhaps in the moment he’ll find better words.

His phone vibrates with an incoming message. Karolina.

» Have you seen this?

Another message. A Twitter link. He contemplates opening it.

The front door slams shut, interrupting his decision. There’s something wrong with the hinges; he keeps meaning to do something about it but with everything that needs fixing around the house, demolition is starting to sound better and better everyday. He’s not sure how it happened exactly, but he has apparently moved into this fixer-upper while his very expensive penthouse—with his state of the art home theater and personal gym—sits empty.

Gia’s singsong voice carries through to the kitchen. “I’m home.”

He looks at the time. He was supposed to have everything done by the time she got back. Gia walks in. Lukas wipes his hands on his apron.

“You’re early,” he says. 

“Yeah. My hairdresser had to cancel.”

“Why?”

“Her boyfriend got out of jail.”

”Uh, right,” he responds, because she says it like it’s normal and acceptable and not at all alarming, and he doesn’t pry because he can’t remember if her hairdresser is one the girls she used to babysit or if the boyfriend is her old neighbor from down the street. It’s something, he knows—it’s always something, and he’s learned not to ask too many questions or make too many comments.

Once, he complained about how slow and inefficient the man who bagged their groceries at the store was, only to be told that the bagger was, in fact, an old friend of Gia’s mother and a veteran with irreversible nerve damage.

And he looked like an asshole.

“I smell burnt garlic. What’s going on?” she asks. She takes a seat by the kitchen island, her eyes darting all over the place in what was a clean kitchen before she left.

“I’m cooking,” he says.

“Cooking?”

“Yeah, uh, steak with garlic potatoes.” On the counter sits her cast iron pan with two raw slabs of beef. “I’m doing this reverse sear thing. It seems idiot-proof. I really want it to be perfectly medium rare.”

“Medium rare,” she repeats, slowly, as though there’s something wrong with a steak cooked to perfection.

He chalks it up to her doubt in his cooking skills.

“But, uh, you can go sit and wait and relax in the living room. I’ll get you a glass of wine,” he says

“Wine,” she repeats.

“Yeah. Just, uh, give me a minute.”

“I can’t have wine,” she says just as he grabs a bottle from the fridge. Her voice cracks. Odd.

“Huh?”

“I can’t have alcohol.”

He places the bottle on the counter in front of her. “What?”

“Not that I’m much of a drinker anyway, but I can’t have alcohol. I can’t have wine with my food,” she says, her words getting more agitated with each syllable. “I love wine.” She shakes her head. “And medium rare? I can’t have meat that’s medium rare. I’m going to have to eat a well done steak . That’s like a crime. I can’t—it’s just wrong.”

He looks from her to the raw steaks and back again. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m pregnant,” she blurts out.

“What?”

He hears the words, but they don’t compute. It’s like a short-circuit, a lost connection. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. He had a plan, a timeline. A quick timeline, but still one that allowed him to get the fucking proposal over with before moving on to this part. He had a speech—not a good one, but still. She wanted to have his babies soon, wanted to be married before that. He knew this, so he planned to propose, to get married, to do everything that needed to be done in order to get to that part.

This part.

The baby part.

He’s not ready. He thought he was ready. He told himself he was ready. But that was in the abstract—hypothetical future baby, conceptual marriage, some blurry picture of what his life would look like. His life after the proposal, after she says yes, after planning a wedding for some months, after a honeymoon on some island in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere.

After the order of operations.

After.

Not now.

He stares at her, blinking. 

She’s pregnant.

She’s pregnant.

She’s—

Fuck.

She’s looking at him like he should say something, because of course she is; because of course he needs to say something,

Anything.

His mouth is dry. His heart feels like it’ll jump out of his chest any second now.

He’s going to be someone’s father.

He’s going to be someone’s fucking father.

“That’s perfect,” he says, finally. It’s the only thing to say, really.

Her relief is palpable, though she still seems anxious. “It is?”

“Absolutely. It’s what we talked about, right? Babies, asap.” He’s nodding, trying to convince her and himself while he’s at it. He hugs her—quick, anxious, as though if he holds on for too long she’ll feel his heart racing and see through his facade.

“But I wanted to be married. I wanted to have a plan. I wanted to take a test with you and I can’t even do that now, because I already went to the doctor. I already messed up—”

He grabs her hand. “Gia, baby. You didn’t mess anything up.”

“I didn’t lie to you, okay? I did have a hair appointment,” she says. “After my doctor’s appointment I was going to get my hair done. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, you know. I didn’t think this was possible. I thought maybe there’s something else going on, I—”

She inhales like she’s holding back tears. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you I might be pregnant. I just—I, I didn’t want you to freak out but you’re not. You’re so calm. How are you so calm?”

Calm? Yeah, right.

“Somebody has to be,” he says with confidence. They can’t both break down at the same time, and he’s had more practice with swallowing his real feelings.

Gia laughs. Fragile, real.

“How is this possible?” he asks. “I mean, uh, how did—when did, uh, how? How did this happen?”

It’s a fair question, he thinks. They’re not exactly teenagers who don’t know what they’re doing; they’re adults who were supposed to make a plan to procreate.

“Do you remember that one night in Stockholm? We went to that really nice restaurant with the tasting menu and the wine? And then from there we went to a bar?” she asks.

“Uh-huh?”

“And then we went to your place?”

“Uh-huh?”

“And I was very, very drunk?”

He scrunches up his face. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were also very, very drunk.”

Sounds like him. He nods. “Alright.”

“I think we forgot to use protection,” she says.

“Really?”

It comes back to him, slowly. He broke the zipper of her dress trying to take it off; her perfume smelled like cherries. He was in a hurry, for sure.

That part is fuzzy, but everything before that? Clear as day.

The bar was warm, buzzing with loud conversation in a language that made it feel like home, and dimly lit in a way that made everything feel a little more romantic than it actually was. The air was thick with the stench of cheap booze and perfume. Not a high-end bar by any stretch—nothing like the restaurant they'd just come from. But it was close to his apartment and served alcohol without making a fuss, which was enough.

They’d done the whole tasting menu thing—eight tiny courses, each paired with some rare, overpriced wine she kept raving on about in that exaggerated way that made him laugh. Now, this place. A bar that paired drinks with more drinks. Gia had been trying to keep up with the locals—when in Rome, and all that—and Lukas had to commend her for her efforts. For someone who didn’t really drink, she held her own, cheeks pink and eyes soft, clinging to his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She’d ducked off to the bathroom maybe five minutes ago. Ten, tops. 

He hadn’t moved. Still at the bar, nursing a whiskey sour that had gone warm. His eyes were glued to a muted fight on the TV above the bottles, not because he cared, but because it gave him something to look at.

And then—of course—they came.

Two girls, maybe mid-twenties, blonde and bold and exactly the type who thought they were subtle. They hovered with drinks in hand, leaned in close, laughed like he’d said something funny when he hadn’t said anything at all. One touched his arm. Another flipped her hair and asked him about what it was like to be a big shot CEO across the pond. He didn’t answer. Just stared forward.

Gia slid back up to the bar before he could think about how long she’d really been gone. She paused beside him.

“Having fun?” she asked.

He turned to look at her. She was flushed, eyes sharp again, steady. He wasn’t sure if she was genuinely curious or just fucking with him.

“Not particularly,” he said.

Her laugh cut through the room, light and amused. The women—girls, really—glanced at her, eyes scanning, calculating. One of them tilted her head.

“Are you American?” she asked Gia.

“Sometimes,” Gia said, smiling in a way that was so genuine, so out of this world gorgeous that he couldn’t believe his luck.

The girls had exchanged a glance, whispering in Swedish. Gia didn’t need to understand the language—he could tell by the raise of her eyebrow and the knowing tilt of her head that she’d gotten the gist. He didn’t bother translating. Not worth it.

Gia nodded toward the back. “Anyway, there’s a table over there.”

The taller of the girls spoke up quickly. “Thanks, but we’re okay here.”

“Right.” Gia turned to the bartender, ordered a cider like she had all the time in the world. “Well, when you’re done, that’s where I’ll be.”

The other girl wrinkled her nose. “And you are?”

Lukas didn’t miss a beat. “The love of my life.”

Silence, clean and immediate. Gia didn’t even turn around. She just strolled over to the table, sat down, and waited. Like she knew he’d come.

And, of course, he followed her like a lost puppy.

He dropped into the seat across from her, his mouth stuck in a permanent toothy grin, his eyes trying very hard to focus on, well, anything.

“You’re drunk,” she noted. Not disapproving, but amused.

“Sure,” he said.

“I left you alone for five minutes.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned in, elbows on the table, chin resting loosely in one hand. “Told them I have a girlfriend.”

“Right. And I bet that made them try even harder.”  

He gave a shrug, as if he hadn’t even noticed. Of course he had noticed. “You’re not jealous?”

“Of what?”

Lukas didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, really looked, the way he sometimes did when he wasn’t sure if she was being serious—or if she was quietly daring him to be. 

Her expression was unreadable, effortlessly unbothered. She took a slow sip of her cider, set the glass down with a soft thunk, and met his eyes. “Honestly? If somebody can take you from me, they deserve you.”

His fingers tapped against the edge of the table, rhythm breaking, smirk fading. Her certainty, her calm, the softness in her eyes—he tried to commit the moment to memory. It hit him harder than any outburst could’ve.

“That’s hot,” he muttered.

Gia laughed, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe him. “You would think so.”

“I mean it.”

She tilted her head, amused. “You like that I’m not jealous?”

“I like that you know you don’t have to be.”

It came out low, sure. No performance behind it. Just fact. And it settled between them with surprising weight.

Because it was true. She wasn’t jealous. Not because she didn’t give a shit—but because she didn’t need to doubt what was hers. She was the one he’d chased through a crowded airport. The one who’d read article after article detailing the ugliest parts of him and still decided she knew him better. That wasn’t something he would throw away for a pretty blonde in a bar.

“Maybe I just know you’re not stupid enough to mess this up,” she said, like she was offering him the benefit of the doubt—but only just.

He watched her again. Maybe it was the drink or the several before it, or maybe it was just her, but something warm spread under his skin. Familiar. Intense. A magnetic pull that made it nearly impossible to keep his hands off her.

He’d felt it before, time and time again.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Lukas took a sip of his whiskey sour. He dropped his voice just enough so only she could hear. “I like that dress on you.”

She glanced down at herself, fingers brushing over the red fabric. “Oh, this? It was a gift from my boyfriend.”

“A man of taste, clearly.”

She bit her lip, trying not to smile. “You’re so drunk.”

“Please. Get on my level.”

“Working on it,” she said, raising her glass.

His phone buzzed on the table, cutting through the moment. He looked; couldn’t help it. 

“Everything okay?”

“Ja, ja,” he said quickly, but the little scrunch in his brow said otherwise. “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow.”

“Again? You’re on sabbatical.”

“Mm.” He didn’t look at her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, really.” His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were still glued to the screen.

She nudged his leg under the table, not letting him disappear. “Hey.”

He blinked, glancing up. “What?”

“We were in the middle of something.”

“And what’s that?”

Maybe it was the heat in the bar, the hum of voices or the cider hitting her faster than expected. Or maybe it was him, looking at her like they were the only two people alive on the planet.

“You were about to say you’d like this dress better off me,” she said, her voice calm and collected with just a hint of teasing.

Lukas didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Then lower, to the dip of her collarbone. He lingered there. Then his eyes met hers again, sharp and sure and suddenly very, very focused.

“Yes,” he said, voice low. “Yes, I was.”

And he had been right.

Gia bites her lip. “I wasn’t sure in the morning and I didn’t think it would matter, so I didn’t say anything, but I think we did.

“We forgot,” Lukas confirms.

“Yeah.”

A silence seems to encapsulate the room. She’s looking at him like she’s waiting for something again. For the other shoe to drop? For him to get up and pace the room and throw something at a wall? For—anything.

And all he can think about is the goddamn drawer.

It’s full of batteries that may or may not be leaking acid. The key to Franny’s middle school diary, that she’s cleverly marked with a keychain stating ‘NOT Franny’s diary.’ Somewhere under all of that: a tiny velvet box. Stuck between a Subway buy-one-get-one coupon and an unopened packet of peppermint gum.

Her hands are fidgeting.

Pop the question.

Except it doesn’t feel like a question anymore. It feels like gravity.

So he says it.

“Marry me.”

Her eyes meet his. A slow blink. “Are you serious right now?”

“In your kitchen, there’s a drawer full of pens that don’t work. A PizzaHut menu from 1999. A fucking Tamagotchi,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “And an engagement ring that I had made for you.”

She gets up, goes to the junk drawer. Comes back with a ring box. Her breathing is heavy. It matches his own.

She stands in front of him holding the box like it’ll detonate at any moment.

“This might be the worst moment to do this. Or maybe it’s the best. I don’t know. I’m not trying to steal the baby’s thunder or anything,” he says.

She laughs, nervously, fidgeting with the box in her hands. Then, slowly, he gets down on one knee on the worn-down tile floor. With a sharp gasp, she almost drops the box but quickly recovers. She stares straight at him, eyes wide, seemingly holding her breath.

“You wanted to have a plan. Well, I had a plan. It’s derailed, slightly, but that’s okay. If a plan doesn’t work out, you make a new one. You adjust,” he says, as though he’s talking to a room full of investors. Then he swallows the corporate speak, takes a deep breath and looks right into her glossy green eyes. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to fuck this up. You, me, us. I don’t want to fuck it up. Gia, ti amo. Jag älskar dig. If I could, I’d say it in every language that exists. You know I love you.”

Her eyes tear up. Her expression is soft. Perfect.

“And you know that I want to marry you.”

He gestures for her to open the velvet box. She gasps, again. The ring is exactly her. A cushion-cut diamond, warm tone, antique gold. Exceptionally clear, and impressive without being tacky. Cost him a pretty penny, but she would never even ask.

“Lukas,” she says, softly, and he hopes to hear his name like that for the rest of his life.

“Marry me, Gia.”

Her eyes stay on his. She doesn’t hesitate. “You know I will.”

She kisses him before he can say anything else. It’s fast and sure and a little jittery.

And absolutely perfect.

Chapter Text

From MasterChef Reject to Failed Food Truck Owner to Billionaire Bride: Who Is Gia Ferrara?

As GoJo faces scrutiny and CEO Lukas Matsson makes headlines for all the wrong reasons, attention is turning to the woman at his side—and how she got there.

One whirlwind romance, one breakup, one viral airport meltdown, and one missing billionaire later—Gia Ferrara is somehow engaged. And the internet still isn’t sure how it happened.

Before she was the fiancée of a disgraced tech billionaire, Gia Ferrara was just another MasterChef reject with a carb habit and a food truck called Gia’s that folded nine months after launch with a failed GoFundMe to boot. She volunteered at shelters, made meatballs people cried over, and—according to several users on Reddit—used to quietly pull from her own tip jar whenever a customer came up short, because ‘everybody deserves to eat, no questions asked.’

Now she’s wearing Saint Laurent and sipping espresso in the finance district.

They’ve known each other for four months. They broke up once (sources say ugly). He vanished to Europe. She followed. They reappeared, traipsing from country to country with an updated wardrobe (her) and a strict ‘no comment’ m.o. (him). 

Now, they’re engaged. Some call it love. Others call it unhinged.

Either way, she said yes, and the internet is waiting for the next big twist.

 

“I never thought you’d have a shotgun wedding.”

Gia shoots her sister a look. “It’s not a shotgun wedding.”

In the windows, the streets blur past them like life in motion—busy sidewalks, angry pedestrians, cars blasting their horns. The city is loud, impatient, moving faster than it did before. That’s what it feels like, anyway. Gia breathes in deep, trying to push through the nausea that’s become her constant companion. The smells that float in from the streets—hot dog carts, exhaust fumes—feel like they’re personally out to get her.

“Oh, please. You’re gonna have a full-on baby bump at the altar,” Franny says.

“Okay, full-on baby bump? I’m going to be, like, sixteen weeks pregnant.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means it’s going to be a super cute little mini bump, if that. A non-issue. I’m going to be absolutely glowing and gorgeous.”

“Uh-huh. And you’re going to get a dress that covers it, because you don’t want to look pregnant in the photos,” Franny says as though her words are fact.

“I don’t care if I look pregnant in the photos. If anything, maybe it makes it more special. It’s a celebration of love and what could be a better testament of love than a baby?”

Franny rolls her eyes. “Ugh, stop, I’m gonna hurl.”

“Please, don’t even joke about that. Just hearing the word might be a trigger.”

“Are you afraid you’re gonna, uh, you know—” Franny mimes throwing up. “—when you’re at the altar?”

“I hope not. The worst part should be over by then.”

The car stops. The driver lets them know they’ve arrived.

The boutique doesn’t have a name on the door—just tall black windows, gold handles, and the quiet menace of exclusivity. It’s the kind of place where they don’t advertise online because if you’re meant to be here, you just know. Inside, everything is cream and glass and so silent Gia feels the urge to apologize for breathing, for existing. A sales assistant with a perfectly fitted blazer and a slick-back hairstyle greets them with a perfectly polished smile.

“Welcome,” she says, in a tone that suggests you should be welcome, otherwise we wouldn’t have let you in. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” Gia says. “Gia Ferrara.”

The woman checks something on a sleek tablet. “Of course. We’ve pulled several looks based on the profile you submitted.”

“I didn’t submit a profile.”

“Of course. Must have been your wedding planner.”

Franny’s jaw drops. “Your what?”

The woman gestures for them to follow. Franny stares at Gia like she’s committed some kind of crime.

“Don’t give me that look. The wedding is six weeks away. I can’t do it all by myself,” Gia says.

They’re led into a private room that’s somehow even quieter than the rest of the boutique. There’s a velvet chaise, soft lighting, and a mirror where Gia catches her reflection. She looks polished. Controlled. A woman with places to be, things to do, appointments with dressmakers, cake bakers and all sorts of wedding vendors alike.

She does not look like someone who was up at the crack of dawn throwing up in the downstairs bathroom.

Franny raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why are you rushing this, anyway?”

Gia sighs. “I don’t want to have a baby out of wedlock.”

“Welcome to the 21st century. Nobody says that anymore.”

“It’s important to me. And I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

As they sit down on the plush seating provided, Franny watches her for a moment, then leans in slightly, her tone shifting from teasing to something more serious. “But you know what it looks like, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You literally just met, and now you’re getting married and having a baby. It’s all so sudden. I mean, people might say you’re baby-trapping him.”

Gia blinks, caught completely off guard. “What is baby-trapping?”

“Getting pregnant without the guy knowing about it, so then he’s, like, stuck with you.”

“People don’t do that.”

Franny laughs. “Oh, they definitely do.”

An assistant brings them cucumber-lemon water and champagne. Gia politely declines the bubbly and opts for the salad flavored option while Franny picks up a glass.

“It is sudden. You have to know that, right?”

“Yes, Franny, I am aware.”

“You’ve known him for four months now.”

“Yes, Franny, I own a calendar.”

Franny gulps down half of her champagne. “I worry about you, you know? You’ve seen the headlines. It’s only going to get worse when people find out you’re preggers.”

Gia sighs. She has seen them. Even if she hasn’t clicked, she knows what they say. Eccentric, scandalized billionaire engaged to bankrupt, washed up reality TV star wannabe after just four short months—the headlines practically write themselves.

And Franny isn’t the first person to bring this up.

Gia can still hear Karolina’s voice, clipped and professional and effortlessly condescending without being obvious, when she’d pulled them aside for ‘just a quick thing’ in Lukas’s office.

A human NDA dressed in all black, she had leaned forward like they were in on it together, not realizing how condescending that tone could sound when you were the outsider in the room. Gia had immediately regretted ever setting foot in the building.

“We could do a small wedding,” Karolina had suggested. “Maybe in Sweden. A small chapel, guest list to a minimum. Something tasteful, romantic.”

Gia knew what she meant. It wasn’t about taste or romance. Keep it humble, keep it small, keep it quiet. With GoJo in the news already, every move Lukas made was under scrutiny. It seemed so backwards—just the mere fact that anybody would care about his personal life while his company and leadership were under question. But they did. Karolina had already tried to downplay the engagement when it happened, saying it was not the time to make press statements about something so frivolous.

Lukas had ended that call seemingly in agreement

And Gia had almost cried, listening in on the other side of the wall. Approximately fifteen minutes later Gia had received a text from Franny: a link to his Twitter.

@lukasmatsson: HARD LAUNCH. ENGAGED. SHE SAID YES.

@lukasmatsson: AND BY SHE I MEAN GIA FERRARA

@lukasmatsson: stop asking for ring pics. it’s lowkey. can be seen from space.

 

@benthebear: lukas matsson is literally proof that if you ignore red flags long enough, they propose

→ @lukasmatsson: says the guy with a fursona profile pic. cope.

 

@newphonewhodis: gia girl blink twice if you need help

→ @lukasmatsson: twice? the morse code for SOS would be nine blinks. public education failed you.

 

@fuckyeahpastagirl: I feel like this is a good time to remind the MasterChef fandom of a universal truth: pasta girl was robbed.

→ @lukasmatsson: YES. SHE WAS. SORRY TO WHATEVER LOSER WON THAT SEASON BUT FUCKING HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

 

@bookd: lukas matsson is the male lead in a wattpad grumpy x sunshine billionaire AU for real.

→ @lukasmatsson: the fuck is that? thank you?

 

@techhoes: what does she talk to him about? crypto? blood rituals? tech bro brain rot?

→ @lukasmatsson: nah, she talks about my three favorite subjects: her, me and our future together. stay pressed.

 

@lukasmatsson retweeted:
@thes0urce: Did the world just collectively forget Matsson sent his own blood to his ex/employee? And we’re out here asking if he’s husband material? Somebody needs to order a wellness check on his fiancée.

@lukasmatsson retweeted:
@babesforworldpeace: lukas matsson is mentally 25. gia ferrara looks like she’s 25. it works, i guess?

@lukasmatsson retweeted:
@popcrave: sexy tech midlife crisis era

 

@lukasmatsson: I might buy Twitter just to delete some users. That’s how much I fucking love her.

And then he had found her in the other room, bawling her eyes out at the strangest little modern love letters, and assumed that she was hormonal, probably, but then he’d seen his feed open on her screen and tried to explain—because for some godforsaken reason he had assumed she was upset that he was arguing with random people on the internet—and it had ended with her sobbing into his hoodie, mumbling something about how she hadn’t even know she needed defending until he did it.

So it did not surprise her at all, when Karolina tried again, pitching the idea of a small wedding, and Lukas responded before Gia could even form a thought, let alone a sentence.

“No, absolutely not.”

It wasn’t loud, just definite. Final. An immediate response.

Karolina remained calm. “You have to understand the optics—”

“The optics are whatever I fucking tell them to be.”

Typical. Arrogant, a little unhinged, and not entirely untrue.

“Lukas, a big wedding, a bride you barely know, no offense—”

She glanced at Gia like she expected her to laugh. Or nod. Or just crumble under the immense pressure of the situation.

“Big fucking offense taken,” Lukas snapped.

It wasn’t just the words, it was the way he said it—like he was ready to throw furniture over a comment that was, by all logic, factual. He did barely know her. But it cut deeper, because it felt so deeply personal, like an attack on something they both knew to be true. Something that couldn’t be negated with facts and logic.

Karolina pressed on. “It makes you look erratic. It makes Gia look like she’s in this for financial gain. And when people find out about the baby—”

“Fuck off.”

Gia bit her lip. “I don’t care if we have a big wedding. If it helps, we can—”

“Gia, baby. No.”

“But I get it. If this wedding is going to make you look unstable or reckless, then—”

“No.”

Her voice dropped. “We’re not even going to talk about it?”

“No.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t blink. Just shut it down, over and over, like he was flipping off a switch he didn’t trust her to touch.

Karolina looked at Gia. “Nothing’s finalized yet. A small wedding would highlight what’s really important. Your love.”

Gia narrowed her eyes. The word love hung in the air like bait.

Lukas clocked it too. Of course he did. “Are you actually trying to manipulate her into giving up her wedding?”

“She’s new to this. People talk. It takes a toll.”

“Let them talk.”

And Gia watched the stand off, two people trying to spin the story. One with charm, one with a wrecking ball. In the grand scheme of things it seemed like a silly thing, just a wedding, but in that moment she understood how he got where he is, how he built what he built.

By being the most stubborn man in the room.

“Can you give us a moment?” Gia asked.

Karolina gave a polite nod and moved towards the door.

“Don’t come back,” Lukas added, his tone flat.

Once they were alone, she waited for him to go first. He didn’t.

“Lukas,” she said.

He looked at her, jaw tight. “Gia.”

“She’s right. You know that.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“And if I do?”

Something flashed behind his eyes. Doubt, maybe.

Gia crossed her arms. “Somebody dug up my financial statements. They know you bought my house. Nobody’s outright saying it, but it looks—”

“Uh-huh.”

“I would marry you at city hall. Monday morning,” she said.

“I know.”

“And a small wedding with just family? Somewhere that’s important to you? I think that sounds really nice,” she said, already imagining an intimate ceremony with gorgeous Swedish nature as a backdrop. They could get married by a lake, surrounded by birch trees. Then she squared him with a look. “But you don’t care?”

“About trying to control the narrative? No, not one fucking bit,” he said. Then, softer, “About you? More than anything.”

At that moment she found it very hard to argue. He sat down on the edge of his desk.

“People don’t give a shit about the truth, Gia. They’ll believe whatever you tell them as long as you’re the loudest,” he continued. “I took something somebody else built, scaled it, exploded it, made it worth billions. But because it’s not my code? Because Ebba said I can’t code? I didn’t do shit. That’s the story now. That’s what people believe.”

It was true. The public opinion had shifted after Ebba had told the press about the inner workings of GoJo. Not all of it was true, but enough of it was.

Gia stayed silent. Lukas looked her in the eyes; she could see the weight of it all pushing him down even though he might never say it, not directly at least.

“If we do this small and quiet, you’re some mistake I’m trying to hide. Not gonna last. Big and loud? You’re looking for a payday. I’ve lost my mind. Not gonna last. Whatever we do, somebody else is writing the fucking headline,” he said. “So I’m fucking done. People can choke on whatever shit they want to spew. If you want city hall, fine, but not if you think that’s gonna stop people from talking. City hall, your backyard. Let’s get married in fucking IKEA. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re kind of ranting,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“And you really need to tone down the swearing once the baby comes.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll fucking work on that.”

He sounded—like something. Not angry, more frustrated. Not with her, but everything else. He sounded like he hadn’t meant to pour his heart out. This was definitely not just about the wedding. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk. Tight. He looked out the giant windows at the city.

“You’re exhausting,” she said. Soft. She took a few steps closer.

He turned to face her. “I know. But I’m right.”

“Maybe. All I know is I’m trying really hard not to care about all the outside noise.”

“Good.”

He grabbed her hand, pulling her in close.

“I just don’t want to be a headline,” she said.

“You’re the whole story, baby.”

She laughed.

“We can do whatever we want, and I’m not the one who has a Pinterest board labeled future wedding ideas, so—we can do whatever you want.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How do you know about my Pinterest?”

“I’m a stalker.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re soft.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. It’s the best fucking thing in the world.”

A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it—sudden, surprised, stupidly lovey-dovey. Soft, he said, like it was an absolute truth nobody could deny and suddenly she didn’t know whether she wanted to argue or sink into him and never come up for air.

And then he kissed her.

Slow. Intentional. Not the rushed, needy kind that he did so well; the kind that got her pregnant to begin with. This was different. A statement. A commitment. To her, this moment. His hands cupped her face, gentle. Her breath caught in her throat; her body melted into him. His lips tasted faintly of coffee.

He murmured something into her mouth and she didn’t need to hear it to know what it was.

The world seemed to disappear. The headlines. The company scandal.

The optics.

Ugh, Gia hated the word.

Still does.

Franny is lazily scrolling through TikTok, probably looking for some hot takes from someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about. The look on her face is one Gia has seen many times before. Cynical, sure, and ready to question her every choice and offer an opinion unprompted, but also—concerned. Genuinely so.

“How are you so sure about this?” she asks.

Gia doesn’t pause. “Because I am.”

Not long after, Beth, the wedding planner—perfect posture, cashmere coat, color-coded planner—walks in led by one of the sales assistants.

“Gia, sweetie,” she says, air-kissing Gia’s cheek like they’ve done this a dozen times before. “You are ridiculously early. How many times do I have to tell you? Always, always, always—”

“Show up five minutes late, I know,” Gia says.

“At least. They’re lucky to have your business. Not the other way around.”

Gia’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “This is my sister Franny. Franny, this is Beth.”

She says it casually, but she’s acutely aware of the way Franny looks at Beth, her eyes narrow with that half-amused, half-skeptical expression that’s so uniquely Franny. 

Beth offers a tight but warm smile. “Hi, Franny.”

“Hi,” Franny says, her tone flat but polite enough.

A rack of wedding dresses is wheeled into the room. The circus can commence.

The dresses are works of art, no question—silk and satin and lace that probably comes with its own security escort. Gia tries not to think about price tags—a skill she still hasn’t quite mastered. Lukas has it down, for sure, but not in that obnoxiously wealthy way. He’s not the guy who buys the most expensive everything just because.

Gia slips into the first gown with the help of the assistant, a woman named Julia who speaks in a gentle tone with an accent that sounds possibly Baltic and manages to make Gia feel like royalty instead of a mannequin.

It’s beautiful. Cream silk, simple straps, subtle train. Elegant.

And it feels completely wrong.

She steps onto the platform to look at herself in the mirror. Instead she sees a stranger. A very expensive, well-lit stranger.

Franny squints. “You look like someone who would sue the school if their kid was a bully.”

“Oh, god.”

Beth smiles, that polished kind of smile that says I heard that but I’m pretending I didn’t. “We can adjust the bust if you’d like something more relaxed.”

“It’s not that,” Gia says. “It’s just—I don’t know. I don’t feel like me.”

Dress two is modern. Minimalist. Architectural lines. A little too structured, not the kind you can dance in. High neckline, scooping back. The kind of dress you could imagine on a high fashion model.

The reception is lukewarm at best.

Dress three is lace throughout.

“I look like mom at the vow renewal,” Gia says, holding her hair up in a makeshift updo for emphasis.

Franny laughs. “Oh, yeah. Chop off the bottom bit and add sleeves to hide her imaginary arm fat. That’s mom’s dress.”

“Let’s try something different,” Julia suggests.

Beth’s voice is strained. “Yes, please. Let’s try something she might actually like.”

Gia steps back into the fitting room with Julia.

“I’m sorry,” Gia says.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Today is all about you,” Julia says with the professional grace and politeness of someone who has seen everything. “To be honest, we picked these options based on your profile, but you’re very different than your profile says.”

“Oh, yeah? What does it say?”

“Sophisticated, elegant, controlled, immaculate—”

Gia laughs. “Yeah, I’m not really any of those things.”

“I mean that in the best way possible. It’s just kind of a generic profile for—”

She pauses, as though she regrets saying anything at all.

“For?” Gia presses on.

Julia hesitates. “For any bride with an unlimited budget. Corporate chic, quiet luxury. Classic Upper East Side bride. It lacks individuality.”

Of course it does. Gia nods, and Julia seems to sigh in relief that her moment of authenticity is well received. She gets to work, unhooking the millions of little clasps and buttons at the back of the dress.

“As a little girl, I always wanted a big ball gown,” Gia says.

“We can absolutely do that.”

“Nothing ridiculous. And no lace or any embellishments. Just simple satin, silk or something. Corset top. Strapless or off-the-shoulder.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“I guess I have,” Gia replies, only now realizing it.

There aren’t any dresses on her Pinterest board, because she always figured the right one would just come along and she would just know. But maybe she’s known all along. Maybe the dress, or the idea of it, has really been living in the back of her mind ever since she was old enough to dream of things such as weddings and husbands and children. Of this day, this feeling. Of walking down the aisle in a room full of people who know her, who love her.

And people she’s never even met. Lukas’s people.

Whoever they are.

Gia waits while Julia pulls some other options. When she returns, she’s carrying one gown. Not an array. Not a rolling rack with choices. Just a single dress, draped carefully across her arms like it’s the chosen one from some ancient prophecy.

And maybe it is.

Because even though it’s sudden and unexpected and by all accounts a little crazy to get married and have a baby after four short months (or three, if she’s deducting their time apart, which she doesn’t like to do because it makes things that much more crazy), it’s also—

A fairytale. 

Fall in love. Get married. Start a family. That’s the dream, her dream.

And she gets to do that and dress like a cartoon princess?

Julia helps Gia into the dress. Gia holds her breath, because it just feels appropriate to do so.

Franny’s slouched on the chaise, scrolling her phone with the bored expertise of someone raised in fitting rooms. Beth is pacing around the room, typing notes into her phone. Probably updating a timeline or texting a florist or managing some other bride’s spiral.

When Gia steps onto the platform again, the room hushes.

Franny lowers her phone. Beth stops typing.

“You look like you’re in an old movie,” Franny says.

“Timeless,” Beth confirms.

Gia turns toward the mirror, slowly.

The dress fits her like a glove. It’s heavy in a way that feels expensive, not overwhelming—ivory silk, soft to the touch like polished steel, with a dramatic skirt that floats around her. The bodice is clean, structured, strapless with the fabric draped in a way that looks like a sculpture but feels like it’ll allow her to live instead of just standing still and looking pretty.

She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t cry. She just stares.

Franny tilts her head. “That’s the one.”

Beth hums in agreement. “Absolutely. Twenty years from now you’ll look back and this will still be the one.”

Twenty years. Gia wonders how many of Beth’s couples last that long.

Beth starts talking about shoe pairings and veil options and whether Lukas’s tux should be Brioni or Tom Ford, and all Gia can think about is how easy this was; how she expected to try on every single dress in the store and still not find the one.

Perhaps it’s just fate.

Like him.

Julia helps Gia out of the dress and into a robe so they can do measurements. As she sits down on the sofa, Beth turns her attention to Gia immediately. “Did you see the pictures from the venue? Is it everything I told you it would be?”

Gia nods. “It’s actually better.”

Beth’s eyes light up. “And with the lights? And the centerpieces? Ugh, to die for. I booked a viewing for us after lunch.”

Gia smiles. It does look beautiful. There was another venue Beth showed earlier that also looked gorgeous, but it was booked already. It turns out planning a wedding with this timeframe means quick decisions and limited options. A minor inconvenience, Beth called it, as there’s apparently a certain leeway that comes with an unlimited budget. But poaching someone else’s venue?

Gia could never.

“And does Lukas want to see it?” Beth asks. Franny stops scrolling on her phone, her ears seemingly perking up to hear the answer.

It’s a silly question, really. Does he want to see it? Of course he does. Probably. Maybe. At least in theory.

“He’s actually being mostly hands-off about the wedding,” Gia says, a slight tension building in her chest. Surely it’s just indigestion—one of the many fun side effects of pregnancy.

Beth smiles knowingly. “Right, right. And are we mad about that? Do we wish for him to participate?”  

Gia shakes her head. Quickly. Too quickly. “No, no. He’s just—he’s so busy.”

The words slip out so naturally that it almost convinces her, with a smile that she hopes reads as effortless and not vaguely unhinged. This is fine. This is what she wants. Does she want him to participate? Sure, if the timing was different. Is she mad? No, obviously not. Half of this stuff she doesn’t even care about, why would she expect him to care about the font on the menu cards or what shade of white the tablecloths need to be?

“Of course,” Beth says with a shrug that implies she’s seen it all. “Comes with the territory,”

Franny scoffs. “Translation: he’s busy making money while you pick out forks.”

Beth doesn’t miss a beat. “I had one groom who didn’t even know he was having a destination wedding until he was physically on the jet. True story.”

Franny raises an eyebrow. Gia can practically hear her thoughts forming— men are the worst, and weddings are a scam .

“But not your Lukas, he would never,” Beth is quick to add.

Gia laughs softly, though it’s more out of politeness than amusement. Franny rolls her eyes.

“No, he’s actually really excited,” Gia says, almost too quickly, like giving an excuse, and wonders why she sounds so defensive. “There’s just so much going on with the company and all that.”

Beth nods with understanding, but there’s something in her expression that makes Gia pause. It’s almost too understanding, like this is just the way these things usually go.

Before they leave, Gia snaps a photo of herself in the mirror wearing the silky bridal robe. She sends it to Lukas.

«« I picked out a dress, but I’m seriously considering just wearing this. Comfort is key.

Delivered. Not read. She tucks the phone back into her bag.

A quick car ride and eight courses later, Gia begins to wonder if she used up all her good luck with the man, the baby and the dress.

“I was promised an actual lunch,” Franny whines, poking at something that looks like it came out of a science experiment rather than a kitchen.

“This is lunch,” Gia says, lifting a delicate sliver of something infused and foamed and compressed.

“This is a tasting. You don’t taste lunch. You eat lunch.”

“I have to decide on a menu.”

“What even is that?” Franny gestures to a glass petri dish containing a cube of ruby-red something topped with a puff of what looks like a literal cloud.

Gia checks the printed menu. “Compressed watermelon with feta foam and micro basil.”

“The—what? Gia.”

“Try it,” Gia says, already anticipating the face Franny’s about to make.

Franny tries it anyway. “It’s… confusing.”

“It’s actually really good.”

“The mushy thing with the gold hat was good,” Franny says. “Mushroom something?”

“Mushroom risotto,” Gia confirms, turning to Beth. “That was my favorite so far. Really well balanced.”

Beth smiles. “The chef is a genius .”

“I’m a little bummed I can’t have the beef,” Gia says. “Raw meat and babies. Not a good combo.”

“You’re not missing anything,” Franny says, nudging her plate away. “It tastes like the concept of meat. Like, meat as an idea.”

Gia smiles politely, but something about the next dish—scallop, maybe, with something green and pickled—makes her pause. It’s gorgeous. It’s impressive. It’s tasty. It’s also… not something she can picture anyone actually enjoying with a full plate and a glass of wine. In fact, there hasn’t been anything served so far that would fall under that category.

She turns to Beth.

“Hey, so, I love all of this. Believe me, I appreciate the artistry and the work that goes into this, but I was thinking, maybe we could go in a direction that’s a little more…” She searches for the word. “Familiar. Comfortable.”

Beth raises an eyebrow. 

“Like, I would love for there to be some classic Italian and Swedish dishes.”

“Meatballs served two ways?”

“Yes, exactly! Something like that would be so fun.”

“Of course,” Beth says smoothly, though her smile tightens at the edges.

Gia leans back as the servers bring out the next micro-plate. “I just want people to be happy. And satisfied.”

Beth nods, already typing into her iPad. “We’ll make some tweaks, though I’m not sure the chef will share your vision.”

The tone of Beth’s voice makes Gia pause.

“Then we’ll find one who does.”

“Gia, sweetheart, I love the authenticity, but your three hundred guests will be expecting something more elevated. Michelin-adjacent, even.”

Gia catches Franny’s obvious side-eye.

“Considering I don’t know more than half of my guests, I actually don’t care at all about what they’re expecting,” Gia says.

“I’m only saying, you may not care, but the people in that room absolutely will,” Beth says, maintaining her ever-so-polite demeanor. “When we’re talking about weddings at this level—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there. This wedding is going to be spectacular, amazing, showstopping, gorgeous—”

“And ridiculously overpriced,” Franny adds.

“Yes, exactly. And it’s going to be about me and Lukas and our love. And I want people to eat good food. I want them to dance and have some drinks and, you know—I just want to throw a really good party—”

“That’s kind of her thing,” Franny interjects.

“I know you’ve done this probably a hundred and fifty-four thousand times, but this is the only wedding I’m ever going to have, and it’s not going to be about social status.”

“Of course,” Beth agrees. “And I will relay your preferences to your PR department.”

“My what? I don’t have—” Gia pauses. Suddenly Beth looks like she’s said something she shouldn’t have. Gia’s eyes narrow. “Wait, wait. No.”

“What?” Franny asks, suddenly alert.

Gia looks at Beth. “Karolina recommended I hire you.”

“Yes,” Beth confirms.

“To help me. Or so she said.”

Gia remembers it well. It was a few days after their last encounter—she had taken it as a genuine offer to help. Beth was the best in the business, according to Karolina and Karolina, if anybody, knew all about these kinds of things.

Beth nods.

“Oh, fudge. That’s what this is about? You’re just doing what she told you?”

Beth looks a little uncomfortable, but she hides it remarkably well. “I feel like this is a conversation you need to have with—”

“Oh, no. Trust me. I’m going to have that conversation.”

“I love angry Gia,” Franny says, her voice bright.

“And in the meantime I need you to remember that I’m the client,” Gia says.

“Well, technically—”

“No, not technically. Actually. It may be my fiancé’s money that’s going into your pocket, but this isn’t a GoJo event. No more updates to the PR department.”

Beth nods, smooth as ever. “Understood.”

“Because, like you said, you’re lucky to have my business, right? Not the other way around.”

Beth blinks. Then, a smile. “Off the top of my head I can not think of anyone who could pull off both Italian classics and Swedish cuisine, but I will find you another chef and caterer by the end of today.”

She gets up from her seat, already making notes into her iPad. “Do we still want the venue?”

“We love the venue,” Gia says. Beth nods. Her heels click against the stone floor as she exits the room.

“I thought you were going to fire her,” Franny says.

“It’s not her fault,” Gia says with a shrug.

“Is Lukas going to back you on this?”

“He wants me to have my dream wedding.”

“Translation: he can’t be bothered to make any decisions.”

Gia’s face falls. Franny doesn’t notice. She’s holding up her fork within a safe distance—there’s something on it that can only be described as clear goo. Gia takes out her phone and snaps a picture to capture the look of confusion mixed with disgust on Franny’s face.

“Hey, I wasn’t ready,” Franny protests.

“I’m capturing the real you.”

Franny reaches over the table. “Let me see.”

“No, you’d just delete it. I’m sending this to Lukas.”

«« Franny and haute cuisine don’t really mix.

Her previous message still sits unread. She tucks her phone into her bag. 

“Why didn’t you invite mom?” Franny asks as they walk to the car where Beth is already waiting. “She lives for this kind of stuff.”

“For that exact reason. She wanted me to add her to my Pinterest, and now it’s full of DIY centerpieces and quotes from famous love poems she thinks I should use in my vows,” Gia says.

“Aw, that’s not so bad.”

“She wants me to wear her dress. Her original one.”

Franny visibly cringes. “Oh, ew, no. And I say this as a fan of shoulder pads.”

“I’m afraid if I let her bombard me with ideas I’ll end up saying yes to something I don’t want just to make it stop.”

“Oh, like the time you did ballet for six months?”

Gia nods. “She can come to the cake tasting with me, but that’s it.”

“She gets cake? I get the essence of fennel and she gets cake?”

“You can come. Be a buffer.”

“You mean an emotional crash test dummy?”

Gia laughs. The driver opens the car door for them and they slide into the backseat.

“Mom’s veil is really pretty, though,” Franny says.

“It is, isn’t it?”

And then, for a brief moment, she wonders if Lukas’s mom wore a veil to marry his father. She’s never even seen a picture of either of them.

The venue coordinator, armed with a heavy-duty clipboard and a Mont Blanc, leads them through the space, listing seating options, floral palettes, photo op angles and everything in between. Beth nods along, offering polite, approving noises. Gia listens, half-there, nodding at the right places, saying ‘lovely’ like she means it. She does, really. It is a gorgeous place for a wedding. The main hall is a marbled echo chamber of soft light and expensive silence.

The coordinator walks a few paces ahead, gesturing to pillars and skylights, explaining how the natural light is ‘perfect for golden hour photos.’ Gia smiles and says ‘lovely’ for the third time in five minutes. Her shoes are starting to pinch; the mid-afternoon nausea comes and goes in waves. But, she smiles.

They approach the altar. The coordinator claps her hands once, lightly. “And this is the showstopper: the stained glass.”

Gia looks up at the window. Twenty feet tall, at least. A mixture of blues, greens and purples, the kind of colors that make you feel like you’re underwater. It’s vibrant, impressive, and somehow shimmering even though the sky is cloudy.

“It’s imported, naturally. Commissioned from a fifth generation artisan whose lineage can be traced back all the way to the original glaziers of Notre-Dame. He trained in Paris—”

“Naturally,” Franny interjects, her tone dripping with sarcasm. Beth glances at Gia.

The venue coordinator simply smiles. “The way the window refracts light—cinematic, dramatic, breathtaking.”

Gia tunes out the coordinator’s superlatives and stares at the window. It is grand. And breathtaking, absolutely. Reminiscent of cathedrals in Rome, but without any of the religious connotations. That’s important to Lukas, Gia knows, and though she grew up going to Easter Mass every year and did a brief stint of Sunday school, her family never was too big on religion. More Catholic on paper than in practice, but still. All the babies in her family are baptized. Everyone gets married in a church. It’s tradition. Expected.

And here she is, breaking traditions. The funny thing is, it doesn’t feel wrong.

The coordinator snaps her out of thought. “And if this isn’t your speed, we do offer a garden ceremony. An arch framed with florals, some ivy perhaps. Understated elegance. A more natural, intimate vibe.”

“Gia does lean more romantic, not theatrical,” Beth says.

“I love that,” the coordinator says. “So timeless.”

Franny lingers behind them, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She's quiet, tracking the conversation—barely containing her judgment of it all.

Nobody asks where Lukas is. No one says his name.

But there’s a pause, right where he should be.

“Lukas has a flair for drama,” Gia says. “We’ll have the ceremony here.”

“Of course,” Beth agrees. The coordinator nods along.

Gia steps away for a second under the pretense of checking her bag. Pulls out her phone. Glances at the screen.

No new messages.

She snaps a few quick photos of the space, careful to leave out the stained glass window, so he’ll be surprised, and sends them to Lukas.

«« I can’t wait to say ‘I do.’

And a heart, a red one. The text thread is one-sided, still. But the check marks have turned blue.

Gia bites her lip and tucks her phone back into the bag. The coordinator and Beth have wandered over to the aisle, clearly planning the spacing for decorations. Franny stands beside Gia.

“What’s with the face?” Franny asks.

“What? There’s no face.”

“There was definitely a face.”

Gia shrugs. “I was just sending Lukas some photos.”

“Oh, right. Status update,” Franny says, her tone dry. “So, what’s wrong? He doesn’t like it?”

“It’s not that.”

Franny raises an eyebrow. She’s got an expression that signals she’s going to need some elaborating. Gia shrugs, again—an impulse she can’t help.

Franny’s eyes narrow. “He didn’t reply.”

“Not yet. He’s busy,” Gia says.

“Right.”

“You know he is.”

“I do. People are saying he might sell GoJo.”

“What? Who’s saying that?”

“I don’t know. Wall Street Journal?”

Gia scoffs. “What do they know?”

“More than you apparently.”

“He’s not selling.”

“I think he should. Maybe then he’d have time for his future wife and baby.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“It’s one thing to hire help to plan a wedding.” Franny gestures toward Beth, who’s still busy going over details, checking items off lists. “But when the baby comes, you’re gonna need Lukas around.”

“I know,” Gia says.

“Okay, but does he know that?” Franny presses, her voice skeptical. “Like, really know it?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m just stating facts here. And wondering where your standards went.”

“What?”

“Our dad showed up for everything. Stupid first grade plays, spelling bees, the funeral for my imaginary friend—”

“Well, Lukas isn’t dad.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Franny says. “He knows the date, right? For the wedding? His assistant has that down?”

Franny’s tone, her words, and her need to apparently make this into some kind of a fight, become more and more annoying by the second.

“Why are you bugging?” Gia asks, not trying to hide the frustration in her voice.

“Because you’re pretending everything is fine and it’s not.”

“You don’t know anything about my relationship.”

“I know he’s not replying to your texts.”

“Big deal. He’s working.”

“He’s always working. He’s always busy,” Franny whines. “I haven’t even seen him since you got engaged.”

“Well I see him all the time,” Gia says. Steady. Like she believes it, because it’s true.

It is.

Franny scoffs. “Do you? Do you really?”

“Yes, Franny. We live together. What are you—” And a sudden realization hits. “This is about you.”

“What? No. Now you’re bugging,” Franny says, her eyes shifting to the side.

“He’s not replying to your texts.”

That hits. Franny can’t deny it, so she deflects. “This isn’t about that. I don’t care about that. I care about you.”

“Well, Franny, I hate to disappoint you, but my world isn’t falling apart just because he isn’t texting me back.”

“Maybe not. But it still hurts, right?”

Gia shakes her head. “I’m happy that you obviously like him and he’s important to you, but he has bigger responsibilities right now.”

“I’ve never seen you work this hard to make excuses for somebody.”

“I’m not—” Gia begins, but realizes this won’t go anywhere. She sighs. “I still have to decide on the flowers and everything. Do you want to help or do you want to leave?”

Franny pouts. Silence. Then, “I want to help.”

Flowers. Table settings. Centerpieces. Where to set up the band, the string quartet, the late night DJ. Lights, vows—

“Oh, we’ll write our own,” Gia interjects.

“Lukas, too?” Franny mutters under her breath.

“He’s literally given TED talks. I think he can manage simple wedding vows,” Gia says, her tone snappier than intended.

Beth and the coordinator exhange a look.

Franny pouts, crossing her arms, and leans back in her chair. She’s mostly silent for the rest of the visit. The car ride back to campus, too.

It’s only when she’s out of the car, holding the door open, that she decides to bring it up again.

“I’m not gonna apologize,” she says.

“Great. Thanks,” Gia replies.

“I’m happy for you. You know that,” Franny says. “I just think it’s important for somebody to hold him accountable and if that somebody isn’t you—”

“Then it needs to be you? No, Franny. Just—don’t.”

“Whatever.”

Then she slams the car door closed.

The house in Queens is empty, apart from Mozzarella napping on the couch. The silence is loud, like it’s taunting her with Franny’s words. He’s not here.

Gia can’t shake the feeling that it’s become too common. But—

It’s temporary. Has to be.

There’s a note tacked onto the fridge.

I came by and walked the dog. There’s lasagna in the fridge for you.

Love, mom

On the kitchen counter stands a gift bag that definitely wasn’t there when she left this morning. Pastel colored with cute little clouds. Inside Gia finds the most adorable little baby onesie with sunflowers printed on a white background and a matching pair of yellow socks. Tiny.

In the pit of her stomach she feels a pang of guilt. Perhaps the intention all along.

She snaps a photo. Types a message.

«« Look at what my mom brought. Can you believe something this small can even exist?

She stops to think.

Deletes.

He’ll see them later.

Her to-do list is on the counter. It’s now three pages long, divided into sections: baby, house, wedding. It seems as though every time she crosses off an item, there’s another one to add. Nothing urgent, not really. Nothing important, but all of it feels important.

Under ‘wedding’ she writes a name: Karolina. And because she’s never been one to procrastinate, she decides to cross it off immediately. So, she makes a phone call.

“I wasn’t expecting your call,” Karolina says, warm as ever.

“I’ll keep this quick. I know you’re very busy,” Gia says. “I just wanted to thank you for all your help. Beth is wonderful.”

“Best in the business.”

“Absolutely. So, I just wanted to tell you, you know, thanks.” She pauses. “But from now on, for the sake of clarity, it’s probably best if you don’t have any contact with the wedding planning team.”

A long pause. Then, “Right.”

“Just so we don’t get our wires crossed,” Gia says. “There won’t be any press at the wedding, so no need for PR to be involved.”

Another long pause.

“Details of the wedding will still circulate. Optics are important, Gia.”

“See, in my mind, ‘controversial billionaire marries the love of his life, gives her the wedding she dreams of’ is a much better story than soulless corporate chic.”

“And in the real world, shareholders don’t believe in fairytales,” Karolina says.

They should.

Gia doesn’t say that, though she wants to.

“Anyway. This is my wedding,” she says. “And I really don’t want to bring Lukas into this, because he already made himself pretty clear. I wouldn’t want him to think you’re overstepping.”

“If you could bottle that sincerity of yours and sell it, you’d be a millionaire in no time.”

Karolina wishes her the best of luck with planning the wedding and hangs up.

In the garage Gia finds her next project. She packs up her giant pots and pans—they’re needed at the shelter more than they are here. She clears some space on the garage shelves for Lukas’s things, though the thought of his set of limited edition aluminum luggage stored next to her busted leaf blower and expired bottles of weed killer makes her laugh. Just a little, just about as much as the sight of his rotation of luxury cars parked next to her old food truck.

Right, the truck.

That’s a whole other project. Broken transmission, falling apart at the seams. The engine makes a weird screeching sound. The truck seems beyond rescue. Fixing it would cost almost as much as a new one. 

Lukas offered to pay—of course—but she doesn’t need it. 

Not now.

She looks through some of the memorabilia stored in the garage—a stack of handmade birthday cards, a Barbie with a badly executed mohawk, a Spice Girls CD (Gia’s), One Direction posters (Franny’s), a teddy bear with one arm sewn back on with bright green thread…

A hand-knit baby blanket. Pink, for a girl.

And the outfit that both she and Franny wore the day they turned one, forever immortalized in matching portraits a decade apart.

She sighs. Puts away the boxes.

By the time Lukas comes home, Gia’s already zonked out in bed, exhausted from the day. The bed shifts as he crawls in beside her. She stirs, her eyes fluttering open like they always do when he comes home. He’s careful not to disturb her, but his lips find her nose in the dark. 

“Hey, baby,” Lukas whispers softly, his voice low. He lifts up her shirt, placing a kiss against the soft curve of her stomach. “And hey, baby.”

“How was your day?” she asks, her voice still heavy with sleep. 

He groans in response, his tone tired, like his soul's been living in a boardroom for twelve straight hours. He doesn’t elaborate. He never does lately.

“I picked out a wedding dress,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “So I had a pretty good day.”

“Good,” he murmurs. He pulls her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist.

“And I threw up in the bathroom there,” she continues, her voice dropping into a mock whine. “I can’t even brush my teeth anymore without throwing up.”

He smiles against her forehead. “You poor thing.”

He grabs her chin to kiss her, slow and heavy and good. For a second it feels as though everything is just fine.

“What did you think about the venue?” she asks.

“It’s good,” he replies simply, his voice muffled against her hair as he nuzzles into her neck.

“The invites will be sent this week,” she adds.

“That’s good.”

Then his phone buzzes.

Of course it does. It’s the middle of the night, probably, and still somebody somewhere needs something.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t react. He picks it up without hesitation, like he’s programmed to respond to every vibration, every sound. And maybe she shouldn’t say anything, maybe she should just let the moment pass and drift back to sleep, because it’s late and she’s tired and this isn’t the time for in-depth conversations, but there’s already something unraveling in her mind and if she doesn’t fill the silence, she’s going to have to feel it.

“Do you think your mom will come?” she asks softly, the question slipping out before she can stop it.

He doesn’t look up. “Probably. It’d be a bad look if she didn’t.”

“Oh, okay,” Gia murmurs, but something about his tone stings. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. Maybe something warmer, something that sounded like family.

“Just don’t expect—you know, anything,” he says, his voice trailing off. “You won’t have a relationship with her.”

“Moms love me,” Gia says.

“Yeah, I don’t doubt that,” Lukas replies. “But she’s not the bonding type.”

“Oh.” She’s always known he isn’t close with his mom, but hearing it now—like a warning that she should heed—makes it feel all the more real.

And sad.

He doesn’t look sad. That makes it sadder, somehow.

“I made an appointment for my first ultrasound,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I really hope you can come. We’ll get to see the baby and hear the heartbeat.”

“Isn’t it just a blob at this point?”

Her face falls. “Yeah, I guess.”

To say she’s disappointed in his reaction would be an understatement. Her lip quivers, just slightly, and she wonders if this is something worth freaking out about. Lukas is very straight-forward, very practical—perhaps it’s hard for him to get excited about an ultrasound; perhaps it’s still too abstract of a concept that the blob is an actual baby. Their baby.

He notices something off, maybe, or maybe he reconsiders.

Either way, he says, “I’ll be there.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Of course. I can’t wait.”

His phone buzzes again. This one he reads longer. Franny’s words replay in her head, each one said with more conviction than the last—as if Franny knows anything about anything. As if she knows anything about a real, adult relationship. Preaching her opinions as truth, like she’s trying to start a fight.

Childish. That’s what she is.

But then—

Gia remembers the dumb memes Franny used to send Gia—who couldn’t understand half of them even with added context—that she started sending to Lukas instead practically the minute she got his phone number. And how he would get it. And how it made Franny happy.

She sighs. “You should text Franny.”

He turns his head. Genuine confusion, as evident by the little line between his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because she misses you.”

“What?” he asks. The line is still there.

“Don’t act so surprised. You’re very important to her.”

“To Franny?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The same Franny who takes pictures of my hairline to make sure it’s not receding?”

“That one.”

“The one that got me denture cream for Christmas?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. I will text Franny.”

“But not tonight. And don’t tell her I told you.”

He nods. “Noted.”

They fall quiet for a moment. His face is illuminated by the soft glow of his phone.

And she knows what Franny would say right now. She knows what she should say.

You should text me, too.

But she doesn’t. Instead she turns to her side to fall back asleep.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, baby. And baby.”

Chapter Text

Federal Eyes Turn To Matsson: Can GoJo Survive Its Creator?

Regulatory pressure is mounting against GoJo. Sources close to the situation say the tech giant’s internal subscriber numbers in India were ‘not just off—they were fantasy fiction.’ One former analyst joked the numbers ‘would require a second India, and maybe a third.’ The SEC has yet to comment on the potential fraud charges.

Meanwhile, CEO and founder Lukas Matsson appears to be charging ahead undeterred, recently launching a series of vague ‘vision-forward’ initiatives that critics say amount to little more than a distraction. His latest stroke of genius? An overhaul of the ethics board, which meant adding two new women but backfired spectacularly when one quit within weeks, citing ‘fundamental disagreements about transparency,’ and the other was revealed to have a previous connection with a GoJo exec.

Since former Head of Communications Ebba Lindgren went public with damning allegations about GoJo’s toxic internal culture and Matsson’s own erratic behavior—including those infamous frozen blood bricks—pressure has only escalated. Sources suggest both the DOJ and international regulatory bodies are watching closely.

Insiders say the era of Matsson-style chaos-as-strategy may be coming to an end. Whether Lukas Matsson jumps or gets pushed remains to be seen—but either way, the cliff’s getting closer.

Click here for our full breakdown of the timeline.

The question now isn’t whether GoJo can weather the storm—it’s whether it can survive the man who created the weather system.

See what people are saying on Reddit:

[DISCUSSION] Is Lukas Matsson actually a genius or just a glorified chaos goblin with internet access?

I used to work for GoJo. AMA.

[MEGATHREAD] GoJo-Waystar: Strategic Decision or Manic Episode?

[theory] Lukas Matsson is trying to tank GoJo on purpose

Lukas doesn’t really have time for this.

And he hates that. He despises it, actually. He despises the fact that he doesn’t have time for this, because it seems so important—

No, it is important. It’s the most important thing that’s happening today. No, ever. It’s the most important thing that’s ever happened to him, and the fact that he’s even thinking such thoughts makes something vile rise up in the back of his throat. He hates it—hates that he’s wired in such a way that this feels like a scheduling conflict, like it’s something he’s squeezing in between a board meeting and a pitch deck.

But still—his phone won’t stop buzzing. Fourth time in five minutes. He doesn’t have to check to know who it is. Crisis control. PR fallout. Another fire that needs putting out. He ignores it. That should be a good thing, right? That he’s prioritizing this? That he’s here? That he’s grown, evolved, changed. That he gives a shit. It should be a good thing and it feels like a good thing, because he’s here even though he doesn’t have time for this. He’s prioritizing this over everything else.

He’s prioritizing the thing that’s most important.

Her.

And the baby, obviously, but if he’s perfectly honest with himself he does acknowledge the fact that the fetus will not know whether he’s here or not.

It’s a good thing, him being here . It feels good. He wants to be here. He is here. But fuck, he hates that it feels like a decision.

Because he shouldn’t have to prioritize this. It should be his priority.

The waiting room is quiet. Too quiet. Sterile almost, like it’s void of any real feelings besides beige. Every single inch is scrubbed to death with antiseptic; every piece of furniture, every color meticulously chosen to reflect serenity. Bougie as fuck with a price tag to match—he chose this place because it came highly recommended and his baby will not be subjected to subpar healthcare.

He sits stiffly, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs. A mural of stylized cartoon animals is painted on the wall opposite him—the only real giveaway that this is a place for mothers and babies. His mother would have hated it; she would’ve probably said it stunts child development because the elephant is pink and the lion is holding hands with a mouse. Gia is at the front desk, talking with the nurse like she’s done this a dozen times before. Maybe it’s different for her. It’s happening inside her body; she can feel it. Maybe it’s that or just the fact that she can befriend just about anyone, but she seems infinitely more comfortable than he feels.

And suddenly she’s in front of him, nudging his knee with hers. “Excited?”

“Sure.”

Gia tilts her head, unconvinced. Sometimes it feels like she can see right through him, but he doesn’t know how to explain the lack of excitement. He is excited, because beyond what seems like a never ending stream of vomit and a list of food cravings and aversions he can’t keep track of because they change daily, the pregnancy has been a very intangible thing so far. He talks to the baby, but never for very long because it seems stupid and he doesn’t know what to say. Gia suggested he sing, but he doesn’t want to subject either of their ears to that. But an ultrasound, a picture? A heartbeat? All very real, very tangible things.

He is excited, because this is the most important thing in the world right now. Everything else is just background noise, except it’s loud and never ending and all consuming and it’s not really background noise at all, no matter how much he wishes it was.

His phone vibrates again.

Lukas exhales through his nose. The nurse calls Gia’s name. She turns around, waiting for him to follow.

He does.

The exam room is dim, the only real light coming from the monitor beside the technician. The paper on the exam table crinkles as Gia leans back, lifting her shirt just enough to expose her stomach. It hasn’t grown, though she swears it has. Lukas stands beside her, close but not touching. The air smells like antiseptic. The technician is too chatty for Lukas’s liking, too peppy, but he thinks that’s probably preferable to most; her questions about Gia’s pregnancy fill the awkward silence.

“I’m hungry all the time and I’m throwing up everything I eat,” Gia explains.

The technician smiles, sympathizing. “Not fun, huh?”

“Definitely not.”

The technician gently folds down the waistband of Gia’s pants. “So, during this appointment, we won’t be able to determine the sex. Just putting that out there so you guys aren’t disappointed.”

“Oh,” Gia says. She turns to Lukas. “I guess we haven’t actually talked about whether or not we want to know.”

“Uh—” Lukas stammers. He has not given it a single thought so far. It’s one or the other—what’s the big deal, really?

“Don’t worry,” the technician says. “Plenty of time for that later. Now, this will feel cold.”

The ultrasound gel spreads over Gia’s stomach as the technician moves the probe around. The screen flickers.

Lukas sees a blur of movement—grainy, black-and-white shapes shifting like static. Then the technician adjusts, presses a button, and there it is. A tiny blob.

Gia inhales sharply. “Oh.”

Lukas says nothing.

The technician’s voice is full of joy, possibly genuine. “There’s your little one.”

Gia reaches for Lukas’s hand without looking, instinctively. He lets her take it. Her fingers are warm. His are cold.

“Do you see the feet?”

Gia squints at the screen, brow furrowing in concentration. The technician points to a part of the blob. Feet, apparently.

Lukas stares. He doesn’t see feet. He sees a heartbeat. A real, rapid, flickering heartbeat.

His throat feels tight. He swallows against it.

“Everything looks good,” the technician says. “Nice, strong heartbeat. I’m gonna switch to Doppler mode so you guys can hear it.”

The ultrasound image disappears. A muffled thumping sound fills the room. It’s frantic, fast. Faster than he’d ever thought a human heart could beat; too fast for something so small.

He glances at Gia. Her eyes are welling up. She squeezes his hand.

He squeezes back.

Pressure builds in his chest.

The technician is talking, switching back to the ultrasound image, pointing things out, taking measurements. Her voice is muffled, distant in Lukas’s ears. He’s supposed to be watching the screen, looking at his baby, but he can’t seem to focus. Instead he watches Gia, observes the way her eyes squint at the screen, searching for what she’s supposed to be seeing.

Lukas shifts on his feet. Gia keeps holding his hand.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t need to look; he knows the names that live there. A lawyer, a board member, a journalist. Somebody who wants something or needs him to do something. Another meeting, another problem, another thing he has to fix though it sometimes feels like using a teaspoon to scoop water out of a sinking ship.

He stares at the unclear image on the screen. He’s here. The baby doesn’t know it, but Gia does.

And Lukas does.

The outside noise is just that and it can not be louder than this moment; if he lets it scream louder than this then he’s already fucked it.

It’s not that simple.

But it could be, because he wants it to be. He wants this to be enough. It should be enough.

It is enough.

The technician turns to him. “Would you like a printout?”

Gia smiles and rushes to answer before he can even think about it. “Obviously. And can we get extras? I need copies for my sister and my parents.”

The technician cleans the remaining gel off Gia’s stomach while the printer whirs. As she hands him a glossy strip of grainy images, Lukas takes it carefully. It’s still just shapes to him; a blur of black and white. Too soon to tell if it’s doomed to inherit all his worst traits. It’s half her, too, and maybe that’ll be enough to tip the scales.

Gia smiles. “We should put that on the fridge.”

“Yeah.”

They walk into the hallway. The technician urges them to take some brochures and pamphlets, so they browse the highly curated selection in its sleek acrylic display on the wall. Organized, color-coded, suspiciously minimal. No baby blocks, no bright colors. Everything’s branded like a startup or a Scandinavian skincare line.

“Luxury birth plans? Sounds like an oxymoron,” he says with a frown.

Gia picks up the brochure and flips through. “Private suite, aromatherapy, meals curated by a Michelin chef… Huh. They make labor sound like a spa retreat.”

“Could be nice, I guess.”

She shrugs and then notices something else. “Ooh, mommy groups. At SoHo House?”

“I’m a member.”

“Of course you are.” She reads on. “Prenatal yoga, champagne brunches…”

They stare at the wall. Breastfeeding seminars held by Ivy League lactation consultants. Hypnobirthing. Baby massage. Prenatal acupuncture. Astrology readings. Non-toxic nursery designers.

Gia picks up another pamphlet and flips through it.

And then, there it is. The one that catches his attention: The Modern Dad: Redefining Masculinity Through Gentle Parenting . The title is embossed in white on a matte navy background. There’s a picture of a man wearing cashmere with a baby strapped to his chest, sipping from a nondescript coffee cup.

Lukas huffs under his breath. “Jesus, what the fuck…”

Still, he picks it up. Slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket like it’s contraband. Gia doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and chooses not to say anything.

She picks up a few more and tucks them into her bag. “Ready to go?”

He nods.

The outside air seeps in through his nostrils like static, sharp and dry. He doesn’t mind the cold. Possibly a genetic trait. It rushes through to his lungs—a shock to his system, a reminder that he exists. For a second it’s like his nervous system comes alive and remembers how to regulate, how to be.

His phone vibrates again. He checks it. A problem that can’t wait. The expression on Gia’s face is knowing, but not angry. He’ll always check—that she seems to understand.

He puts the phone away. Not answering. Not yet.

“Do you need to go to the office? Because I have Uber money now. I can get home,” Gia says.

He laughs. “No, uh. Let’s go get breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

“Pancakes?”

“That sounds really good,” she says and then—a long pause.

“Are you trying to imagine what they’ll taste like coming back up?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Soft and sweet. Probably won’t be so bad.”

“Alright. Pancakes it is.”

The diner is very New York—busy, chaotic, efficient. The sound of plates being stacked, a burst of laughter from the corner table, espresso machines whirring and hissing; it’s all very rhythmic and loud and somehow feels like coming home though it’s the furthest thing from any home he’s ever had. The walls are covered in framed photos of celebrities who might’ve visited, who knows. It’s not like anybody’s checking.

They squeeze into a booth near the window.

A waitress with a name tag that says ‘Betsy’ hands them sticky menus laminated within an inch of their lives. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Gia says like an addict waiting for her first fix. Apparently large amounts of caffeine and babies in utero don’t mesh.

“And for you, hon?”

Lukas nods. “Same. And maybe just keep it coming.”

Betsy smiles like she’s heard that one a thousand times and disappears with a snap of her gum.

“Really? Keep it coming?” Gia asks. “You want to torture me? What’s next? You’re gonna order a plate of deli meat?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Just a plate of meat? Not even on a sandwich?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll try to refrain.”

“Good,” Gia says, scanning the menu. “Now, do I want blueberry pancakes or chocolate chip waffles?”

“Get both,” Lukas says, leaning back against the booth.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“I’m not. You’re growing a tiny human. You should get everything you want.”

She smiles, a little sideways. Betsy appears with coffee and her notepad to take their orders. Gia orders both. Lukas smiles.

“Do you want to see something cute?” she says and, before he can even answer, slides her phone across the table.

The screen glows with a pregnancy tracking app. An illustrated plum, bright and round and smugly unaware of the existential weight it carries, floats at the top.

12 weeks: your baby is the size of a plum

“It’s so tiny,” she says, her voice veering into a kind of awe.

“Yeah.”

“It’s kind of strange, you know. There is actually something growing inside of me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t even feel it yet, and it already has feet and fingernails.”

He raises both eyebrows. “Fingernails?”

“Isn’t that amazing?”

“Or terrifying.”

She laughs. “Like it’s gonna claw its way out of my uterus?”

“Exactly.”

“Lilly showed me this app. She has a lot of baby books to give me. You remember her, right?”

“Uhh—homeless shelter, right?”

“Exactly. Now that I’m not working, I have a lot of time. I’ve been volunteering a lot.”

He should know that.

“That’s great,” he says, swallowing the guilt. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Like last Wednesday.

He’d told her he’d be home by seven. She’d texted around 6:45— Still on schedule?— and he hadn’t seen it until 9:17. When he finally walked in, the lights were low and one candle on the table was still burning. The other had melted down to a stump. He expected yelling, no—actually, he didn’t expect yelling. No, he hoped she would yell.

Instead, she stood up, grabbed a plate, and said, “Sit down. You’re probably hungry.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. That was the worst part.She looked like she had been crying. Red-rimmed eyes, slightly puffy. Her hair was up. She was wearing a dress that he recognized as a souvenir from Europe. Paris, maybe.

He sat down. She went to the kitchen.

A drink appeared in front of him—fuchsia-colored, lemon-sliced, sweet-smelling.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A mocktail,” she said. “I made raspberry syrup. That’s in there.”

“Huh.”

“I remember you said your mormor used to have raspberries in her yard.”

He blinked. “I did?”

“You did.”

He tried the drink. Good. Fizzy. Acidic.

Then she brought out the plate.

He stared at it. “Is this—Gia. Where did you get gravlax?”

“I made it.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“You can’t even eat this.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s not for me. It’s for you. All of this is for you.”

“All of this?”

“Well, yeah. The gravlax and the meatballs and the pickles and the almond cake thing.”

And then he remembered another thing he had once said, how he didn’t like American pickles, how they were inferior compared to the ones back home.

“Gia. Did you make pickles?”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” she said and smiled. “I wanted to do something nice for you. I don’t know if you ever get homesick, but if you do…”

She shrugged. It wasn’t passive-aggressive. It wasn’t even sad. Just—gentle. Honest. And he hated how much it made his throat hurt.

“I made you cry,” he said.

She huffed out a small laugh. “I’m pregnant. Everything makes me cry.”

“I was three hours late, Gia.”

“I know.”

No anger in her voice. Just acceptance. That made it worse. That made it unbearable.

He picked up a fork. She turned away to tidy the kitchen, even though there was nothing left to clean.

And he sat there, eating the perfect meal he didn’t deserve. The metaphor wasn’t lost on him. Not even a little.

He apologized, later. Of course he did.

He had been doing that a lot, lately.

She’s sipping her coffee and browsing through the baby app. He finds himself thinking about how the UI could be improved.

“I think I need a project,” she says.

“You have the wedding. And the baby,” he says. He takes a sip of coffee. It’s bad, burnt.

“Neither is really all that time consuming.”

“Right.”

He goes quiet.

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s really nice to take it easy, because I don’t expect to get much rest once the baby is born, but—you know. Yesterday I started peeling off the wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom, because it looked a little dingy.”

“There’s wallpaper in the downstairs bathroom?” he asks.

“Not anymore.”

It starts raining outside. Streaks run down the window. The bell at the door chimes as a few people swarm in seeking shelter.

Gia likes the rain. It’s romantic, somehow. When they stayed at his house in Lago di Como, she pulled him out of bed in the middle of the night to stand in the doorway and look at the falling raindrops.

He likes the rain, too. It’s clean. Peaceful.

“You could do something with the foundation,” he suggests.

“The Lukas Matsson Foundation? Isn’t that—”

“A scam?” he offers.

She shrugs.

“Eh. Not really. Just lacks a legitimate direction. You could do something with that.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Something?”

“Anything.”

Another comfortable silence falls.

The food comes. She drowns her pancakes and waffles in syrup and butter, and eats them slowly, like if each wonderful bite is committed to memory the aftermath won’t feel as horrible.

A piece of pancake appears on the side of his scrambled eggs. It’s too sweet for this time of day. He eats it anyway.

The clock ticking away on the wall serves as an unwanted reminder: he doesn’t have time for this. And the second that thought forms again—uninvited, brutal—he fucking hates himself. Not in a vague, self-deprecating way, not in the ha ha, I’m emotionally stunted and all I have is my business way but in a way that’s raw, real, throw up your rotting insides just to make it stop kind of way.

Because she’s eating pancakes and growing a human being, and he doesn’t have time. Because he’s so fucking important? As if.

He finishes his cup of coffee. Betsy is quick to refill it. His fingers tap against the tabletop. Involuntary. He doesn’t even notice he’s doing it until she does.

“You know you can tell me things, right?” she asks.

“What things?”

She shrugs. “Anything.”

“I feel like you have something specific in mind.”

“Work.”

“Work,” he repeats.

“Some time ago, in a little cabin, you told me it’s no longer fun.”

“It’s not. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“But you do,” she says, her eyes soft.

“It’s not that. I’m just wired this way,” he says. “I built this. I have to see it through. I have to—”

“You don’t need to explain.”

“But I do.”

“I get it. I think. I’m just a little worried, because I don’t know what’s going on,” she says. “The press—you know. It’s not a pretty picture.”

“Sometimes it is.”

She tilts her head like it qualifies as a question. It does.

“Sometimes they put a picture of you on there,” he explains.

“You’re not sweet talking your way out of this.”

“I’m not trying to,” he says. “You don’t need to worry. I’m fixing it. And then I can walk away.”

“Is that really what you want?”

No.

“Yes,” he says.

It will be.

Pancakes. Waffles. More syrup. Another refill of coffee.

A text.

The vibration of his phone alerts them both in what must be a borderline Pavlovian response. He groans, inside, and she looks at him carefully.

“It’s Franny,” he says. “She says congrats on the blob.”

“Yeah, I texted her the ultrasound picture.”

Another buzz.

»»it has your nose

»»I think

Gia is browsing the pamphlets she picked up. “What do you think about babywearing?”

“The baby wearing what?”

“No, wearing the baby. In a carrier or wrap.”

“Uh-huh. Makes sense, logistics wise. Hands-free operation.” 

“I could see you doing that.”

And the way she says it, like it’s the most normal thing in the world and not—what? Terrifying? No, it’s just a baby. He’s not scared of a baby. Absolutely not. They’re sticky and loud and demanding and oozing things out of every orifice. Disgusting, maybe. But scary? No.

Babies are fine. Blank slates, totally pure and undamaged.

It’s when they start understanding things that’s the problem. When they start forming memories. Personality traits.

Inherent traumas. Nature versus nurture.

No, the idea of wearing his baby is not terrifying. But the meaning behind it? That he’s, quite literally, attached to it? That he’s all in on this? That he’s somebody’s fucking father?

That—

It has a heartbeat. Feet. Fingernails.

It’s the size of a plum.

And he, himself, was once the size of a plum. And then a basketball. And a television. When he was the size of a refrigerator, his dad said adios to the world and his mom sent him away, because she couldn’t deal with him.

Gia has moved onto another pamphlet. There are pictures of happy pregnant women sitting in a circle with their partners. Some sort of class, apparently.

“I want to be a good dad,” he says. It comes out lower, rougher than he means it to.  

She looks up. “You will be.”  

“How do you know?”  

She shrugs. “You’ve said it yourself. When it’s your kid, you’re gonna love it.”

“And that’s enough?”

“It’s enough to start. We’ll learn the rest as we go.”

Where she gets her unwavering faith in him, he has no fucking clue, but he wants to live up to it, to be the man that apparently he is in her head.

She reaches out and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Lukas. I love you.”

A wrinkle forms between his eyebrows. “I love you, too.”

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a mom. But I don’t think you really thought about kids before we met,” she says. “And that’s okay. I know you’re not a kid person. It’s not really how you were raised. It’s not in your DNA. But this baby? He, she, whatever. It’s gonna be so lucky to have you as a dad.”

He wants to say something. To argue.

Instead he says something else.

“I almost didn’t come today.”

“I figured,” she says. “But you did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need you to be perfect, Lukas. I just need—you.”

That lands.

Harder than she probably means for it to. Maybe.

She makes it sound simple. She needs him. Like that’s enough; like he even knows what that means. Like there’s some version of him that she knows, even though he has no fucking idea who that is. Like he hasn’t spent his entire adult life building himself into something that moves too fast, thinks too fast, barely has time to feel; someone that doesn’t stop for anything short of success and not even then.

A stable version. Someone she can trust. That’s what she needs. Not perfect, no—the universe knows he’ll never be perfect. He doesn’t even know what perfect looks like.

He can write an email that will tank stock value in six words or less.

But a dad? A husband?

Fuck. What does that look like?

Showing up. Being there. Really being there. Keeping promises. He knows.

In theory, he knows.

And the worst part is, he could already see it. The future. She was it. He was in it for real. He did what he said he would.

He ran away with her.

Paris. Berlin. Amsterdam. Parts of Sweden. Italy. All of it—and not enough.

Just a private jet and hotel keys and reasonably priced espresso—not the swill they serve to oblivious tourists for triple mark-up. Walking through freezing streets with pastries in paper bags. Her hand in his. She wore the ridiculous scarf and gloves and wool hat—the yellow and blue that read ‘SWEDEN’ in big block letters—and met a Swede living in Paris and then proceeded to have a full conversation with him. In Swedish.

Lukas helped. A little. 

And she made him stop at every Christmas market. Had to buy something from each one. From Rome, a ceramic plate handmade by someone, shaped like macaroni. Useless. Necessary. From Berlin, the painting that’s still in his penthouse. And a pretzel.

And he was fucking happy.

Even with his inbox overflowing and journalists circling like sharks in the water; even with headlines that slammed him for shit he didn’t even do.

Because she was laughing, and the tip of her nose was cold and red, and he would kiss it to make it warm.

And then—they came back. Had to.

The board made him. That’s what he told her. It wasn’t a lie, not really. They did make him. Accountability. Damage control. All part of a plan to fix things.

It wasn’t a lie.

Not really.

Except—

He could tell the board to fuck all the way off. They can’t actually make him do anything. He’s not some dork in middle management. If he really wanted to stay in Europe, they could’ve found a way to spin it. Fuck, he could’ve just walked away. He could walk away right now.

If he wanted to, he could. Just let the whole fucking thing burn, maybe pour some gasoline on it for good measure. 

But he won’t.

Because no matter how badly he wants that, how fucking happy he could be, he can’t. He’s not that guy. Not now. Not yet.

When they get home, she heads straight for the fridge, tacking up the ultrasound strip with a bright yellow smiley face magnet.

Lukas watches her from the doorway, hands in his pockets, and wonders if he could ever truly do it. Normalcy. A house in Queens that’s too small.

To be the guy that’s just so fucking happy with what he has.

And he wants to believe that he almost was.

Chapter Text

Anonymous asked:

Do you think she really loves him or is it just about money/status/etc?

@fuckyeahpastagirl answered:

LISTEN

I’ve been through this over and over again and you all say I’m too parasocial but whatever idc

if she was in it for the money, they would NOT be living in a fixer-upper in QUEENS, like hello??? the man owns a $12M penthouse in manhattan???

she would also NOT be volunteering at a homeless shelter without turning it into a photo-op

she would have a collab with le creuset and a spread in vogue italia and be the spokesperson for some skincare brand because hello?? who has skin like that??

she would have her own cooking show or something idk my point is she’s still living her normal life and he’s just existing in it

AND he is literally being ripped to shreds by the press, by twitter and the tech/finance bros on reddit and she’s STILL standing beside him

because do I need to remind you that they weren’t even officially dating before the gojo scandal? if she wanted STATUS she would’ve latched onto someone less likely to go down with his burning empire 

do I think she really loves him? is the earth round? is water wet?

Anonymous asked:

What do we know about the wedding?

@fuckyeahpastagirl answered:

NOT ENOUGH

it’s very hush hush, which makes sense because it’s her and also doesn’t make any sense at all because he’s never done anything lowkey or private

but here’s what we know:

the dress: Vivienne fucking Westwood — confirmed by a sales assistant at brides&co on 42nd

the vows: somebody on reddit claimed to be his ghost writer but that was debunked, so we have no idea, but he tweets about her like he’s fifteen and just discovered love and the internet, so… my expectations are HIGH and I hope someone live streams it

the guest list: big names in tech, legacy media, venture capitalists, inner circle of GoJo — a deuxmoi blind item claimed the entire Roy family was invited as a gesture of good faith, but remains unconfirmed

also her family will be there!! if anyone’s secretly on tumblr it’s Gia’s sister (@fromfrancescawithlove on tiktok) so fingers crossed for leaks

and my plans for the wedding day include pasta and prosecco, and refreshing twitter, tiktok, ig and tumblr like a mad woman

Anonymous asked:

I get why you like Gia, but Lukas Matsson? Just because you’re a fan doesn’t mean you need to agree with her every decision.

@fuckyeahpastagirl answered:

okay you know when you’re in a dead fandom? no new content? years go by and it’s just tumbleweeds

imagine being in a fandom for one person on one season of a reality show

and it’s just you and a few other crazies

this blog was literally dead after masterchef ended, just recycled old gifs and a few articles to share about her pasta truck and charity work + the age old discourse of her being the most robbed individual in mc history

and then: enter Lukas Matsson

he is the most high-functioning emotionally unavailable man to ever exist, probably

and he looks at her like she hung the fucking moon??

this is my roman empire

knock

knock

Gia shifts her weight from foot to foot. The hotel is quiet at this hour, hushed like it’s holding its breath for tomorrow. It’s late. She should be asleep, everyone else probably is, but she can’t—not with tomorrow looming over her like a decision she’s already made but hasn’t quite processed.

Tomorrow.

The wedding. Her wedding. 

It’s real. It’s all real. There’s the world's most beautiful gown hanging untouched in her room, and a bouquet of sunflowers being delivered first thing in the morning. The hair stylist, the makeup artist, the caterers, the photographer—every single detail of the day is already lined up into a pretty, color-coded schedule. It’s all happening.

But it still feels like a dream she’s walking through with her eyes wide open.

It’s not nerves, not really. She’s not nervous, she doesn’t have cold feet. This is what she wants; this is what she’s always wanted.

She loves him. She does.

But it sometimes still feels as though the ground under her is just one step away from crumbling. It’s all happened so fast, too fast by most standards.

It’ll be six months this week.

Six months since he walked up to a random food truck and ordered lasagna. Six months since he introduced himself with his full name, and she had no idea who he was.

Six months since something just clicked.

She loves him.

She does, with absolute certainty. Him. Not who he is on paper, in articles; not who he is according to scandalous headlines and overly sarcastic thinkpieces. Not the man with billions, plural. Just him. And that’s enough, even if it’s too fast. It doesn’t matter what it looks like to someone on the outside; it doesn’t matter what people will say—because they will say something. That fact has been made very clear to her by numerous people, because six months isn’t a long time, and billions and billions of money is a lot of money. 

And then there’s the baby. And that, too, will eventually be a talking point.

She’s never cared too much about the opinions of others, but then again—she’s never had to deal with quite this many before. If she thinks too hard about it, the whole thing threatens to buckle under its own weight. But she doesn’t. She can’t.

Because it’s always been too fast. Because two weeks in she’d already imagined a whole life together and that was before he even kissed her. Because it’s not about time or money or everybody else.

It’s not about whether or not this is insane, because it absolutely is.

It’s about him.

The man who fights random people on the internet about how much he loves her and can’t be bothered to text her back.

Who misses dinner even after he’s promised to show up and then eats the cold and soggy food without complaining.

Who didn’t say a word at the ultrasound—but held her hand through the whole thing.

Who took her sister’s dog with him to Sweden because it couldn’t move to campus with her.

The man who picked up a pamphlet about fatherhood and hid it in his jacket pocket like an illegal substance.

The man whose whole brand is built on unpredictability, fast moves and a certain type of erratic insanity.

The man who makes her feel like she’s not insane for  wanting everything after just two weeks.

The door opens. Lukas stands there, fresh from the gym, skin still flushed, hair damp with sweat. He’s in grey sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt that clings to him in ways that would normally distract her. He smells expensive—of smoke, vanilla, and sweat. He raises an eyebrow.

Gia exhales, unsure what she even came here to say. Just that she needed to see him.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I can’t sleep.”

As she steps inside, he gives her a kiss on the forehead. This wasn’t really in the plan; she had wanted to spend the night apart. It’s tradition after all.

“You smell nice,” she says, glancing at him from over her shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Very manly.”

He smirks. “I just got back from the gym. Gonna take a shower.”

“Can I order room service? The baby wants fries and a milkshake.”

“Sounds good. Get me a burger,” Lukas calls, already disappearing into the bathroom.

Gia sighs, collapsing onto the bed. She reaches for the room service menu, flips it open, and picks up the phone.

Then she sees it.

Next to the phone is a thick stack of papers. White, heavy bond, the kind that carries weight before you even read the words. She spots her name at the top of the first page.

Her pulse slows.

She puts the phone down. Grabs the stack. Flips the page.

And there it is. Legal language. Clauses. Terms. Conditions. A dry laugh catches in her throat. Then, she reads.

The bathroom door opens. Lukas walks out, rubbing a towel through his hair. He’s shirtless, skin damp, but she doesn’t even look up.

“This is a prenup,” she says.

He exhales through his nose, tossing the towel onto a chair. “Yeah.”

“Did we talk about this?” She squints at the paper like maybe she’s misreading it. “Did I forget? Pregnancy brain is real, you know.”

“We didn’t talk about it.” His voice is even, unbothered. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Right. I wasn’t supposed to see it.”

He moves toward her, but she lifts the papers between them.

“It says in case of divorce, I get a hundred grand for every year we were married.”

Lukas is quiet, but nods.

“That’s a lot,” she says.

“It’s not.”

“Okay, well, I don’t know the going rate in prenups.” The tone in her voice is more annoyed than she means for it to be.

“For someone in my tax bracket?” he asks. “We’re talking property, stocks, alimony somewhere in the six to seven figure range.”

She swallows. The paper crinkles in her grip. Lukas exhales sharply, grabs the prenup from her hands, and throws it in the trash. The entire stack lands with a dull thud.

“My lawyers sent that over without consulting me,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m firing them on Monday.”

Her eyes flick to the trash can, then back to him. “That seems harsh.”

“It’s not.”

“What if they have families?”

“They’re bloodthirsty sharks. They’ll live.”

Gia watches him with a wide-eyed stare. The ease with which he says it is a little unnerving.

“You wouldn’t last a day in my job,” he says, “and that’s why I love you.”  

“They made one mistake,” she tries to reason.

“It’s not—” he begins, his tone argumentative, but quickly pauses. He sighs. “It’s insulting. You’re going to be my wife and the mother of my child, and they drafted up this hack job of a prenup that I didn’t even ask for? To offer you pocket change?”  

“It’s hardly pocket change,” she says. Then, unsure, “Right?”

“I mean, it’s not, but if you put it into perspective, then yes.”

“When my truck was failing, I needed to raise fifty thousand to save it. Fifty. Half of what this is offering. That was literally life-changing money for me.”

“I know.” His voice is softer now.

Pocket change. A hundred thousand dollars is pocket change. She’s never really thought of it before. Not like this.

Gia rubs at her temple. “I know you’re a billionaire. I’m bad at math, but I’m not an idiot.”  

He laughs in response. Not mean, just—soft. 

“I’m just having a hard time wrapping my brain around this. Like, if I had twenty meatballs and in case of divorce, you would be entitled to some of those meatballs then 100k would be—”

“Equivalent to less than a grain of salt.”

“Oh.” She goes silent. “That is kind of insulting.”

He kisses the top of her head before grabbing the towel again to hang it up to dry.

She stares at the trash can. A cold shiver runs down her spine. The prenup makes her uncomfortable, but it’s not about the money. It’s not about all the talk of possible divorce. It’s not even about the prenup simply existing. 

It’s about the fact that he hadn’t told her.

She’s still processing the thought when Lukas seems to move on, like the conversation is done, like he thinks it’s settled.

“I was thinking,” he says, walking toward the minibar, “we should turn the guest room into a nursery.”

She blinks, refocusing. “Yeah?”

“And I’m gonna buy the house next door.”

The sentence is so casual she almost misses it. “You’re—what?”

“I’m gonna buy it, tear it down, extend our house onto that lot,” he says, like this is just something people do.

Gia stares at him. “That seems excessive.”

“Would you rather move?”

“No, but—”

“Right.”

She folds her arms. “When did you decide this?”  

“A month ago.”

“And you’re just telling me now?”

Lukas frowns, like he doesn’t understand the problem. “My real estate guy is negotiating the price. The owners can sense I’m willing to pay over market, so they’re getting greedy.”

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Which house?”

“The red brick one.”

“The Thompsons?”

He shrugs.

“They’re eighty-nine years old,” Gia says, exasperated.

Lukas doesn’t flinch. “Are you suggesting I wait until they die?”

Her face says everything. He backtracks quickly. “No, obviously not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

“I thought you’d be happy.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. He looks at her like he can’t understand why she’s not over the moon about this; like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind that she might want a say.

“That’s not the point. You can’t just buy a house,” she says.

“Well, I can.”

He shrugs one shoulder, flippant. Like it’s nothing more than a question of whether or not he has the money to do so.

She blinks. Slowly. Sure, he can buy a house. He could probably buy all the houses on their street and connect them all into one ridiculously long house. He could probably buy all the houses in Queens and just rename the entire borough after himself.

“That’s not how a marriage works. This is not just your decision,” she says.

“It kind of is.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m the one buying it.”

She lets that sink in. He’s the one buying it and she’s just—what? Along for the ride? A lucky prize winner?

She’s just the person actually living in it while he’s barely home—

Deep breath. Calm down.

Too late.

“So, because I have no money, I have no say?” she asks.

“That’s not what I’m—”

She cuts him off. “No? Because it sounds to me like that’s exactly what you’re saying.”

“I don’t understand. We need more space. I’m fixing the problem—”

“I didn’t even know we had a problem.”

“I do not have time to go through every real estate purchase with you—”

“Real estate? Lukas, we’re talking about our home.”

She doesn’t mean to raise her voice, not really. It just happens. Coincides with her rising blood pressure, probably.

“Same thing,” he says.

“In what world is that the same thing?”

“You know what I mean.” His hands are planted on his hips like he’s the CEO of this argument. Of this hotel room. Of the world, probably.

“I really don’t.”

“I bought your house, and you were fine with that. How is this any different?” he asks, and then, with emphasis, “I’m doing this for us.”

Us , he says, like they’re on the same side here. And then, “I didn’t think I needed your permission.”

He says it like it’s reasonable. Like that’s the thing she’s mad about. Like this is still salvageable with logic.

“My permission? No, Lukas, you don’t need my permission to do anything.”

“So, what? You don’t want to live there?”

“This isn’t about that.”

“Then what the fuck is this about? Because this is the magic house that always feels like home—”

The patronizing tone. The absolute nerve he has to be upset over this.

The fact that he’s not even listening.

“Don’t do that,” Gia snaps.

He scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Oh, come on. You’re overreacting.”

Head. Brick wall.

Smash.

That’s what this feels like. Gia takes a deep breath. Then she looks at him, straight into his eyes.

“Lukas, tomorrow you’re going to get married in a space I picked. Decorated with flowers I like. You’re gonna eat the food that I wanted to serve and cut the cake I thought was the best one. You’re gonna dance to a song I chose, wearing an outfit that I thought would look good next to my gown.”

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He doesn’t reply.

“I sent you photos. I asked for your opinion. I tried not to care too much when I got zero input, because I get it. You wanted me to be happy and you were busy, so you left it up to me. And that’s fine. I’m happy to do it. But if you don’t like the cake or you think the music is too—sappy, sentimental, something, just remember that I texted you my top choices and you replied with a thumbs up.”

His jaw tightens. Visibly.

“And you didn’t even think to ask before you decided to buy a house.”

She doesn’t even sound angry anymore. More disappointed than anything.

She gets up from the bed.

“Gia—”

He pauses. Doesn’t have a reply for that. Not one that would make her stay.

“I’m going for a walk.”

She doesn’t wait for him to follow, and leaves the door open behind her.

The hotel hallway is quiet, still. Her own room is just down the hall. A suite. A really nice one, too.

But she doesn’t go there. That’s where tomorrow lives.

The elevator arrives quickly. She knows all the room numbers by heart, of course. 613 is mom and dad. 624 is Alma. Ira’s on call tonight, so he’s coming straight to the venue tomorrow. 831 is Franny. Cousins on the 7th floor. They don’t need to stay there—nearly everyone is local—but Lukas suggested it. It made sense, logistics wise. Get everybody in one place, shuttle them to the venue all at once. Feed them a bougie brunch so they’re in a good mood all day.

“And, you know, it’s nice. You want your people close by,” Lukas had said.

“What about your people?” Gia had asked.

Lukas had laughed. And then, he’d looked at her with genuine confusion—as though he’d assumed it was a joke.

That had been enough of an answer.

Gia takes the elevator two floors down. Knocks on Franny’s door. Firm, but quiet. The lock clicks open. Franny stands at the door in an oversized hoodie, a sheet mask on her face and a can of Coke in her hand.

She takes one look at her sister and says, “What did he do?”

“He decided to buy a house without telling me.”

“Oh, no.”

Franny steps aside. Gia steps in and flops down onto the bed like a dead fish. Franny follows suit.

The TV is blaring. Some detergent commercial.

They don’t talk for a few minutes. Gia stares at the ceiling.

“I thought you guys were all settled in Queens. That he knew how important that dingy little house is to you,” Franny says, her tone careful.

“He knows. That’s why he’s buying the house next door. Says he’s going to expand.”

“Interesting. And would this expansion include a sister-in-law suite?”

Gia hits Franny with a pillow. She deflects. The pillow falls to the floor.

“It’s not about the house. It’s a really good idea,” Gia says.

“You just don’t want to be an NPC in your own life,” Franny says, like that’s supposed to make sense.

“A what?”

“Nevermind. You’re upset he didn’t ask. I get it.”

Gia stares at the ceiling. Again. “His lawyers drew up a prenup.”

“A good one?”

“No,” Gia says. “He threw it in the trash.”

“Good boy,” Franny says. “You should have a good one. Like, one that guarantees that I’ll also be taken care of.”

“He didn’t even tell me about it. I just found it by accident.”

Franny is silent. Then, “Did you yell?”

“I should have.”

Franny hums as though she agrees. Then, “Did he?”

“No.”

Franny smiles. A subtle, sly kind of smile that seems involuntary—like she’s trying not to smile for Gia’s sake, but is still secretly happy for Lukas having maintained some self-awareness and composure in the situation.

There’s a talk show starting on TV. The band plays the intro music. The host comes out to roaring applause.

Gia sits up, cross-legged, thankful for the mindless distraction. For the noise, hopefully louder than the one in her head.

The monologue starts. Franny reassembles her stack of pillows against the headboard and slouches down.

A joke about the economy. A joke about politics. A joke about some pop star.

And then:

“Billionaire CEO Lukas Matsson is in the news. Again.”

Somebody in the audience boos. Somebody cheers.

The host makes a face. “Wow. The room is divided.”

The audience laughs. Gia glances at Franny. She’s visibly cringing.

“He’s getting married tomorrow, which means betting pools are circulating on whether he will cry at the altar, live-tweet his own ceremony or be seized by federal agents during the first dance,” the host continues.

Laughs.

“My money’s on the first one. It’s beautiful, really. Lukas Matsson found a woman who makes him want to log off. Except we’re still waiting for him to, you know, actually log off.”

“Should I turn this off?” Franny asks. Gia shakes her head.

“They say opposites attract. She’s short, he’s tall. She’s smart, stunning and generous. He had a padded room in his office…”

A pause for laughs. The host shrugs.

“People are calling her Matsson’s smartest acquisition to date. And I have to agree. I think she gives him a fighting chance of being likable.”

Gia bites her lip.

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” 

The audience cheers. The host introduces the guests of the evening.

Franny turns off the TV, chucking the remote onto the armchair in the corner. “That was some misogynistic bullshit. He didn’t even say your name!”

“Yeah,” Gia mumbles. She’s still staring at the black screen.

“I’m going to make a TikTok about this. My followers are going to tear that guy a new one—”

“Please don’t.”

Franny scoffs. She goes to the bathroom and comes back without her face mask.

Gia takes a deep breath. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Franny doesn’t say anything right away. Just sits back down on the bed, tucking her knees inside her hoodie. Then, casually, “You don’t have to.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding. You’re the one who said it like you have doubts.” Franny shrugs. “Just say the word and we can bail. You know I’m down.”

Gia smiles a feeble smile. There’s absolute conviction in Franny’s voice, and while taking off in the middle of the night the night before the wedding doesn’t sound like the most solid plan, it’s still nice to be supported.

“I don’t have doubts,” Gia says. “I just don’t like the fact that we’re having this huge fight the night before.”

“Maybe it’s a good sign.”

“What?”

“Obviously he’s a total idiot who needs a lot of help to act remotely human—”

“Franny,” Gia scolds.

“What? I’m on your side. I’m just saying. You’ve kind of been pretending everything’s fine for a while now—”

“There’s a big difference between pretending and—”

Franny quirks an eyebrow. “Settling?”

“No. I’ve been giving him space,” Gia says.

“Whatever. Tonight you told him off,” Franny says. “And a lot of people would be too scared to do that the night before the wedding.”

“I’m not scared to tell him how I feel, Franny.”

“That’s my point. You know he’s not gonna walk.” Franny shrugs. “Because you freaks are, like, the real deal or whatever.”

There’s a knock at the door. Not urgent. Not timid, either. Just a knock. Franny gives Gia a look that signals a question— do you want me to get rid of him?

Gia pushes herself off the bed. She opens the door.

Lukas stands there, his feet shoved into hotel slippers about two sizes too small, his phone in hand like he’s been calling non-stop. He looks like a man who has lost something and isn’t sure how to ask for it back.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he asks.

“It’s in my room,” Gia says.

His eyes flick to Franny behind her. “Hey, Franny.”

“Hey, dumb-dumb.”

Gia steps into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low.

She doesn’t say anything. Childish, maybe. But valid.

“I moved into your house. We didn’t talk about it—it just kind of happened,” he says. “And that’s fine. You love your house. You don’t like the penthouse—”

She rolls her eyes. “I like it fine.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You keep a toothbrush over there and that’s it.”

“I’m low maintenance.”

“My point is, I need more space. We need more space. And this is where you want to live, so—”

“How do you know that?” she interrupts, firm.

“Well, I know you—”

“Okay, but this isn’t like when you order for me at a restaurant. This is our life together,” she says, crossing her arms. He looks taken aback. “You told me you don’t want to raise kids in the States. What happened to that?”

“Well, I don’t want to raise them here, but I’m stuck here for now.”

“For now, right,” she says. For now. For however long until he can walk away from GoJo—or admit to himself and her that there’s a good chance that’ll never happen. Whichever comes first.

Gia swallows the impulse to make this about that. Because this isn’t about that. This is about this. This moment, this house, this situation, this—

This reality where he’s stuck here for now and there’s a future where he isn’t and he’s still made this huge decision without her.

“And then?” she asks. “Are we moving to Sweden?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe.”

“And what? You’ll just buy and build houses across continents based on vibes?”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah?” he asks, looking at her like she’s just suggested something that’s common sense to everyone. “I once bought a condo, because I was attending a conference and all the good hotels in the area were fully booked.”

“Uhh—right,” she says. “But this isn’t that. I mean, how would you feel if I told you that my mother is coming to live with us after the baby is born?”

“Well, she’s small. I’m sure we can find a closet to stuff her into.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I am. I swear. If you told me that, then yeah, okay. We can do that. If that’s what you need.”

“For six months.”

“For—” He pauses. “Is she actually—”

She shakes her head, visibly frustrated. He breathes a silent sigh of relief.

“What if I told you I don’t want to be a stay-at-home mom?” she asks.

That one lands. “You don’t?”

“You’re operating under the assumption that I do.”

“I’m sure you’ve said it.”

“I don’t think I have.”

His face is scrunched up in confusion. She sighs.

“And this is my point exactly. There are so many things we haven’t talked about, and you’re this impulsive person who makes these big decisions—”

“It’s just a house,” he says.

“It’s not just—”

She pauses and pinches the bridge of her nose. It shouldn’t even come as a surprise that he does big things quickly—and without asking. After knowing her for less than a month, he’d already funded her pasta truck anonymously, bought her a restaurant she didn’t want, and conspired with her mother to buy her house just in case she’d ever come back and need it.

And apparently he buys houses like normal people buy toothbrushes. Forgot to pack one for your vacation? Just get a new one. It’s fine. It’s just a house. No big deal. It’s not even a commitment, it’s just—something. Convenience. Real estate.

And maybe, in some way, this is an overreaction. Maybe it is just a matter of perspective. To him, a 100k is pocket money. A house is just a house. It’s not a decision about where they’re going to live, the place they’ll call home. It’s not about where their children will grow up.

It’s about the fact that he needed more space so he made it happen. Because he can. Because that’s what he’s used to.

Because right now he’s stuck here and he doesn’t need to think beyond right now.

Except that he does, because he’s about to get married and it won’t be just him anymore. And therein lies the issue, because he can say sorry all he wants, but he’s still rationalizing it. Because his perspective is fundamentally—

Wrong.

Not wrong. She wouldn’t say that. Just—incomplete. Because he can say sorry and act like he gets it and think that the problem is just that he didn’t ask, when in reality the problem is that he doesn’t get why he needs to ask, why she’s spiraling right now, why he needs to tell her things, and why he can’t simply assume that she wants to live in the magic house and be a stay-at-home mother even if his assumptions are correct—and they are—but he’s known her for six months now and the chances that he’ll make the wrong assumption are still pretty high because—

Because if he had said the word prenup in any conversation prior to tonight—

She would’ve maybe wanted one.

Maybe.

And maybe she’s stupid for not even thinking about it. In this day and age it’s probably standard practice, but then again, nothing about this wedding, this marriage, is standard practice. She’s walking down the aisle pregnant, wearing the most beautiful gown that, by some grace of the universe, hasn’t even needed alterations because her baby bump is nonexistent—a fact that she’s grateful for now more than ever, because that talk show host probably would’ve had a field day with presumptuous shotgun marriage jokes. She hasn’t even met the best man. Or Lukas’s mother. Or anyone from his family, for that matter—not even his grandmother, who he actually likes.

Because she’s old and unfit to travel and apparently thinks it’s 1994 and only wants to talk about how Lukas is going to be just fine after his father’s suicide.

So, there’s that, among other things.

Gia sits down on the floor with her back against the wall. He squats down beside her. He has that look on his face. Worried, quiet. Constantly about to say something but deciding against it, as though he knows whatever he says won’t fix this—whatever this is.

He hates that, she knows. Things that aren’t easy to fix. Things that take work he doesn’t quite know how to do.

“It’s just a house,” she says. Quietly, like it’s a truth she’s not willing to really admit.

“Right.”

“And you’re right about everything. I want to live there. I want to stay home with the baby.”

Out of instinct, she touches her stomach.

“Okay?”

“You know me. I love that. And I hate it. Honestly, it scares me, Lukas,” she says and looks straight into his eyes. Clear, unreadable. Then they shift, slightly, with a flicker of panic he can’t mask.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because you’re making decisions for me and not with me—”

“I said I was sorry.” His tone is clipped, sharp. Irritated, like the apology was supposed to be enough.

She pulls her sleeves over her hands and rubs them against her face, mumbling her words into the fabric. “I know, I know—”

“I don’t understand why this is a bad thing. I’m trying to be a fucking husband and a father, and that means I’m taking care of you—” He pauses. Waits for her to look at him. Then, softer, but still anxious, “And if the end result is the same then what does it fucking matter?”

“It matters, because I need time. Because I need to feel like I have some control over my life. Everything is happening so fast—”

He interrupts. “You think we’re going too fast?”

Did she say that? Did she actually—

It slipped. A mistake. This is everything she’s ever wanted. This is the life she imagined basically the second they met. Sort of. Maybe the details are a little different, maybe it hasn’t exactly happened by the book, but still.

It’s always been fast.

“Do you?” she asks.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel it.”

Silence. The kind that’s uncomfortable; the kind that feels like getting caught with something you shouldn’t have.

“Are you having doubts?” he asks.

“No,” she says. Immediate. Sure. “I love you.”

“Okay,” he says. His voice falters, maybe. A little. He seems to hold his breath while waiting for her next words.

“Loving you is easy. Like breathing,” she says, because that’s the absolute truth.

He laughs under his breath. “But living with me is a fucking challenge.”

It’s not a question.

“I don’t want to say that,” she says.

“You don’t have to. You’ve said plenty.”

“Lukas,” she says, with no idea what words come next, and reaches for his hand. He lets her take it.

He looks down at the floor. His hand shakes in hers, just a little. Just enough for her to notice.

“I am fucking trying, Gia,” he says.

“I know.”

The hotel hallway feels suffocating, like it’s too small to hold all this in. Before another silence has a chance to settle in, Gia rises to her feet. 

“Come on,” she says, tugging on his hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To get the baby some fries and a milkshake,” she says. “But first, you need to grab your shoes and I need to grab my phone.”

“Shoes? I thought we were getting room service.”

She shakes her head.

Not ten minutes later, they’re sitting at the McDonald’s around the block. The lights are too bright, too fluorescent. One is about to give out, flickering with a steady static right above. The air smells like grease and desperation. A group of teenagers is sitting in the booth in the corner, stacking fries like Jenga. Another table is occupied by a bachelorette party. Loud, laughing. Making veils from toilet paper.

A strawberry milkshake sits on the tray between Gia and Lukas. Two orders of large fries. A burger for him.

“We couldn’t do this at the hotel?” he asks, unwrapping his burger like it personally offended him.

“Bad energy,” she says.

“It’s a five-star hotel.”

“No, you and I had bad energy. Something needed to change.”

He nods like he gets it, or perhaps he’s just going along with the bit. He takes a bite, chews, swallows. “This might be the worst burger I’ve ever had.”

Gia smiles and grabs another fry. “Fries are good.”

“Mm.”

They eat. She dips a fry in the milkshake. It’s the best thing she’s eaten all day. Salty, addicting. Now that the nausea has finally subsided, she can actually enjoy food again.

The smile that spreads on his lips is a little crooked. Adorable.

It’s always been too fast, but in moments like this the world slows down. That’s the issue, probably—that these moments are too far apart lately. That’s part of it, anyway.

The other part is—

Skipped steps. Unspoken conversations. And it’s not just him, either.

“Were you ever going to tell me about the prenup?” she asks, her tone soft.

“We’re not getting a prenup, so probably not.”

She nods. His answer is as expected.

“Why would we?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. To protect your assets. To make sure that things are fair—”

“Fair? Gia, I could give you everything I have and it still wouldn’t be fair. Because what you give me—” He exhales hard, staring at her like his brain is buffering. “Fuck. It’s fucking priceless.”

She bites her lip. Can’t help it.

“But once we’re legally married, you’ll get access to the trust,” he says and grabs a fry.

“The what now?”

“Your trust fund.”

The what now, she almost repeats. She stares ahead, mouth slightly open and eyes blinking, waiting for him to elaborate. He doesn’t.

“And what’s in it?” she asks.

He shrugs, too casual. “Thirty percent. Of everything. Stocks, properties, cash. My new lawyers are drafting it. It’s just paperwork.”

“Thirty percent,” she repeats. He gives a vague shake of his hand, palm down—give or take. She blinks. Slowly. “Thirty percent of your— of your net worth?”

He nods.

“How much is that?” she asks.

“Thirty percent? Are we talking in terms of meatballs or—”

She chucks a fry at him. It lands in his lap. He laughs. Picks it up. Eats it.

“It depends on market conditions. Fifteen, sixteen,” he says.

“Million?”

He tilts his head. Raises an eyebrow. “Babe.”

Her whole body stills. Shock crawls up her spine, down her legs, through her blood.

“Billion?” she whispers. Then, even quieter, “You’re giving me fifteen billion dollars?”

“Most of it’s tied up, so you can’t just, like, go shopping and buy Liechtenstein—”

“Do you hear yourself right now? Are you actually of sound mind and body—” The words come out fast, anxious. She pauses. Takes a deep breath. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Not now. I know that.”

And then, he continues eating his disgusting burger like he’s just told her to add milk to the shopping list. Like this is the end of this conversation, like she’s not going to have follow-up questions. Like what the heck is she supposed to do with fifteen billion dollars? Even if most of it is tied up, it’s still there in value. It’s still there and technically it could all be untied.

That’s not the word. Probably. She’s not sure. She’s never had anything like this. There’s the money in her bank account. There’s the house. There’s the truck that’s basically worthless. That’s her net worth. Or, it was.

She stares at him. Waits.

And he can see her waiting. It’s so obvious he really did not mean to tell her, because he clearly doesn’t want to answer any questions. Doesn’t want to explain himself. If she hadn’t brought up the prenup again, she might have just woken up one day with a trust fund. That was probably his plan.

Because he had to know she would think thirty percent would be absolutely, ridiculously over-the-top too much.

He finishes the burger. She’s still staring. His jaw is clenched, his fingers are drumming the table. He looks away. Then back.

“I don’t know how to be good at any of this,” he says.

“At what?”

“All of it. Marriage. Fatherhood. Family. You.”

“Me?”

“But, I don’t know. I’m fucking trying. To do right by you,” he says. “And I know you. I know this isn’t what you want. But I’m doing it anyway and—”

“And I don’t get a say,” she says.

“No, you don’t. This is a non-negotiable.”

She can’t do anything but stare in disbelief. Fifteen billion is non-negotiable. Right, right. Cool.

“Everything else, I can admit I fucked up. The house, the prenup—I should’ve told you. I get it,” he says. “I’ve never had to think about anyone else before. Not like this. And nobody has ever thought about me like you do.”

Sad. That’s her gut reaction; that what he’s saying is just unbelievably sad. But then again—maybe it isn’t. Maybe it just is what it is.

“So, yes, I have some shit to learn. But this? The trust? You don’t get to argue with me about that.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she asks.

“Yes. I’m being an asshole. Because shit happens, and I—”

He’s quiet. Like he’s said something he shouldn’t have. Then, “I need to know you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll always be fine,” she says, confused. She’s managed this far in life just fine.

“I know. Because I’m taking care of you. And I don’t care if it’s too much. I don’t care that you don’t need it,” he says. “No matter what happens—”

He pauses. Again.

“No matter—what?” she asks.

“It’s irrevocable. If you decide to walk, you’ll still have it. If I die… Well, you’ll get the rest to go with it.”

Her eyes widen. “If you die?”

“Markets crash. Companies crumble. People fucking die.”

“Oh, my god,” she mumbles under her breath.

“What? You want me to lie? You want me to pretend I’m not already thinking ten steps ahead while everything falls apart around me?”

“You’re not scared of dying, Lukas.”

“You don’t know what I think about at three in the morning,” he says like it’s a joke. A throwaway line. A shrug of his shoulder and a bitter smile.

“That’s right. I don’t.”

He shoots her a glance. Restless. She sees it—something under the surface.

“So tell me,” she says. “All I want is for you to tell me what you’re thinking.”

A pause. He turns away, grabbing the back of his neck. “Helvete, Gia.”

His voice isn’t angry, it’s frustrated. Pleading.

“Nej, Lukas,” she says. “Berätta sanningen. Nu.”

Her tone is unrelenting. Her pronunciation is off. But it gets him.

“You want me to say it out loud? Fine,” he says. “I’m scared of myself. I’m scared that I’m going to fuck this up. I’m scared I can’t be the man you need me to be, or the father that this kid needs me to be—”

“Lukas—”

“So, yes, this is my failsafe. I put a number on what it would take for me to sleep at night knowing that if I can’t be what you need, then I can at least be the guy who made sure you’ll never want for anything.”

Stunned silence.

“You want to know what I’m thinking about at three in the morning? It’s not GoJo. It’s not the fucking SEC.”

“It’s this?”

He nods. Then he leaves her sitting at the table as he goes back up to the counter.

It doesn’t all make sense all at once, but—perhaps some of it does. A hundred grand for every year of marriage. She had considered that reasonable, generous even.

Buying the house next door to build an expansion. She had considered that a little excessive.

And now they’re here. Fries, a disgusting burger, a milkshake—and his fifteen billion dollars worth of panic. Because that’s, what, easier than just admitting he’s scared? Because he’s already decided that he’s going to fail?

He’s crazy. Certifiably insane. Who thinks like this? Ten, twenty, a hundred steps ahead? It’s like picking up a cake from the bakery just in case the one you’re making turns out bad. Except it’s not cake—it’s a gift certificate to a Michelin restaurant. Delicious, sure, but won’t be much use when you’re hosting a party where everybody is expecting cake.

He comes back with a cup of coffee. Coffee. Past midnight. Another piece of evidence for his insanity.

He sits down. Sips coffee.

She stares at him. Swallows nothing. “I’m scared we’re moving too fast.”

His exhale is almost a laugh. “Yeah, I kind of figured that out.”

“But I needed to say it.”

“So we can both be scared?”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “So we can be honest. I knew you were processing becoming a dad and everything, but I didn’t know—”

“That it goes this fucking deep?”

She nods. “But I guess I didn’t really know I was scared, either, so…”

“Pregnancy brain?”

She smiles. He eats another fry. She drinks the rest of the milkshake.

“Franny said we’re the real deal,” she says.

“Well, if Franny said it, it must be true,” he says, dryly.

They walk back to the hotel surrounded by the sounds of New York City late at night. Sirens blaring in the distance. Thumping club music bleeding through brick walls. Somebody preaching conspiracy theories about lizard people being the driving force behind capitalism. She wants to go over, to tell them there’s a shelter nearby.

He doesn’t let her.

He holds her close, tucked away under his arm, taking slow, short steps.

“Did you finish your vows?” she asks.

“I figured I’d just wing it.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Good,” he says. “I like keeping you on your toes.”

She looks up. He’s barely able to contain himself from grinning like an idiot.

“Don’t worry. I wrote my vows,” he says. “And cut out all the stuff that’s inappropriate to say in front of other people.”

“Like what?”

“Like how you make me feel like less of a sociopath.”

Gia laughs. It’s not a joke, but still.

The doorman at the hotel greets them by name. She’s still not used to it—just showing up at hotels or boutiques and everybody immediately knowing her name. Before him, she would actually have to make the effort and introduce herself. Now somebody does it for her. An assistant she’s never even met.

Lukas almost walks straight inside, but backtracks when Gia stops right in front of the doorman. “It’s Eddie, right?”

The doorman nods. “That’s right, Ms Ferrara.”

“You were here when we checked in, right? How long is your shift?”

“It’s almost up, miss. Full twelve.”

“Really?”

“I do three twelves a week. That way I have four whole days with the kids.”

“Aww. How old?” Gia asks. She can sense Lukas beside her watching the exchange and already thinking about why they’re still outside.

“Oldest is eight. Youngest just turned two. The twins are five,” Eddie says, beaming with pride.

“You have four children?” Lukas asks.

“Yeah, man. And another one on the way.”

“Aww, that’s so wonderful. Congratulations,” Gia says, patting Eddie on his shoulder.

“Thank you, miss.”

Gia gives Lukas a look, her eyes shifting towards Eddie, signaling something that she thinks is obvious. Lukas apparently thinks it’s a sign she’s ready to go in.

“Good night, man,” he says.

Eddie holds the door open for them, and Lukas steps inside to the lobby. Gia lingers and then gives Eddie a warm smile before following Lukas inside.

“Go back out there,” she says before the door is even fully closed.

“What?” Lukas asks.

“Tip him.”

“What?”

“He’s a really good doorman. Tip him.”

“I don’t carry cash. I have people for that,” he says like it’s a totally normal excuse.

She stares at him.

“I explained this to you in Europe. Everybody gets a generous tip when we leave,” he says.

“And if I had my wallet right now, I would do what I did in Europe.”

His brow furrows. “Which is?”

“Tip people. To their face. And say thank you.”

“Vad fan, Gia. What do you want me to do? Go out there and Venmo him?”

“Sure.”

“Because he can hold a door open?”

“You’ve never worked in customer service and it shows.”

He sighs, deeply. Then he turns on his heels and pushes back through the glass doors. Gia watches from inside as he pulls out his phone, says something to Eddie and offers an actual handshake. Eddie looks surprised, but smiling, and Lukas offers a tight-lipped smile that looks tense but still kind of like this isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to him.

He steps back inside. “You happy now?”

Nodding, she pulls him in for a kiss that’s meant to be a thank you but quickly turns into something more. He kisses back. Hard. Like he’s releasing the tension build-up from tonight—or reclaiming something he still isn’t sure will always be his. She leans into him like he’s the only solid thing in her world right now, her eyes closed, her hormone-driven brain completely blocking out the fact that even though they’ve booked a few floors, this is still a public place.

Her fingers fumble around, searching for the hem of his hoodie to slip under it, but can’t find it. She opens her eyes for a moment to see better and then—

Something familiar catches her eye. Someone at the bar.

She pulls back. Abruptly. He’s catching his breath. The look on his face is full of questions—why did we stop, since when do we do this in hotel lobbies, can we do this again—and just as he’s about to voice some of those questions, Gia tilts her head in the direction of the bar.

Lukas turns to look.

“Jesus,” he mumbles. “I’m a grown man. You’re having my baby. Then I see your mother and it’s like—”

“We’re thirteen?”

He nods. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a keycard. “Come up to my room when you’re done?”

Gia bites her lip. The urge to just wave quickly to her mom and go straight upstairs is strong, but they both know that won’t happen. Not in this family.

“Uh-uh,” she says, grabbing the key.

And as he disappears into the elevator, Gia walks up to the bar. Her mom Sophia is there, with a cup of steaming tea on the counter and a book beside it. She’s scrolling on her phone.

“Can’t sleep?” Gia asks, sliding into the seat beside her mom. They half-hug—quickly, awkwardly. The bar stools make it difficult.

“Your father woke me up to tell me he can’t sleep. Said he’s a nervous wreck because of the wedding,” Mom says. She puts her phone down.

Gia raises an eyebrow.

“I got up to use the bathroom and by the time I came back, he was snoring like a chainsaw,” Mom says with an exaggerated eyeroll.

Gia laughs. That sounds like dad for sure.

Mom sips on her tea. “I see spending the night apart is going well.”

“We decided to skip that and just have a huge fight instead,” Gia says, casual, though fully aware of the pinkish flush rising to her cheeks.

“Didn’t look like a fight.”

“Everything’s okay now. I think.”

She smiles, a little lopsided, and doesn’t sound fully convinced. After all, it’s not like fear disappears just because it’s spoken out loud. But—just knowing he’s terrified somehow helps. Because he’s trying. Because he’s desperate to keep her—not in the way men want to own someone, but in the way people need oxygen.

“You look tired,” Mom notes.

“I am tired,” Gia says. “And a little scared.”

“That’s normal.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. The bartender is drying glasses with a towel at the end of the bar. Somebody is fighting with a laptop behind them. Mom sips on her tea, observing Gia in a way that makes her wonder if there’s more to the insomnia than she’s been told. She’s waiting for something. She knows Gia too well.

“He’s giving me a trust fund worth fifteen billion dollars,” Gia says to break the silence.

Mom raises an eyebrow. “May I ask why?”

“Because he’s scared he’s going to be a bad husband and father.”

Mom opens her mouth as if to say something but then closes it. Then, with a neutral tone, “Well, he’s always had a knack for dramatic gestures.”

“It’s ridiculous, right?” Gia laughs.

“I think that’s a given.”

“But—I don’t know. In some deranged way I think it’s sweet. Or maybe I just feel like I understand him a little better now,” Gia says.

Mom hums in agreement, not fully convinced but supportive.

“He told me he’s never had to think about anyone but himself before,” Gia says.

“Sweetie, anybody who’s ever met him could’ve told you that.”

Gia shoots her mother a glare. Sure, it’s not exactly news, but it’s the acknowledgment of the fact that matters. He’s actively aware that being a partner isn’t his natural state.

“Don’t get me wrong. I love Lukas,” Mom rushes to say.

“I know. And you encourage his extravagant behavior.”

“I think you deserve a man who will chase you down at the airport. But—”

She takes a deep breath, as though the rest of that sentence deserves a dramatic entrance.

“But?” Gia presses on.

“You also deserve a man who comes home when he says he will.”

Gia looks down at the marble floor. At her shoes. At the dab of hot glue that’s keeping the sole from detaching.

“He will,” she says.

“He’s going to have to,” Mom says. And then she smiles, warm and loving. “You want some sleepy tea? Or hot chocolate? You used to love hot chocolate.”

“I’m good. I should head up.”

“One more thing before you go,” Mom says. “When is Lukas’s mother arriving? Birgitta, was it?”

“Yes, Birgitta,” Gia confirms with a tense smile.

“Is she coming to brunch? I would love to meet her before the ceremony.”

“I have no idea. She RSVP’d yes, but—” Gia shrugs. The look on her mother’s face is telling. Gia agrees, “I know. It’s weird.”

“Maybe it’s a Swedish thing,” Mom suggests.

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe it’s just another part of what makes him who he is.”

There’s no judgment in her tone. Just the truth; just a reminder that things aren’t always black and white. They hug, again. This time a real one.

“I love you,” Mom whispers into Gia’s hair. “I’m happy for you.”

“I know,” Gia mumbles.

The elevator is empty. The hallway is quiet. She slides the keycard. A flicker of green light, a click of the lock.

Inside, it’s dark. The TV is glowing blue, playing something Lukas is definitely not watching. He’s in bed, head propped against a stack of pillows, phone in hand, expression unreadable—but she knows that look. He’s doom-scrolling again. Probably Reddit.

He looks up when the door clicks shut behind her.

“Do you know what I just realized?” she asks, slipping her shoes off beside the door.

“What?” he says, his eyes tracking her across the room.

“It’s officially our wedding day.”

She pulls off her hoodie. Then the leggings. The socks. Underneath it all, a white lace bodysuit. Very bridal, very form-fitting. Almost too pretty to sleep in. It’s one of four. She had planned on buying just one, because there’s only one wedding. Only one wedding night. And then—

Franny, who had begged to come along to La Perla in the first place, had made a point about how it’s good to have options. And then she’d leaned in like they were conspiring and said, “Besides, you’re not going to spend the night before your wedding apart. That’s just not going to happen.”

And then she had shuddered like the mental image made her regret even bringing it up.

Lukas shifts, chucking his phone on the nightstand without a second thought. He tilts his head, watching her closely as she climbs onto the bed and onto his lap, straddling his thighs between hers, pressing her hands against his bare chest like she plans to use her freshly manicured nails to brand him with marks of indecency. He’s warm. Firm.

And he still smells like smoke and vanilla. And home, in the metaphorical sense.

“Was this your plan all along?” he asks, his breathing growing heavier. “Because if it was, then I am the biggest fucking idiot in the world for leaving that prenup on the—”

And she kisses him once to shut him up.

Then, again. For good measure.

Chapter Text

@lukasmatsson: getting married today btw

@someguy: honestly if I was under federal investigation I’d also pivot to wife

@applestoreslut: can’t believe i’m rooting for this stupid marriage. i’m crying over techbro mr darcy and his pasta wife

@fuckyeahpastagirl: if @lukasmatsson doesn’t post one blurry photo of Gia with an unhinged caption like “mine” then what even was the point??

@girlbossing: this wedding is the human version of clicking “remind me later” on your federal subpoenas

@lukasmatsson:
everybody: “you can’t distract from the SEC with a wedding”
me: distracts from the SEC with a wedding

@anonymous99: if this woman doesn’t deserve generational wealth I don’t know who does

@TechDigest: BREAKING: A GoJo spokesperson confirms CEO Lukas Matsson is not commenting on federal scrutiny today, citing “a personal commitment.” No, literally. He’s getting married.

@popcrave: imagine divorcing a billionaire and your origin story is you selling meatballs out of a van. queen behavior.

The music is too loud.

The lights are too warm.

Someone in the second row is crying already and Lukas doesn’t know who it is—might be one of Gia’s cousins or a very emotionally available florist. He doesn’t know, doesn’t really care either. There are flowers everywhere. They’re pretty, if you’re into that kind of thing. A massive, stained glass window is right behind him, dramatic and theatrical in a way that makes him think this is the part in the play where someone dies. There’s something very church-like about the space, something otherworldly. It’s impressive, for sure, and demanding.

Like it has expectations that he will struggle to meet for the rest of his life.

Oskar stands by his side. Not the best man, but a best man nonetheless. There was nobody else better suited for the job. They have history; not all of it’s good. But it works, and Oskar said yes even though he’s not a fan of Lukas’s new life.

Of Gia.

Lukas will never tell her that.

Franny stands on the other side in a dress the color of basil. She sticks out her tongue in a way that says when is this thing starting, I’m bored and my attention span is zero rather than I’m mad at you for last night. So, there’s that, at least.

His knee is doing that thing. That thing where it seems to vibrate from the inside out. Anxiety, probably, but he wouldn’t say that. He doesn’t do anxiety. He does executions. Hostile takeovers. Blood in the water. He wins or he walks. That’s it. But—he’s been fidgeting all day, bugging the wedding planner for status updates like he’s some kind of control freak who really wants his wedding to start precisely at the time that’s printed on the invites and not like he’s at all worried Gia will bolt if she’s left alone for a second too long.

He’s not. Not really. She wouldn’t.

But if she were feeling petty? If she wanted to make a point? This would be the moment.

Was I supposed to tell you I wanted to call off the wedding? Sorry. I thought we were both making decisions without each other.

She wouldn’t—it’s just not in her nature. She’s not spiteful.

The music shifts.

Everybody stands.

And then—

Oh, god. She’s not coming.

A split second of doubt.

And then, he sees her. He exhales; didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

Gia moves down the aisle like she belongs, like she was always meant to be a bride, and not just any bride—his bride. The dress is immaculate, dramatic, but clean as fuck, and she looks like a fucking dream. The silk clings to her body in all the right ways, showing off her chest in a very respectable kind of way, but still enough to make him think all sorts of disrespectful thoughts. Her veil cascades down her hair and her back effortlessly like it’s always been there, and she’s carrying a huge bouquet of sunflowers and some sort of greenery that dangles from it like a beaded curtain. She’s looking straight ahead, straight at him, as if the whole world has faded away and they’re the only two people left.

And he thinks fuck, if she wasn’t already pregnant he might just impregnate her right here and now—

Fuck.

Focus. You’re getting married.

Lukas straightens up his spine. He hears a soft wailing sound from the first row.

Alberto. Already crying happy tears. Gia’s chosen to walk down alone, fearing her father would’ve been a blubbering mess at the end of the aisle.

A fine decision, it seems.

Yesterday—before the fight, like he had some kind of sixth sense—Alberto tried giving Lukas the talk; the one where he swore to do bodily harm if Lukas ever hurt his little girl.

It didn’t go so well.

Alberto had cornered him in the hotel restaurant, armed with a pair of reading glasses, a crossword, and a stern look on his face.

“You hurt her, I bury you,” he said.

Lukas blinked. “Okay.”

Alberto nodded slowly, like he expected a stronger reaction. “In the desert. Like mafia.”

Lukas fought the urge to laugh. This? From the man who cried when he saw Paddington 2? And then texted about it in the family group chat?

“There’s no desert in Queens,” Lukas said.

Alberto shrugged. “I’ll find one.”

Silence.

It was awkward. Not the good kind.

Lukas shifted. “Listen, I’m not planning on hurting her.”

“Good,” Alberto said. Then: “Because she’s not soft. She’ll survive you.”

That landed harder than the threat.

“You’re not exactly comforting me here,” Lukas said.

Alberto gave a one-shouldered shrug. Nonchalant . “She is not easy to break. But she breaks herself for people.”

Lukas swallowed.

“You better be worth it.”

Silence again. This one full.

He walked away after that. Joined the rest of the family for dinner. No hug. No handshake.

And now, watching Gia walk toward him, the conversation plays like a loop in Lukas’s mind.

You better be worth it.

He isn’t. He knows this. But he fucking will be.

She’ll survive you.

She would. Of course she would.

But she won’t have to.

On his side of the room he spots familiar faces. People he’s screwed over, people he’s made rich. The Wambsgans-Roy family unit sans baby. Karolina, of course, and Gerri. Greg. Fucking Greg. Just the sight of that face makes Lukas regret not checking the guest list himself.

Board members. Execs.

And he tries to imagine just how small this wedding would’ve been if these people weren’t obligated to come. Then he looks to the other side.

Sophia takes out a cloth napkin from her purse and dabs it to the corner of her eyes gently. Alma, who looks like she might be wearing every single piece from her jewelry store, seems to be holding it together better than expected. Ira is looking at Lukas like he has a sniper up on the roof, ready to shoot at his signal. Cousins whose names he doesn’t know or care to remember, though he should; friends from childhood. People from the shelter. Neighbors. Regular customers.

All of them looking at Gia—at Lukas— like they’re genuinely fucking happy to be there.

The contrast is too stark to ignore.

Gia stops in front of Lukas. He takes her hand, and it’s steady—oh, fuck, is it steady. She’s sure. Still.

A hopeless romantic. A little bit insane, sometimes.

And ever so fucking sure.

The officiant speaks. Lukas only half-listens. Something about joining souls and standing witness and a whole lot of heartfelt filler. The kind of language that makes him itch.

The vows are next. They turn towards each other, holding onto one another with both hands.

Gia goes first. Before she even speaks, he can feel the hair on the back of his neck rise up.

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve had this dream, this fantasy, that one day I would meet the love of my life and live happily ever after. The world told me I was asking for too much, for a storybook romance. Something that doesn’t exist in real life,” she says.

“But I met you. And you proved them all wrong.”

He swallows something that’s stuck in his throat. Her eyes are so pretty. Big and green and full of love. For him. For the world.

Not that he cares about the world. Not right now, anyway.

“Because you looked at me like I was already yours when we barely knew each other. You made me feel like I’m not insane for asking for these things. You—”

She stops to breathe in deep. Her hands shake in his, ever so slightly.

He holds on tighter.

“You walked into my life like you already belonged there and you saw me. You let me see you. And it was better than a fantasy. It was real. You are everything I could ever ask for and nothing like I imagined.”

Jesus. His vows are beginning to sound like garbage.

She blinks. And then again. Her voice shakes just a little. “And I promise you nothing but myself, as I am, because I know that’s all you’ve ever asked of me.”

He breathes in, sharp, trying to center himself, to keep himself together like there’s still a chance he might survive this without crying in front of all these people.

There isn’t. The tears have already pooled in his eyes.

“I love you, Lukas. In this life, in the next.”

Tears fall down her cheeks perfectly, like she’s a painting. Like she’s controlling them with her mind. And she’s looking at him like he’s someone she chose. Like he’s someone she’ll keep choosing, because she’s fucking here, right? 

Her eyes, her lips, her little freckles and her dainty fucking hands in his. Her smile.

It’s too much. Too fucking much.

And not enough.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tight, as though he can force the tears back inside. She laughs. That makes it worse. He’s nodding. Why? No fucking clue.

Then his eyes meet hers again. And she’s still fucking steady. Laughing, crying, but steady.

So fucking happy.

And it’s his turn.

Fuck.

He can do this. He can open his heart and bare his soul in front of these people, even if the majority of them probably think he’s just doing it to rebrand himself.

He exhales. His vows are fucked. Absolutely not worth it. Like fucking Hallmark cards strung together to fit the brief. Like—his feelings, sure, but watered down to be palatable. Not good. Fine. But he doesn’t do fine.

So, he goes off-script.

“I’ve been all in since the day we met. You know that. Like, all in. To the point of obsession that some might call clinically insane. And some did. I mean, I watched reality television for fucks sake.”

There’s a ripple of laughter from the crowd, but Gia doesn’t look away from him. She giggles. Soft. The kind that makes her nose wrinkle.

“And I don’t believe in a god or fate or a higher power or any of that cosmic universe soulmate bullshit, but fuck, what are the odds? I skipped breakfast. You parked your truck in a randomly assigned spot. That’s it. That’s the whole reason we met.”

His voice is steady, but his eyes betray his nerves by blinking like strobe lights.

“I think about that all the time. If I’d made a slice of toast that morning, if the city had given you a different permit—what? We wouldn’t have met? No, I can’t. I can’t imagine that. You’re my fucking person. I want to make you coffee in the mornings. I want—”

And he chokes. Just a little. Just enough to remember that he’s said something similar before. Something about running away. Living a normal life. He keeps saying these things. He keeps thinking these things.

And then he does fuck all except buy houses and set up trust funds.

By now, he’s very, very aware of the disconnect.

He clears his throat. “I want to build a life with you.”

And her eyes are so fucking soft at this moment, like she believes him. Like she believes that he finally believes it himself. That he can do it.

“And maybe this is the part where I’m supposed to say you’ve changed me. That I was nothing before you and now I’m complete. But that would be a lie. I was a person. I’m still that person. But—”

He pauses. She tilts her head. Nods. Like it’s okay. Like he’s not speaking in front of three hundred guests. Just her.

“Fuck. You see something other people don’t. Something I don’t always see.”

Another soft wail erupts from the front row. Gia doesn’t need to look; neither does Lukas. She stifles a laugh; he’s just grateful for the distraction. If someone has to be an emotional wreck, it’s better that it’s Alberto and not him.

“So, now, I believe that some things are meant to happen. I believe that I will meet you in every fucking universe. And in every one of them, I will most likely fuck it up.”

A subtle shake of her head, her hand squeezing his. Curious murmurs from the crowd, as though he’s not supposed to talk about fucking it up in his vows.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you already think I am. Because I love you. And if I ever forget to say it, just assume I’m thinking it—because I always fucking am.”

He lifts up her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I’m yours. For good.”

She inhales. Sharp. Her eyes are wide and glassy, looking up and blinking, but the tears fall despite her best efforts.

Oskar hands him the ring, and his fingers are shaking. Literally shaking. What the fuck. He once had a migraine and still managed to give a TED Talk on digital immortality. He once fired a CFO on a company wide Zoom. He once jumped off a cliff in Norway because someone dared him to. He doesn’t do nerves. And yet, now he’s here. Unsteady. Trying to slide a fucking ring on her finger.

And her hands are shaking too.

Good.

They exchange rings. The officiant pronounces them husband and wife.

“You may now kiss—”

Fucking finally.

Lukas doesn’t wait. He grabs her face like she’s an oxygen mask falling from the overhead compartment. Essential for survival. The fucking air that he needs. He kisses her, long and slow, and maybe slightly inappropriate. But who cares. She tastes like peppermint. Fuck. On the bedside table of his suite sits a cutesy little tin of mints with ‘mint to be’ written on it, which he promptly forgot to bring.

But Gia didn’t, apparently.

The crowd applauds. Cheers. One side of the room is significantly louder than the other.

His ears are buzzing like static as they exit, hand in hand, and duck into a little side room to wait. Someone tells them they’ll be announced in fifteen minutes. Lukas doesn’t hear the rest.

Because Gia is glowing—not metaphorically, not poetically, not the pregnancy glow she swears is just sweat from throwing up all the time but— glowing. Literally radiating from the inside out, like she’s a fucking bioluminescent creature.

She turns to him. “Was that real or did I imagine it?”

“All real, baby.”

She leans in and kisses him—soft, quick, then again. Not so quick. His hands find her waist, her back, then lower. Maybe too low.

And she responds by pressing her body against his and grasping at his collar, pulling him in even closer .

Oh, fuck.

“Gia,” he says, laughing against her mouth. “There are people out there.”

She drags her lips along his jaw; the little humming noise she makes is like fucking ASMR to his ears. “And?”

“And nothing. This dress has a zipper, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

She traces her fingers along the nape of his neck, so lightly they barely touch, like she knows he’s just seconds away from losing all composure.

He leans back just enough to look at her.

And she’s perfect. Hair slightly undone, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. Still catching her breath from everything—the kiss, the vows, the fucking unreal reality. And she’s looking at him like he’s the best decision she’s ever made.

Fuck.

“You happy?” he asks.

She doesn’t hesitate. “The happiest.”

“Okay. Good. Cool. Cool, cool.”

They kiss again—slower this time. Softer.

Someone knocks on the door. “Ready?”

Lukas presses his forehead to hers. “You ready?”

“No,” she laughs. “I need someone to touch up my lipstick.”

“I’ll get the makeup artist—”

“No, he left. Franny can do it.”

Francesca walks in just seconds later as requested. She takes one look at Gia’s flushed cheeks and Lukas’s mussed up collar and grimaces. “Oh my god. What happened?”

Lukas and Gia look at each other like two people with an inside joke.

“No, wait. Don’t tell me. Just seeing the aftermath is traumatizing enough.”

Gia laughs. Franny digs into her little purse and pulls out—stuff. Makeup. Lip things. She grabs Gia by the jaw haphazardly like a loving sister and yanks her chin up. Gia parts her lips.

“While I have you here, you know, congrats and everything. And also, who’s doing the press coordination for this thing?” Franny asks.

“What?” Lukas asks.

“Do they have the details of my outfit?”

“Again, what?”

“So that Vanity Fair can get it correct? Francesca Ferrara, the dazzling sister of the bride, served as Maid of Honor in a gown by Dolce & Gabbana, a nod to her firmly Italian roots—”

His brow furrows. “What are you babbling on about? There’s no press here.”

“What?” Franny shrieks. She looks from Gia back to Lukas. “This is the wedding of the year, of the decade, of the century. And you’re depriving the general public the possibility to be a part of this?”

He nods. “Uh-huh.”

Franny stares at him, like it’s a joke. Like at any time now he’s going to say gotcha . He doesn’t. No press. He doesn’t need it— though keeping the wedding closed seems to be making it more interesting in certain circles—and Gia definitely doesn’t need the scrutiny or speculation about why she would be parading her wedding in the public eye.

“You guys are freaks,” Franny says. She takes one more look at Gia and pins back a loose strand of hair. “And you’re done. I’m not doing this again, so try to keep it in your pants, please.”

Franny walks out into the reception area. Gia and Lukas line up at the entrance, holding hands. Then they hear it. The music swells. Something dramatic, but not cliche.

“And now, for the very first time… Mr and Mrs Matsson!”

Gia turns to look at him. “I don’t remember agreeing to change my name.”

“I know. You don’t have to. But allow me this one time of upholding traditions.”

She quirks an eyebrow. He’s the farthest thing from a traditionalist, this she knows, but—

There’s just something about knowing she’s his. The name reflects that.

And—

Well.

He’s never really thought about it before, but it is a family name. A name for a family. Or it was, once, now it’s just leftovers. The thing that ties him to his dead dad. To his grandma, mormor.

To his mother—who uses her maiden name academically anyway.

It’s a name for a family that doesn’t really exist.

And then there are those who share his blood, who are—in the legal sense anyway—his family. Aunts, uncles, a few cousins. The maternal grandparents.

None of whom bothered to show up today.

Maybe that’s his fault. Maybe he didn’t try. Maybe he doesn’t actually care. Fuck, they never did.

They weren’t there when he was sixteen and found his father dead in the garage.

They came to the funeral, sure, played sympathetic. Gave him pats on the back when he said he hadn’t slept in four days. Wondered if they’d get anything for the company his father had built with their money. And when they assumed Lukas couldn’t hear, they whispered about him, said he was probably next. That he had his dads faulty wiring and weak nature.

They weren’t there when his mother shipped him off with no return policy.

He used to think he was better off for it. That it made him strong. He bought into their words, mostly.

But he was nothing like his father.

It didn’t matter how many times mormor said he was, how many times she said it wasn’t his father who was broken, but the world he lived in. He had made up his mind, and Astrid Matsson could not change it for him.

But, she tried. With cinnamon buns and coffee. With raspberries growing in the yard.

With a song she used to sing whenever he couldn’t sleep. Not to him, not beside his bed, because he had snapped and said he wasn’t a fucking baby.

But outside his window. Soft and steady.

He never said thank you.

And now she’s in a nursing home with fucking Alzheimer’s, and he can’t even apologize for being a fucking brat. Can’t ask her to meet his wife or kid.

Or the version of him that turned out—fine? The jury's still out on that.

Fuck.

He hadn’t realized having a child meant prosessing your own fucking trauma.

Fucking fuck.

And now he’s walking out to the floor holding Gia’s hand. People cheer. Franny whoop-whoops like she’s at a frat party. Alberto cries like he’s just seen Paddington 2 again. Sophia looks at her daughter like she’s witnessing the birth of Christ.

And Lukas—he can’t even blame her.

Because Lukas is not a religious man, but Gia is a fucking religious experience.

And he doesn't want to think about it too hard. It’s her decision. But if she takes his name? If she gives it meaning? Then that’s just the fucking cherry on top.

The reception is absurd. Excessive, full of flowers, chaotic. The space is massive with high ceilings, The tables are round, and the lighting is warm like a never-ending sunset. It’s a machine that Gia built while he just signed the checks. And it’s fucking beautiful. Half of Gia’s extended family have flown in from Italy. Cousins, aunts, uncles, godparents, honorary godparents, neighbors, someone who may or may not be an ex-boyfriend. It’s hard to tell. They're all crying over la piccolina getting married, pinching her cheeks like she’s still six.

People keep coming up to him to congratulate him. He smiles. Sometimes. Gives nods, handshakes. Ira calls him lucky. He agrees, loudly, and Ira cracks a smile. Not a big one, but enough to notice. Alma raves on and on about how she’s never seen a more beautiful wedding or a more gorgeous bride or a more handsome groom.

He still doesn't see his mother.

The appetizers have come—small bites served family style. People are laughing, sipping wine. It’s loud, buzzing. Gia and Lukas sit at their own little table that overlooks the entire reception.

She feeds him a piece of cheese and, fuck, if it isn’t the most sensual piece of cheese to ever exist. She’s still floating in her own deliriously happy haze, lips glossy from non-alcoholic champagne, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, as if none of this is exhausting. As if it’s just a party, just a celebration, not some elite social summit full of people who pretend to like him while they count his money.

Her fingers linger just a second too long at his lips, brushing the center, and she laughs like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Because of course she does. He chews, slowly, eyes on her like there’s nobody else in the room.

And then she kisses him. Hard.

Hot.

Her mouth on his. Her hand suddenly on his thigh. She tastes like salt. It’s not a kiss that says I’m so happy to be married, it’s more—

I’m yours and I can’t wait to show you exactly what that means.

He pulls back. A little. Tries to catch his breath. “Babe?”

“Mm?”

“Do I need to remind you that your parents are here? And three-hundred guests?”

“I’m just so happy and I love you so much,” she says and bats her eyelashes like she’s sweet and not a wicked little creature.

“Uh-huh, and if you keep loving me like that, we’re gonna have a problem that can only be solved by kicking everybody out,” he says.

She bites her lip. He wonders just how many times he’ll have the willpower to pull away and not scandalize her in the middle of the dance floor.

And then, the lights dim.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

Conversations lull into whispers. A few people look up as if they expect something to descend from the ceiling.

“What?” Lukas says, too casual.

Her eyes narrow in on him. “What’s going on?”

He shrugs, sitting straighter and glancing left and right—acting confused in the most exaggerated way. The music changes from soft, ambient and acoustic to something jazzier, playful. Lukas stands, brushes off his tux. Someone from the venue hands him a microphone.

Gia’s eyes go wide. “Lukas—”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not gonna sing.”

Conversations have died. All eyes are on him. Some of the guests take out their phones. Gia shoots Franny a look. Franny raises both hands to signal that she, also, has no fucking clue what’s going on.

Into the microphone, Lukas says, “Six months ago, I walked up to a little red truck where I met the most gorgeous woman in the world. She was selling my favorite food. Pasta.”

He glances to his side to see her seemingly holding her breath in anticipation.

“It was raining and, for some inexplicable reason, that meant that the lasagna had almost sold out. So that’s what I ordered,” he continues. “And it was the absolute best fucking thing I had ever tasted. I went back every day until she figured out I wasn’t just there for the food.”

Laughter from the tables. Gia tears up, a little, because of course she does.

“So, tonight, for our second course—something extra special.”

The room is hushed. The faint hum of wheels can be heard and then—a tiny motorized replica food truck, about the size of a scooter, whirs down the aisle toward the dance floor, blinking lights and all. It’s painted in the same bold red as her original truck. An exact copy down to the string lights, little Italian flags and the logo on the side.

Gia’s

homemade pasta served fresh

Behind it, catering staff in black vests and white shirts have lined up, each holding gilded trays stacked with small red takeout boxes stamped with Gia’s logo. That part is new, a little upgrade on his behalf. The smell hits next—unmistakable. Garlic. Basil. Cheese. Gia gasps, one hand over her mouth.

Lukas continues, still into the mic: “Eat it and, I don’t know, cry?”

The crowd laughs, claps. Gia just stares at him, overwhelmed. Lukas shrugs. He hands off the mic and sits back down. The waiters serve them first.

“This is insane,” Gia says.

“Not romantic?” Lukas asks.

“Absolutely, definitely, perfectly romantic,” she says. “And insane.”

The reception gets louder with each course. The wine pairings are perfect, the food is fucking heavenly and there’s a lot of it. He can see her looking around the room, observing people, and the little smile that spreads on her lips when she sees people eating and being happy. And not her people, his people. The Wall Street types. The assholes in tech. The GoJo board and execs.

When it’s time for the toasts, Oskar stands stiffly with a glass of something that’s probably whiskey and a face that says he’d rather be anywhere else—but also that he’s been asked , so he’s doing it.

He clears his throat.

“I’m Oskar. I work with Lukas,” he begins, like he’s under oath. “In the many years I’ve known Lukas, I’ve seen him make many unconventional decisions.”

The room chuckles a little, like they’re not sure it’s allowed. Gia shoots Lukas a look of pure confusion, like, really? This is your best man?

“Today appears to be one of the more successful ones,” Oskar says. “Marriage is a high-risk, high-reward venture. I wish you both favorable returns.”

He raises his glass with a perfectly neutral expression. “To the bride and groom. Skål.”

He sits. Doesn’t blink.

Gia bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“He actually showed more emotion than I expected,” Lukas says, as the room slowly fills with careful applause.

Franny stands up without being called, glass in hand, and immediately taps it too hard with her knife. Someone flinches.

“Hi. I’m Francesca Ferrara, sister of the bride, Maid of Honor, fashion icon. You’re welcome,” she begins and then looks around the room, as though she’s making sure all eyes are on her.

“Gia got ten blissful years of being an only child. I was stuck with her from day one.”

Laughter. Gia tilts her head, pursing her lips together.

Franny keeps going. “We have a very normal sisterly dynamic. She takes care of me, I annoy her. She borrows my clothes, I borrow her I.D. Kidding—mom, dad. I’m kidding. I’ve never done that.”

More laughs.

“She’s always been there for me. Even when I least appreciate it, she’s there. She shows up and she brings food, which—you know. I don’t know how many of you have ever had the absolute privilege of tasting her cooking, but I gotta tell you, that lasagna? Her recipe. And a good recreation by the caterer, almost perfect. Almost.”

She pauses to take a sip of her wine. A long sip. Then she looks straight at Lukas.

“And Lukas? Honestly? I didn’t get it at first. You’re a little weird. Sometimes rude. You don’t smile a lot. Except when you’re with her and then it’s just—well, just look at him.” She gestures to the guests to do as they’re told. “He’s trying not to smile because he can’t give me the satisfaction of being right, but look at him tonight. Look at them and you’ll see it.”

She looks from Lukas to Gia, her eyes suddenly softer. Sincere. Uncharacteristically so.

“You’ll see the way he looks at her. Like she’s the center of gravity. Because he gets it. And because he’s smart enough to know that he’ll never do better.”

She raises the glass that’s now almost empty. The room follows suit.

“To my sister. I complain about people comparing me to you, but honestly, when I’m old like you are, I would be lucky to be half as patient and self-assured and beautiful as you. And to my brother-in-law—”

She quiets down as though she’s about to say something deep and serious.

“Don’t screw it up, Matsson. I know where you live,” she deadpans.

Big laughs. A few misty eyes. Greg laughs the loudest and longest, clapping with his clammy hands, his beady eyes leering at Franny like she’s a piece of prime rib. Franny bows dramatically and sits back down as people clink their glasses.

As Alberto stands up, Gia grabs Lukas’s hand.

“Hello. My name is Alberto. I am the proud father of the bride,” he begins. “I haven't prepared much for this speech. The more I speak, the more I cry.”

There’s some laughs around the room. Alberto smiles.

“Getting to raise daughters has been the greatest joy of my life. To watch them grow. To find their way in the world. When the girls were little, my job required me to relocate every few years. Looking around the room tonight, I see some of the souvenirs Gia has picked up along the way.”

Some people cheer. Lukas looks around to locate the sounds. Gia whispers in his ear about who they are and where she’s met them. Former neighbors from Athens. Her school friends from Paris.

“She’s always had an incredible way with people. In Barcelona, she made friends with the man who owned the cafe down the street. Uh, Luis was his name. Gia came home from school with a free churro everyday for a month,” Alberto continues.

“Then she started a little business. On the weekends she would go to the cafe to buy a handful of churros. She’d put them in the basket of her little yellow bike and follow the tourists. Then she’d sell them for four times the price.”

Lukas looks to his side with a raised brow.

Gia smirks. “I was quite the business woman.”

“And she would never pretend she’d made them. She even offered to give a part of her profit to Luis. But he refused, because the tourists were so charmed by the beautiful churro girl that they would visit his cafe. Even to this day, there’s a picture of Gia hanging on the wall.”

Alberto looks straight into Gia’s eyes. “Forgive me, I fear I’ve gotten sidetracked. My point is, la mia bambina, you are extraordinary. There is nothing you can’t do.”

“And Lukas,” he continues.

Lukas can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Alberto isn’t scary—he’s just fucking accurate.

“There’s something you said to me once. Something that told me exactly how you love my Gia,” Alberto says. “It was back when things were, uh, complicated. You two were apart. Gia was in Italy. You were making secret real estate deals with my wife…”

Some laughter. Some looks of confusion from those not fully versed in the story.

“And I said to you—‘Why would you buy this house if she’s not even speaking to you?’ And you said—”

He clears his throat.

“Because it’s her home.”

Gia squeezes Lukas’s hand. He knows if he’d look at her now, she’d be smiling in a way that might break him again.

So he just looks at Alberto.

“That’s it. There was no master plan. No hoping for a second chance. You were just making sure she didn’t lose it, even if you’d already lost her. And I knew right then, that some day she would come back—and she would come back for you.”

Fuck.

Lukas grinds his teeth together, smiling on the outside like everything’s fine.

“To love. To luck. To Gia and Lukas.”

Alberto finishes with his glass raised high, his voice thick with emotion. A final chorus of to Gia and Lukas! echoes around the room as everyone toasts. Glasses clink.

Lukas exhales.

He’s not crying. Not technically. But his eyes are acting up again, and some of the three hundred guests just watched it happen, so he doesn’t love that. It’s one thing to cry when he’s looking at and listening to the most beautiful creature in the world, but a toast? By his father-in-law? The guy with the mustache? No. That’s just—

No.

People return to their own conversations. It’s loud again. Good. Nobody’s looking at him now, or the fact that his eyes are probably glistening. He grabs his whiskey and takes a big sip.

Then he turns to Gia, who’s holding her hands over her heart and somehow communicating with her cousin (perhaps) about five tables away. Her mouth is moving but there’s no sound. And yet her cousin (unsure) is responding.

She notices him staring. Mouths something akin to I’ll talk to you soon. And waves.

“What did you use the money for?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“From your little churro business.”

“My little business? Babe, on a good day, I made a hundred euros. Like, net profit. And I had a lot of good days.”

His brow furrows. “And how many churros is that?”

“Uhh—you know I can’t do math. They were 25 cents a pop and I sold them for one euro so—”

“Rounded up, that’s 134 churros,” he says.

She shrugs, like that’s no big deal. “Anyway, I bought a new cellphone. And probably a lot of glitter pens.”

“When was this?”

“Uhh, I was fifteen, so 2007-ish.”

Oh, right. 2007. That’s—normal. For someone her age. Sure. It’s completely mathematically sound to have been fifteen in 2007.

It’s just—

“And so you were, what, thirty?” she asks.

It’s just that.

“Uh-huh,” he hums.

“Why do you look so shocked?” she asks.

“Because I never think about the fact that I’m older than you. Except now it’s all I can think about, because while you were biking around with fucking churros, I was—”

He pauses. It feels absurd. Of course he knows she’s younger. A full fifteen years at that. And if he ever forgets, he can just open up Twitter and find the people who are trying to save the 30-year-old child bride from her fate by tweeting their intentions out into the universe. He knows.

The reality of the fact has just never hit him quite this vividly before.

“You were…?” she presses on.

“Clubbing. Gaming. Fucking around and, uh, about to launch GoJo.”

Her eyes go wide. “Seriously?”

He nods.

“Wow,” she says. She studies his face. “For the record, I am fully aware that you’re forty-five.”

He groans.

“But you’re, you know. Very sexy,” she says.

“Oh, for fucks sake.”

“I’m serious. I don’t think about your age. You’re just you,” she laughs. “So, please, don’t have a mid-wedding mid-life crisis.”

“Uhh—”

Before he can argue about her choice of words—because, let’s face it, who the fuck is mid-life around here—she’s already grabbing his hand and dragging him out of his seat because they need to mingle, apparently. He doesn’t mind it, not too much anyway. The noise is fine. It keeps things moving. Keeps him from thinking too hard.

He’s got a hand on the small of Gia’s back, steering her through the sea of well-wishers. Nods, smiles, more congratulations tossed like confetti—some genuine and some less so. Karolina materializes beside them.

“Someone tweeted photos from the ceremony,” she says, her voice hushed. “Either they missed the NDA—”

“Or they’re feeling like today’s a good day to be sued,” Lukas continues.

Karolina nods.

“There’s an NDA for our wedding?” Gia asks.

“Of course there’s an NDA.”

“You couldn’t just ask people not to post?”

“I could,” he says. “But I’ve met people.”

Karolina disappears as fast as she came. Before Gia even has a chance to ask him about the NDA, and more-so about the fact that he didn’t tell her about it beforehand, someone calls out from across the room, voice laced with opportunism:

“There’s the man of the hour.”

Lukas barely turns. He’s already clocked the voice. Tom. Of course it’s fucking Tom. And beside him, Shiv. The pair stand there like a PSA against happy marriages.

Lukas tightens his grip on Gia. Tom’s halfway into the handshake before Lukas even stops walking. It’s too eager, too thank you for making me relevant.

“Congratulations,” Tom says with a smile that makes Lukas want to kick his teeth in. “Beautiful ceremony. I cried. Shiv didn’t, but I cried.”

“Well, that tracks.”

Gia nudges his arm softly. Like he’s supposed to play nice.

They’re barely two sentences into the faux-pleasant small talk when Gia tilts her head, eyes flicking around the room. And then—

“Where’s your baby?” she asks.

“At home. With the nanny,” Shiv says.

“Oh, bummer. My cousin has a five-month-old.” Gia points out to the crowd to a woman holding a baby that’s just sleeping through the noise. “They could’ve bonded.”

Shiv sneers. “The babies?”

Gia nods. With enthusiasm.

“Well, maybe next time,” Shiv says. She turns to Lukas. “Tom and I were just discussing the New Yorker piece—”

“Musing on it. Laughable, really. It’s a trash tabloid these days,” Tom says. Kiss-ass.

Shiv glances at him, then back to Lukas. “Anyway, if you need anyone to redirect the narrative—”

“Oh,” Gia interrupts, her tone too enthusiastic for the situation. “You work at GoJo, too?”

And the way she asks, so innocent, it’s perfection. Shiv is visibly taken aback.

“No,” she says.

“Oh, right. Waystar, duh. It’s all the same to me, honestly.”

“No,” Shiv says again, her tone just a little colder now. “Just trying to be helpful where I can.”

“It’s all covered. Trust me,” Lukas says.

“Right, right. Your professional image might never recover, but at least public opinion is improving. You used to tweet like an evil AI that gained sentience during a start up pitch and now it’s all ‘can’t wait to marry my girl.’”

“Don’t know about that.” Lukas takes a sip of his whiskey. “But I’m not losing sleep.”

Tom barks out a laugh, too loud and too late. “No, of course not. You’re crushing it. Just absolutely killing it out there.”

Lukas doesn’t bother to reply. Gia looks around like she’s looking for a lifeboat. There is none. So, she changes the subject:

“How old is your baby?”

Tom rushes to answer. “He’s nine months.”

“Aw, that’s so cute. Is he standing up?”

“With support, yes.”

Gia squeals, like she can’t imagine anything cuter.

Shiv takes a sip of champagne. “Careful, Matsson. Sounds like she’s got baby fever.”

Lukas doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even blink. A masterclass in self-restraint.

“Oh, I’ve had baby fever all my life. I love babies,” Gia says.

“Why?”

Tom laughs, again, in that oh, she’s just joking kind of way, even though they all know she’s not.

“Uh—right. So, anyway,” Gia says, her voice bright. “Uhh, where did you guys get married?”

As Tom brushes off the question with a quick reply and continues his brown nosing like he’s trying for extra credit, raving to Gia about her choice of venue and exquisite wine pairings, Shiv pulls Lukas aside.

“I wasn’t just being polite. I still have connections at The Times, Vanity Fair. I could float something. Because that?” She throws a subtle nod towards Gia. “The whole trad-wife aesthetic? That’s your golden ticket out of this PR shitstorm.”

“Controlling the narrative 101 with Shiv Roy. Fuck, that’s good,” he says. “Stick to what you know. Whatever that is.”

“Cute. I heard she’s doing something with the foundation.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I also heard you’re giving her thirty percent of everything, which is just—incredibly stupid. But if you frame it right? It could work. She’s young, idealistic. Charming in that salt of the earth kind of way.”

“You forgot hot,” Lukas says, his tone dry.

Tom’s still talking. Something about the lighting. The floral arrangements. The lasagna. Lukas can’t even bother to pretend to care. He just looks at Gia, who’s still listening, polite as ever, like she actually cares.

Lukas steps in, wrapping his arms around her from behind. Then he leans into her ear and whispers, “Save me.”

She nods. Tom’s yapping on about how destination weddings are so passé. Shiv side-eyes her husband. Lukas doesn’t let go. Gia wraps her hand around his arm. Tom’s still mid-sentence, when she suddenly cuts him off. Politely.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, sweet like cotton candy. “Really.”

Two steps away, she’s already flagging down a waiter, fresh drinks appearing in Tom and Shiv’s hands like magic. Four steps, and the crowd swallows her and Lukas. The smile stays plastered on her face until they’re completely out of sight. She exhales like she’s just broken out of prison.

“Oh, geez. That man—” she begins but stops herself.

“Go on.”

“I don’t dislike him, but—”

“Go on."

“I just need him to be away from me.”

Lukas laughs.

“And what was her deal? As if me asking about her baby automatically means I have baby fever? Give me a break.”

“Uh-huh. Keep going.”

“Do they even like each other?”

He shrugs, amused. She’s the kindest, most patient person he knows, but after ten minutes with Tom and Shiv? She’s ready to throw hands.

He looks around the room. Alberto has gathered a small crowd around him, probably sharing more stories from Gia’s childhood. Oskar and Ira are having a heated debate about something. Franny’s at the bar having a gin and tonic with— Gerri? 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Gia says.

“Noticed what?”

“That your mom’s not here.”

“Right. That.”

The caterers are wheeling out the wedding cake for them to cut.

“Doesn’t that make you sad?” she asks.

“No, not really.”

“Are you lying?”

He looks down at her. Pauses. Then, “I’m not.”

And he actually means it.

She nods, once. No smile, no further questions. No need to dissect it like a therapy intake form.

It feels foreign to her. He knows. The idea that he has this whole extended family out there and none of them are here. Nobody’s crying. Nobody’s telling the story of when he was seven and almost drowned in the Baltic Sea. But he thinks she’s beginning to understand that his mother not showing up isn’t a sad thing—or at least not sad in the sense that it makes him sad. It’s not unexpected, either. It’s just how it is.

There’s cake. They cut it. Cameras flash. People clap. Gia shoves a forkful of cake in his mouth. It’s good. Kind of. He’s not much of a cake person, but it’s perfectly adequate. She laughs when he says that, and then someone is already tugging at her arm for a picture with all the children. He stands there for a moment, wondering if anyone would notice if he just ditched the cake somewhere.

They don’t.

After the obligatory photo-ops, Gia is swallowed by a flock of distant cousins, all talking at once in Italian, so fast that he can’t keep up. Lukas drifts in the opposite direction, circling the reception like he’s looking for a landing spot. Every grouping of people feels like a trap. He can see their eyes gleaming at the sight of blood; people eager to comment on what they think is the inevitable collapse of his empire, no, actually—not the empire, just the man. The empire is fine. Stocks go up and down. It’ll recover. 

But Lukas Matsson? He might fall. That’s what they’re saying, anyway.

He stops at the bar for a refill before slinking out onto the patio for some fresh air and solitude.

That’s when he hears it: a familiar voice that stops him in his tracks, or rather the tone of it does. It’s a plea, a frustrated one—sad, almost.

“Can we do this another time?” Franny asks.

“It’s always something with you, isn’t it?” Sophia replies.

Lukas stills, wondering if he should just turn around and head back in. They haven’t seen him yet; he’s half-hidden behind one of the venue’s marble columns and a vase of flowers the size of a small child.

“It’s my sister’s wedding. Your other daughter, remember? The perfect one?”

“Don’t do that,” Sophia says.

“Can we just enjoy the party? I’ll deal with everything next week.”

He doesn’t hear Sophia’s response, but he doesn’t need to. This isn’t about him; that much is clear. He should go. And he tries, but Franny is quicker, storming out from behind the flowers with her mother in tow.

They spot him. Of course they do. He’s tall—not really the kind of person who disappears in a crowd. And there isn’t even a crowd.

“Lukas,” Sophia says, the surprise evident in her tone but she recovers quickly. She leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “Congratulations.”

Lukas tries to smile. “Thanks.”

“She’s good for you. You know this, yes?” Sophia says.

Both of them turn to look for Gia in the crowd inside. She’s talking to some men in suits; he wonders if everybody knows about the trust fund or if Shiv just has the best sources.

“I do,” Lukas answers.

“Do not forget it.”.

And then, just like that, she’s gone, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor, and Lukas wonders just how many more people will remind him that he will be thinly sliced like carpaccio if he fucks this up.

He turns to Franny. “What was that about?”

Franny shrugs. “What? The subtle hints that Gia’s out of your league?”

“No, the fight.”

“Depends on how much you heard.”

“What’s going on?”  

Franny glances around, as though to make sure she’s safe from people who might care. “I failed a class.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she adds immediately before he can say anything, her voice light, but she avoids looking into his eyes.

“Why did you fail?” he asks.

“I missed a few lectures. Well, all of them, I guess.”

“Francesca,” he says, surprising even himself with the disappointed tone. This is not his problem. He doesn’t plan on making this his problem. 

Franny rolls her eyes, like she’s done with the lecture before it even starts. “It’s just one class. It’s marketing. I don’t want to study marketing.”

“And?” Lukas presses, his voice firm.

“And… I haven’t submitted any assignments for my film class. The deadline’s in two days, unless I can get an extension, which is what my mom wants me to do, but honestly it’s kind of unlikely that I’ll get one—”

“Francesca.”

“It’s not a big deal, Lukas,” Franny insists. She crosses her arms like a defiant teenager.

And just as he’s about to say something, Gia appears right beside them. She smiles at him, like everything’s fine. Like it’s her wedding day and everything is going as planned.

“There you are,” Gia says, her voice light, her smile effortless.

Franny shakes her head at Lukas, a subtle yet pointed warning not to say anything.

“What’s going on?” Gia asks, her eyes shifting between the two of them. “Why are you hiding?”

“We’re not hiding,” Franny says.

“Okay, why are you outside?” Gia asks.

His whole body stiffens. This is not the time to get into this. She’s so happy.

She’s so—

His.

Before he can think of a diversion, Franny speaks up.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, “but, uh, I made out with one of the bartenders.”

Lukas laughs out loud, surprised at the absurdity of it all.

Gia looks perplexed. “What?”

“Yeah, it’s just kind of awkward for me to go back in there now,” Franny adds.  

“Just stay away from the bar, doofus,” Gia says. Her tone changes quickly from sisterly teasing to loving and soft as she turns to Lukas. “It’s time for our first dance.”  

Lukas nods. “I’ll be right in.”

Gia glides away. Glides. Like she’s flying. An angel sent to earth. To him, of all people.

“That’s the best lie you came up with? A bartender?” 

“What lie?” Franny grins like a child. “I’m talking about the guy with the gorgeous chocolate brown curls and eyes that match, and a tattoo right here—”

She pats her arm.

“Please stop,” he says. He pinches the bridge of his nose as though that’ll delete the visual. “On Monday, we’ll sort everything out.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means everything’s gonna be fine.” He stands up straighter, straightening his lapels. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my wife is waiting for me on the dance floor.”

We’ll sort everything out? As in, he will sort everything out? As if he doesn’t have enough problems already?

Lukas steps back inside and crosses the room to the dance floor, where Gia is waiting for him, hand extended. He takes it. It’s warm, small, and familiar. And still his heart nearly skips a beat.

A spotlight casts a warm glow on them. The music starts. He has no idea what the song is. She’s sent him a link, surely, but it doesn’t register. Tasteful, inoffensive, possibly a rearranged pop song. It doesn’t really matter because her eyes are locked on him like he’s about to mess this up.

Like he’s about to be awkward. Stiff. Out of sync. Lacking rhythm.

But he’s not.

He slides a hand to her back and the other holds hers like it’s the one thing that’s missing, and he leads—not because he’s romantic or traditional, but because he knows how.

The expression on her face is one he can only hope is caught on camera.

“You’re good at this?” she whispers.

He leans into her ear, his voice low. “Of course I’m fucking good at this.”

And it’s not cocky—well, it is a little—but mostly it’s just a fact. Then he moves. Smooth, precise. Controlled. And she’s looking at him in awe, then laughing, barely; her breath catching as he spins her just once, slowly, like he’s showing off now.

He pulls her back, close to him.

“Oh, god,” she says, breathless. 

“You like that?”

“It’s very hot.”

Her voice is a whisper, her hand is laid flat against his chest. And his heart? Just thumping against her palm like it’s trying to burst out. Three hundred people in the room and not a single one of them fucking matters. Not the family. Not the executives. Not the bloodthirsty opportunists who will undoubtedly leak details from the wedding—maybe his vows, which sounded like a mental breakdown, or maybe the fact that he cried, like actually cried, like he’s the fucking Grinch whose heart grew three sizes just in time for his wedding.

Just her.

She’s his wife. His fucking wife.

“Is your wedding day everything you ever dreamed of?” he asks.

“Yes.” She pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. “I would kill for you.”

“Arsenic in the marinara?”

“Yes.”

And he laughs but something in her eyes makes him question if it’s actually a joke or if she’s already mentally writing the recipe. “Jesus fucking Christ, G.”

“What?”

And she smiles so wide it has to hurt, and he’s not sure he’s ever smiled that wide himself.

The mini pasta truck is parked at the edge of the dance floor. Skipped breakfast, met wife. That’s the whole story. One slice of toast and they wouldn’t be here. One fucking variable changed, and she’s just a stranger in a city he doesn’t live in. He’s rotting in Stockholm under the weight of his own bullshit, probably.

No vows, no rings, no baby.

No Gia.

So, whether it was god, fate, luck or cosmic universe soulmate bullshit that brought her to him doesn’t really matter.

Because he is never fucking letting go.

Chapter Text

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Franny’s holding her phone up to her face, uncomfortably close.

“Okay. I have seen the pictures. I have seen the edits. I have seen the slideshows with Lana Del Rey as the audio. STOP. TAGGING. ME,” she says.

“So, for those of you who don’t know, my sister Gia got married a few days ago, and her husband is Lukas Matsson—yes, that Lukas Matsson, and before anyone asks, no, this doesn’t mean I’m rich now. Anyway, the wedding was private. No press. No social media. But, you know, some people are assholes, so some pictures were posted.”

She holds the phone even closer to her face now. All that’s visible is her nose and two thirds of her eyes.

“And that was actually in complete violation of the NDA, so whoever leaked them, I hope you enjoy getting dragged in court.”

She zooms back out. 

“Anyway, these pictures are now circulating and I am being tagged because—I don’t know? People want my opinion? I don’t have an opinion. It’s pictures of my sister and her husband. You know. Eating each other’s faces. Being too handsy. Doing things that people do at weddings. Being happy and all that. Completely PG-13. But people are flipping out, I guess? Because he looks like a normal guy in love with his wife and not some cold-blooded crypto overlord? I don’t know.”

She rolls her eyes.

“And I’m being asked to share my pictures and videos of the wedding, which would make me one of the assholes, so no, thank you. She was super pretty and he was, you know, a man. The wedding was beautiful. I was a knockout. It was really nice.”

There’s a picture inserted of her gown from the wedding. Franny waves her finger in the air as though she’s pointing at the photo. Then she brings the camera way up close to her face again.

“So, please. Stop tagging me. I don’t want to see their PDA more than I already do. Thanks.”

There were always those girls who doodled their names into their notebooks at school, adding the last name of their crush at the end and a cutesy little Mrs at the beginning. Sometimes they were girls who made the dots of their i’s into little hearts; sometimes they were girls who wrote exclusively with pink gel pens.

Sometimes they were both.

Gia was always one of those girls. It seemed silly as she got older and downright depressing as she entered the harsh reality of dating. But she was one of those girls.

Still is.

Mrs Gia Matsson.

It’s not pink and there are no hearts; it’s a scribble on a post-it note. She hasn’t decided to change her name yet, but it looks right. If anybody were to ask Gia, aged six, if she would take her husband’s name the answer would be a resounding yes, but that was before she developed the skill of critical thinking and a cultural identity that ties very strongly into having an Italian last name.

But then again, it’s much more than just a name, and the thought of having a different last name than her child is just strange.

She crumples up the little note, throwing it into the trash.

“Are you ready to go?” she shouts out. No response. Lukas must still be in the make-shift office he’s built in Franny’s old room.

Her phone buzzes with a message soon after.

»On call. Almost done.

Gia sighs and sits down onto the couch, careful not to wrinkle the fabric of her dress. It’s gorgeous, red satin with a fitted bodice and draping fabric around her waist that conceals the little bump that’s slowly growing day by day. Her makeup is flawless—smokey eyes, glossy nude lips, skin that glows like she’s professionally lit at all times. She does not look like a girl who once worked out of a beat-up truck, smelling like garlic and melted cheese.

She looks like his wife.

And his wife, apparently, waits.

She mindlessly scrolls through wedding pictures on her phone; it’s only been a week but the wedding blues have consumed her. Thank you notes have been written and sent, the insane amount of impersonal gifts from business associates have been redistributed to those in need through the Foundation, her wedding gown has been sent for dry cleaning. It’s over. She’ll never be a bride again.

The front door opens. Franny walks in, releasing Mozzarella from his leash.

“You’re still here?” she asks.

“Uh-huh,” Gia hums.

Franny stays silent though her expression is telling. She throws her shoes by the door and plops down on the chair beside the couch.

“Thanks for coming over to dog sit,” Gia says.

“Are you kidding? He’s my dog. Of course.”

Gia raises an eyebrow, but decides not to comment. It’s nice that Franny is making an effort. Gia smiles. “And thanks for doing my makeup.”

“I had to. You’re kind of useless,” Franny says. “You do realize you could just hire a makeup artist? Like, literally, everyday? You’re that rich.”

“Yeah, but I’m still me.”

“Whatever. I’m going to keep all the products. You know, so they don’t expire like everything else in your makeup bag.”

“Oh, you’re very selfless.”

“We have the same coloring so it works out really well.”

Gia rolls her eyes.

“Also, I got you some perfume,” Franny says and gestures towards the giant Sephora bag that sits on the floor.

“Is it actually for you?” Gia asks.

“We can share.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather not wear any. I’m very sensitive to smells right now.”

Franny frowns. Her eyes shift towards Gia’s stomach. “When does it start kicking?”

“A few weeks. Maybe a month.”

“A month?”

Gia shrugs. Apparently it takes a long freaking time for first time mothers.

“Are you sure it’s in there? Doesn’t look like it.”

“It’s in there,” Gia says, her tone only a little annoyed.

A floorboard creaks upstairs. A door closes. They hear Lukas coming down the stairs.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, rushing past Gia with a quick kiss on the cheek before reaching to pick up the cufflinks she’s left on the coffee table. “Meeting ran long.”

“What meeting was it?” Gia asks.

“Nothing important.”

She watches as Lukas fastens his cufflinks with practiced ease. Nothing important. The words linger in the air, vague and dismissive, and she wonders—not for the first time—if one of these days he’s going to say something different. They’re all important, surely, all the meetings.

“Are you sure? You look a little stressed,” she asks, getting up from the sofa to pick up her little clutch.

“I just don’t want to be late for this thing.”

“That would be kind of bad form, considering you’re hosting,” Franny notes.

Lukas shoots her a glare before finally fully looking at his new wife, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I accept tips, you know,” Franny says, batting her eyelashes.

“What did you do?” Lukas asks, his brows furrowing together.

“This, all of this.” Franny gestures wildly to Gia’s hair and face.

“I don’t get it.”

“I spent two hours making her pretty,” Franny says, visibly frustrated.

“I don’t see the difference,” he says and then shrugs. “But you can’t really improve upon perfection.”

Gia laughs.

Franny crosses her arms and huffs. “Are you sure you can’t put me on the guest list?”

“I can do whatever I want. I am actively choosing not to invite you,” he replies.

“Rude.”

Then, he grabs Gia’s hand. The driver is already outside; he’s been there for thirty minutes.

“Have fun,” Franny shouts out before the door slams shut behind them.

They step outside into the cool night air. The street is quiet, save for children playing street hockey further down. The driver holds the door open for them, and Lukas threads his fingers through Gia’s, holding on as she slides into the back seat first.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the car.

“For what?” she asks.

“We’re almost late.”

“Almost.”

“I’ll let the coordinators know it was all my fault.”

She shrugs, trying to smile but it doesn’t quite come. “It’s okay.”

“Clearly it isn’t.”

“It’s fine. We’re not late. I’m just nervous.”

“About what?”

“Well, let’s see. The last charity fundraiser I hosted? A canned food drive. The one before that? A yard sale,” she says and then exhales—something. A nervous laugh, maybe. “And now I’m serving champagne to billionaires? What if I smile wrong and ruin the whole thing?”

“You can’t ruin it. It’s a fake foundation,” he says.

“Okay, that’s not helping.”

“I mean it’s going to be a smash no matter what you do, because you’re actually doing something.”

“I’m used to cardboard signs and folding tables. No costs, all profit to those in need. What if we don’t raise enough to cover the cost of tonight, let alone what we’re trying to achieve?”

“Then you’ll re-strategize for the next one. No big deal.”

Her brow furrows. “No big deal? Lukas, I’m trying to actually help people.”

“I know. And you could’ve spent ten times as much on tonight and we’d still make a killing. Trust me, the homeless won’t go hungry.”

“We’re not raising money for food.”

His face is just a little dumbstruck. “No? Right. Sure. I knew that. Of course. You said something about computers?”

Gia inhales sharply. She lets it slide, for now.

“Besides, tonight isn’t about helping people. Tonight is about getting rich fuckers to write six-figure checks and feel morally superior about it. It’s theater,” he says matter-of-factly, in that slightly too confident tone he sometimes has.

“So, what, none of it matters?”

“It matters because you care. You walk in there, all heart and sincerity and can-do spirit? Trust me, they’ll eat it up. They love nothing more than pretending they might be good people. And you actually giving a shit? They’ll be falling at your feet just to breathe the same air.”

She wonders if he’s trying to be annoying or if it’s just an inevitable side effect that comes with opening his mouth. Or maybe that’s her hormones talking. It’s not like she’s the Dalai Lama or anything. She’s just Gia. She’s done this before, tried to get rich people to donate. It takes more than sincerity. It takes—

Well, this. It takes big galas and overpriced appetizers.

“I’m supposed to give a speech. What if I choke?” she asks.

“I’ll be there.”

She looks at him, waiting.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll grab the mic. Steal your moment. Everybody will think I’m an insecure asshole.”

She smiles, a little.

He reaches out, thumb on her chin, fingers grasping just enough to make her look at him, really look at him. “But you’re not gonna choke.”

And for some reason, she believes him. Maybe because he says it like it’s a fact, like he’s seen the future and he knows what happens. Maybe because he actually believes everything he’s saying.

“You have to give a speech, too,” she says.

“I know.”

“And with that in mind, it would probably come off a little better if you actually knew what we’re raising money for.”

“Possibly.”

“Okay, so picture this: transitional housing. A job placement program. Partnering with local businesses to provide short-term employment and stable housing. Real beds, real paychecks, real outcomes.”

He stares at her like she’s just told him how to prepare a croquembouche.

“And,” she continues, “as you put it so simply, computers. Tech access inside shelters. Laptops. Wi-fi. Workshops. Resume help. LinkedIn. It’s 2022. If you’re not online, you don’t exist.”

He blinks. She doesn’t stop.

“It’s not just charity, it’s human infrastructure. Social investment with a clear exit strategy.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “When did you have time to do this?”

“I told you. Planning a wedding isn’t exactly a full-time job,” she says. “You gave me a foundation and a budget. Did you really think I was hosting this event to stock up on beans and rice?”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Good answer.”

There’s a pause. She looks out the window. The car is arriving in Manhattan now; the amplified lights and noises outside make that obvious.

He believes in her, sure. Absolutely. No question about it. He believes in her like people believe in miracles. Or God. Or the stock market. Like loving her is the same as understanding what she’s doing. Like showing up in a tux counts as support. He believes in her more than he listens to her, which is infuriating, really. Or amazing. Depends on the day. Tonight it might be both. Because it’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s that he cares in this big, hyperbolic way, unconditionally, and without asking what he’s actually caring about. Because it’s her.

“Are you mad?” he asks.

“Honestly? A little.”

“Right. Obviously.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Just stares out the window at the traffic jam they’re stuck in because there’s construction up and down 1st Avenue.

Then, softly and with a glance over to her, “You sent me a pitch deck?”

“I did.”

He nods. Then he pulls out his phone, opens up his email and finds it.

Then he reads.

They arrive fifteen minutes before doors open. The car slows in front of the venue—a historic bank building in Tribeca. The banner hanging above the massive doors reads The Lukas Matsson Foundation, and below it, in smaller font, Rebuild: NYC. Gia’s name isn’t on it. Karolina suggested maybe it should be—perhaps to make people expect to walk into the vanity project of another bored billionaire housewife. Gia refused. Profoundly.

Inside, the space is already coming to life. High ceilings, polished marble floors, the old vault space repurposed to display LED screens quietly looping videos of ‘impact stories’, and a dash of irony to finish it off: trying to raise money for the homeless at the altar of hoarding wealth? She hopes it’ll be a psychological advantage, that her guests will feel compelled to write checks. Like money in the bank, literally.

The caterers are making final adjustments—organizing appetizers onto trays with surgical precision, adjusting crisp napkins into perfect triangles, wiping fingerprints off champagne flutes. Someone’s arranging olive branches at the donor wall. Karolina’s directing a photographer to the corner until she notices them arriving and crosses the floor with determination.

“You two, at the door. Keep the schmoozing to a minimum. Get ‘em inside quick. They’ll naturally float towards the bar.”

“That’s good. I can’t tell you how many millions I’ve given away because I’ve been wasted at these kinds of functions,” Lukas says.

It’s supposed to be encouraging, maybe, but it falls flat. Gia glares at him. Her palms are already sweating, like they’re conspiring against her. Ha ha, try shaking somebody’s hand now.

“Seven minutes at the door, thirty on the floor. You catch the big fish first,” Karolina continues, glancing at her phone like she’s bragging about her multi-tasking abilities.

Gia nods. Names, faces, titles. She’s got a list in her head.

“Then Lukas speaks. Then you.” Karolina turns to Lukas. “There’s a speech written for you—”

“Don’t need it.”

Karolina quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m introducing her. That’s pretty much it.”

“You’re setting the tone for the room. Focus on the work, not your pretty wife.” She hands Lukas a card.

His face does that thing where he’s trying to refrain from profanities and insults. That thing, where everybody still knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“And here’s yours.”

Karolina hands Gia some cards. Heavy cardstock. The LMF emblem printed at the top. Definitely an upgrade from her post-its back at home. She skims through the words.

“This isn’t my speech,” she says.

“It’s tidied. Market-friendly,” Karolina replies. “It includes all the talking points you need to hit.”

“Right.”

Karolina walks away. Gia stares down at the cards. Her speech—the one she worked hard on to write, to memorize, to partially forget so it’s not too rehearsed—flattened down to talking points and buzz words.

Scalable models of dignity. Community-based metrics of success.

Her stomach turns.

Lukas sees it on her face before she says a word. He doesn’t ask. He just takes them. Doesn’t read them.

He simply rips them in half. Simple.

She blinks. “What are you doing?”

He shrugs.

And then he kisses her, like that’s all the explanation she’s going to need. His fingers curl around her jaw, his lips wrap around hers. 

“Fuck the talking points.”

He’s looking into her eyes with that thing again, that belief, and at this moment it’s not infuriating at all, and then—

As if materializing from thin air, Karolina appears beside them. “No kissing on the floor.”

“Uhh, what the fuck?” Lukas asks.

“It’ll overshadow the program. If we’re here to do serious work, you can’t be acting like lovesick teenagers.” She turns to speak to Gia specifically. “Think poised. Controlled.”

“Are stairwells off limits?” Lukas asks, his tone flat.

“Within Manhattan, yes.”

Then she’s gone again.

“A lot of rules tonight,” Gia says, trying to sound light.

Lukas slips his hands into his pockets. “Fuck that.”

“That can’t be your answer to everything.”

“Not everything. Just the board-approved behavior therapy and censorship that’s happening.”

That makes Gia pause. She studies his face; the way his jaw is set tight, the way he’s looking around the room with intense focus.

“Is this about the wedding photos?” she asks.

“The accidental renaissance that was trending on Twitter for six hours straight? Probably.”

“I take it the board didn’t like the headlines.”

“The ones that called me a simp icon? Nah. God forbid I love my fucking wife,” he says, turning to look at her, and then—a grin. “And I love fucking my—”

She inhales, sharp. “Oh, my god. Behave, please.”

“Poised and controlled. Got it.”

She sees Ira before he sees her—across the floor, standing still while everyone else hustles and bustles around him, like he’s watching a sociopsychological experiment he’s not sure he should take part in. Expression unreadable, a drink in hand. He spots Gia and comes over. 

“Hey,” he says, wrapping one arm around her for a quick hug. “You clean up nice.”

He nods once at Lukas, who returns the gesture.

“Hey, man. How’d you get in early?” Lukas asks.

“I take it you haven’t read the materials.”

Gia feels her pulse hitch. Like a glitch in the system. She recovers quickly, her voice bright. “Ira is our healthcare director for this pilot.”

“Right, right. Sure.” Lukas scratches the side of his jaw, already moving on. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Already halfway to the bar, scrolling through something on his phone. Ira doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him walk away, like he’s looking at a car crash in slow motion.

“Is he serious?”

She flinches. “Ira—”

“Does he have any idea what you’re trying to do?”

“Of course he does. He’s just not up on all the details.”

It’s not a lie, even if it sounds like one. It’s a truth told too fast, with too much defense.

“Uh-huh,” Ira says, sipping his drink like it’s medicine.

She wants to say more, to defend him. To defend herself.

But instead, she simply says, “Don’t read into it.”

“Fine.”

She smooths down her skirt and squares her shoulders. A floor manager waves from across the marble. Doors in two.

Exactly seven minutes of nods and handshakes. Lukas stands beside her, barely touching, but she feels the warmth radiating from him and wonders if that’s coming from whatever drink he’s apparently shotgunned because he’s not holding one. People see him first, obviously—he towers over her like a tree. She doesn’t mind, actually, because their expressions shift when she starts talking. There’s some value in being underestimated. 

One guest compliments her dress. Another asks about the wedding. Someone makes a joke about how you can’t spell philanthropy without PR.

She knows all their names. Has to.

Old money. Tech money. Blood money. Everyone here is wealthy enough to buy a building. A jet. An island.

Lukas is off, somewhere. Probably better that he’s not glued to her side. At least Karolina seems to approve, though she keeps popping up like a notification on Gia’s phone, checking in with little reminders to make sure conversation flows smoothly around the talking points like there’s no room for humanity in this pitch. Gia may not know how to integrate scalable models of dignity into conversation without sounding like a robot, but she works the room like she’s been doing it for years, because she has—on a different scale, but still. She knows people.

As Karolina predicted, the bar is a hit. Gia catches whispers between sips of thousand-dollar wine:

“Wait, what’s this event even for?”

“Something about homeless people, I think?”

“It’s an absolution of guilt, babe. Just smile and write a check.”

Something creeps up her spine. Anxiety, maybe, or maybe just plain fear. But she smiles as she passes the whisperers and moves on. Someone brushes past her shoulder. A server. Champagne. She takes a glass she doesn’t want and can’t drink just to have something to hold.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” a man says, stopping Gia in her tracks.

Teddy Rockwell III. His family owns hotels, so he’s old money, like portraits over the mantle old money, but he’s made his own fortune with Cloudwell—basically (as far as Gia understands) a bunch of very cold, very loud warehouses he rents to hedge funds and media companies to park their files and apps and all sorts of secrets in. A big fish, so to speak, and—according to Karolina—looking for a way to defrost his reputation ahead of a possible run for State Senate.

He’s standing with Ira.

“Oh, gosh. I hope I’m not the devil,” Gia says, her smile clicking into place immediately.

Teddy reaches out his hand to shake hers. “Oh, far from it.”

“I was just telling Mr Rockwell you sometimes volunteer at our free clinic,” Ira says.

“Luckily you don’t need a medical license to hand out condoms or mop up vomit,” Gia says.

“How… charming,” Teddy says, making her almost immediately regret her choice of words.

Talk about the thing, Gia, the thing that you’re supposed to be doing. Don’t talk about vomit.

Then he laughs abruptly, if a little fake. “Not afraid to get your hands dirty. I respect that.”

“Oh, absolutely. That’s what we’re doing here, too. Transitional housing. Job placement. Tech access. And healthcare. The glue that will make this whole thing stick.”

She places a hand over Ira’s back. “We are very lucky to have someone like Dr Kaplan working with this program. Many unhoused individuals have a chronic illness. Mental health disorders. Mistrust of hospitals…”

Ira nods and then takes over. “They also put an unnecessary strain on the ER. Without access to primary care, an infection that could’ve been treated with a prescription eventually becomes an emergency. So, we offer on-site care.”

“This is all very ambitious,” Teddy says. “And may I say very out of character—uh, I mean, very out of the norm for the Matsson Foundation.”

“That’s very true. I would go so far as to say that this is the first thing The Foundation has done that actually means something,” Gia says.

It goes against everything Karolina told her to say: the buzz words highlighting how this new direction for the foundation builds on previous projects with even greater ambition.

“It’s not just a PR spin?” Teddy asks.

Ira laughs. Polite, short. “Gia doesn’t do PR spins.”

“The work speaks for itself. If it doesn’t, then we’re not working hard enough,” Gia says, then remembers why Teddy’s here. For the unhoused, sure, but also—

She clears her throat and continues. “That isn’t to say we don’t love attention. Publicity is great. It keeps us accountable. Transparent. It puts pressure in the right places.”

Teddy nods along. 

“And it reflects well on everyone involved,” Gia finishes. A big smile. All teeth.

Teddy walks away with a certain kind of smile. Pondering, perhaps, or even sly. He gets it. Not the work, not on a deeper level anyway, but the impact.

No, not even the impact. The optics.

God, Gia still hates that word.

Before Teddy is even fully out of sight, Karolina slides in to take his place in the little circle that had formed.

“Gia, a word?” she says, her tone abrupt. “I organized media training for you for a reason.”

Ira shoots Gia a look that say’s you’re in trouble.

“Yes, I know,” Gia says.

“Then please tell me why I just spoke to a reporter who said you were talking to Teddy Rockwell about condoms and vomit?”

“Probably because I was.”

“Gia, sweetheart—”

There it is. That voice, that condescending term. Sweetheart. Like she’s playing.

“I don’t know where you got the impression you can speak to me like that, but I suggest you try a different tone,” Gia says.

“I am only here to help. I have done this before. I know what these people want to hear—”

“Or maybe they don’t. Maybe they want something real.”

“Like vomit?”

Gia shrugs. “Maybe.”

Karolina sighs. Before she can retort, a junior staffer in a sleek black headset slips up behind her and whispers something in her ear.

Annoyance. Surprise. Glee. Karolina cycles through the emotions on a fast track.

“He’s in,” she says.

“In?” Gia echoes.

“Mr Rockwell is making a very sizable donation.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Ira mutters. “Maybe he can ride this all the way to public office.”

Karolina ignores him. “And he wants to offer you storage. Pro bono.”

Gia squints. “In the… cloud?”

“Uh-huh. If you’re really building infrastructure, you’re going to need it.”

Karolina is already turning on her heel, victorious in her head and probably already analyzing the earning potential of branding Gia as the condoms and vomit girl.

Ira watches Karolina vanish into the sea of black ties and more power than he or Gia will ever hold. Then he says, flat as ever, “Each one of these schmucks is here to help themselves and themselves only.”

Gia doesn’t argue. “I know.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it does. I’m used to working with people who actually care,” she says. “But you of all people know what it’s like trying to change a broken system.”

He snorts a laugh. “Yeah. Futile.”

She rolls her eyes and looks out at the people. White teeth. Polite smiles.

“The work that we’re doing matters, even if half the room only showed up for the tax write-off,” she says.

“Yeah, I know,” Ira says, his tone weary in that this is the way things are kind of way.

She hums a soft reply, but her eyes have already drifted towards Lukas. Across the room, he’s talking to someone, half-listening, fingers twitching at his side. He looks tired. Or wired. Maybe both.

She twists her ring around her finger. Once, twice.

Then she hears it. Again. Something about fraud. Something about a board coup. Something that might make Lukas bleed, if only publicly. She hears it behind her, half-swallowed by the music.

“Is it true the SEC is getting involved? I guess this is his next venture.”

“A slap on the wrist. That’s my prediction.”

“The board hates him. Wants him out.”

Gia doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t have to. She sees the minor change in Ira’s expression—he’s heard it too. 

He steps closer, lowering his voice, “They’re not wrong, are they?”

Gia doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze slips back across the room. Lukas is still there, surrounded by people who either want something from him or want to watch him fail. She sees it in the tight smiles, the proximity, the tension. He throws his head back laughing at something and for a second he looks unbothered, untouchable.

 Her throat tightens. “I wouldn’t know.”

“He doesn’t tell you?”

“What is there to tell, really? It’s all in the papers.”

“That’s not really the same thing.”

“He’s trying to fix things.”

“And failing.”

She flinches. Just a blink, but he sees it. She walks away from the crowds, to the corner of the room. He follows.

“The ethics board blew up,” Ira continues, his tone pressing but not unkind. “His culture memo got leaked and memed to death. They’ve already decided he’s a liability.”

Gia says nothing. Her fingers tap against her glass.

“You know how these things go. There’s always a fall guy. And people are whispering about jail time now. The SEC—”

“Stop.” Her voice is sharp, breathless.

His eyes soften. “You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing.”

“I’m not—” She stops. Inhales. “Ira. I know you’ve never been his biggest fan—”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Okay, whatever, but this is a really important night for me. I trust Lukas, and if there’s any reason for me to worry, he’ll tell me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He tilts his head. “Or is he maybe protecting you?”

“I don’t need to be protected.”

“Or is he using you to escape his life again?”

“What?”

“That’s how it started, right? He gets to be someone else with you. Someone better.”

Her pulse trips. Suddenly the noise of the gala around them seems to echo in her ears, sharp and loud. She looks away, fast, her eyes searching for something. An escape, maybe.

Lukas has left his spot. She doesn’t see him anywhere. She shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Guys like him don’t live in Queens, Gia.”

Wait, what?

She turns to look him in the eyes. There’s nothing but conviction behind them, like he’s cracked some code.

“They do if they meet girls who live in Queens,” she says.

“You and your fairytale.”

“Yes, exactly, my fairytale. My life.” Her voice doesn’t shake, but her eyes already glisten with tears she won’t allow to fall. “I don’t need your opinions. I don’t need your negativity—”

“I love you and I know you—”

“I married him, Ira,” she says, louder. “And I’m happy. Just let me be happy.”

“I remember how happy you were when you first met him,” he says. “And how long that lasted.”

“That was completely different.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” she says. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me right now.”

“I’m not trying to do anything. But you feel it, too. I know you do.” He gestures vaguely around the gala. “You built this whole thing, and he has no idea what you’re trying to do. He’s sitting in his burning empire, and you’re still convinced he just needs a bucket of water? Gia, it’s—God, you’re living two separate lives.”

That stings. It’s not true, but—

It’s not completely untrue, either.

“We’re not,” she says.

“He’s not telling you things—”

“He is,” she says. Her words are more agitated by the second. “Maybe not like you want him to. Maybe I’m not up to date on board meetings and shareholder freakouts—”

“Maybe you should be,” Ira interjects. “Jesus, Gia, you own eighteen percent of the thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you serious—” He stops. He looks at her like he’s trying to decipher if she’s actually clueless. She is. He sighs. “He gave you a trust fund.”

“I don’t even want to think about that trust.”

“He gave you thirty percent of everything. That’s eighteen percent out of his sixty in GoJo,” he explains like they’re still in high school and he’s still her math tutor. Patiently.

“Why is everything in my life a math problem now?”

“Because after him, you’re the biggest shareholder. And if he’s losing everything—”

“He’s not.”

“Okay, fine, live in that delusion, but if he is? Then you’re still left with your chunk. You’re the perfect proxy.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, half-laughing. “He didn’t do it for leverage.”

“No? Then what? Love?”

“Yes, actually.”

She can see it in his eyes; how ridiculous that sounds. Because it is. Because, technically, it wasn’t about love but fear and anxiety, but those aren’t things that Ira needs to know. Not at this moment anyway, not while he’s wading knee-deep in some outlandish conspiracy theory water.

“You always do this. You romanticize him,” he says. “But there’s a difference between crazy romantic and just plain crazy.”

“And there’s a difference between honesty and just—you know. Being a freaking jerk.”

He bites his upper lip. Crosses his arms like he has no intention of apologizing. But behind it all she can see it—a slight hint of regret.

“You’re not worried about me, Ira. You’re just disappointed,” she says. “But thanks for the diagnosis.”

She doesn’t wait for him to say anything else; doesn’t need to. Doesn’t need to see the accompanying face either: the mixture of pity and self-righteousness, like he’s the only person in the world who knows what’s best for her. Her heart is already hammering against her chest, her ears ringing with the sound of clinking glasses that seems to get louder every second. She turns, not running, but walking away as fast as possible in heels that are beginning to pinch her feet.

Smiling; maintaining composure.

Poised. Controlled.

Her heels click against the marble. She’s not even sure where she’s going—this really isn’t the time to start up a conversation with another potential donor. Ira can handle that part for now. That’s what he’s here for and not—whatever that was. Brutal honesty that nobody asked for? Harsh truths?

Half-truths, maybe. Like it’s so hard to believe that Lukas can be more than the guy who lied? Like it’s so hard to just let her be happy even if she doesn’t have all the facts—

She stops dead in her tracks. She doesn’t have all the facts.

But Lukas—

He’s here. He’s not glued to his phone all the time. That has to mean something. He’s tied up in meetings a lot, sure. He doesn’t tell her what they’re about, yes.

But he’s also—

Home. It seems like he’s there more and more each day. After the wedding, it’s been—

Well. There’s the demolition on the neighboring house that’s starting up soon. Plans drawn up with architects. Paint samples. Vision boards by interior designers and discussions about if they actually need interior designers.

There’s been pasta and tiramisu.

Movie nights.

Baby names.

And suddenly she’s not sure which is more scary: that he’s protecting her from everything that’s going on or—

That he’s building this life for them as an escape.

Then, she hears her name, again. Whispers.

“That’s her.”

“The wife. The sweet one.”

“It’s not a marriage. It’s a brand rehab.”

A sharp inhale. She keeps walking. She’s never wanted to be the face of someone else’s redemption arc

“Did she get work done? Her nose looks different.”

“Did you see their wedding photos? A little gauche if you ask me.”

“I was there. Beautiful wedding. Food was great.”

“You were invited?”

There’s a crack in her smile as she walks through the crowd, greeting people, gesturing vaguely in other directions as they try to stop her for a chat.

Focus, Gia. You need donations.

She squares her shoulders and takes deep breaths, her chest shaking with each exhale and inhale like she’s somehow freezing.

“She doesn’t look like someone who marries into litigation.”

“I give it six months.”

“I heard there’s no prenup.”

“Oh, so he’s crazy-crazy.”

No. Can’t.

There’s something beating against her chest like a restless hummingbird. Tiny. Powerful. A throbbing in her ears; chatter, laughter, the rhythm of the room suddenly offbeat.

A step. Another one.

The dress is too tight, digging into her ribs like a rubber band that’s been wrapped around too many times. Her mouth is dry but she’s still holding champagne that she can’t drink.

“He’s not spiraling. He’s post-spiral.”

“Does Sweden have an extradition treaty?”

“Did you see the culture memo? Reads like a fucking mid-life crisis on acid.”

“I thought it was satire. It’s like ‘this is not who we are’—from someone who absolutely made it who we are.”

The glass is about to slip from her hands and then—

“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”

Lukas grabs the glass from her hand, his other hand wrapping around her shoulder.

“You’re whiter than a fucking sheet. What the f—”

She looks up at him, her eyes wide and glassy, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She can’t even say anything.

He takes her hand, gently, discards the champagne on a table, and leads her to the side of the room and through a nondescript door with a polished sign that reads STAFF ONLY.

The back kitchen is lit with awful overhead fluorescence, and bustling with waiters and staff.

“Hey, sir, you can’t be in here—”

“Fuck off,” Lukas says. “No, actually—fuck. Go get me Dr Kaplan.”

“Yes, sir.”

The waiter hurries off. Gia’s shaking. From her bottom lip down to her toes. Her breath catches in her throat; her eyes sting.

And then she’s crying. Unable to breathe.

“Gia,” Lukas says. He grabs her by both arms. “What is going on?”

“I can’t do this,” she manages between sobs.

“What? What are you—”

He can’t even get the words out. His voice cracks, like something’s breaking just under the surface.

“She’s having a panic attack.”

Gia recognizes the voice. She doesn’t even need to look up to know Ira is standing by the door.

“Please, go away. You’re not a part of this,” she snaps, holding her hands close to her chest as though that’s the only thing keeping her together.

Lukas turns, confused, scanning her face like he’s missed an entire chapter.

“She has panic attacks sometimes. Not recently, but when she did that show—”

Gia buries her face in her hands. “Shut up, Ira.”

“Hey, man, uh—maybe step outside?”

Ira doesn’t argue, already half-opening the door with a mumbled, “I’m sorry, Gia.”

Staff edge around them like they’re too scared to ask them to move. It’s silent. Somebody’s chopping something like it’s midnight and he’s trying not to wake up the house. Slow. Barely letting the knife hit the block.

Lukas lifts her up to sit on the stainless steel counter.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, brushing hair off her forehead. His head whips to the side, and he locks eyes with a busboy. “You. Water. And those.”

He nods to the side, gesturing to the tray of mini bruschetta laying out on the other counter. The busboy does as he’s told without hesitation. Lukas holds up the glass to her mouth.

She sips, slowly. Then he feeds her the crunchy bruschetta with acidic tomatoes and just the perfect amount of basil and—

Her tears have stopped.

The fluorescent light above them flickers. Her heart is pounding, slower now like it’s remembering how to exist inside her body. Somebody opens the door and for a moment the noise of the gala fills the small kitchen space.

Gia glances towards it as it swings back closed.

“Please talk to me,” Lukas says.

She looks at him, really looks at him now, and he’s standing there like he’s afraid to touch her so she won’t break, but also he’s grasping her hand so hard it’s like he’s afraid she’ll just slip away if he lets go.

“People are talking. About you. About me,” she says quietly. “It’s one thing when it’s on the internet. Or the papers. But these people are talking about me like I’m not even in the room.” 

She looks down at her hands. Her nails are red to match her dress. “And they’re talking about you like—”

The words get caught.

“Like I’m already dead and buried?” he suggests.

She nods.

“And yet here I am. Living my best fucking life.”

“But—” she says, quietly. “Is there a possibility you might go to jail?”

Lukas stiffens. Not much. Just enough. “What? No.”

He lets out a laugh. The why are you asking that kind.

“No?”

“That’s just talk. Scare tactics. People like me don’t go to jail.”

“But the SEC—”

“Is out for blood, sure. They’ve got subpoenas and headlines and a fucking quota to hit. Worst case? Massive fines. A slap on the wrist.”

His voice is light. Almost bored. Like he’s giving her the weather report.

“Trust me.”

She stares at him. That phrase—he says it like it’s an order. Like it’s something she’s just supposed to blindly do, because—why? Because he’s her husband? Because he has blind faith in everything she does?

Because she owes him?

“You don’t need to worry,” he says.

She nods, slow. Unsure. “You’ll tell me if I do?”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t ask about the eighteen percent. It doesn’t seem like the time.

Somebody comes to find them. Apparently thirty on the floor is up. Lukas tells them to fuck off while Gia slips into the bathroom to quickly fix her face.

And then it’s time.

She’s led to the first row of the crowd that’s gathered around the platform barely a step above the floor. Her choice. No elevation. No god-complex. No spotlight. Just a tiny clip-on microphone, and a sea of wealth pretending to care and doing a really bad job at it.

Lukas steps up.

“Good evening. I will keep this brief, because this is not about me, and you all are sick of me already.”

He smirks like he’s in on the joke. A few awkward and polite laughs.

“I am here to introduce the woman whose efforts have brought us all here tonight. My wife, Gia Ferrara. In case you haven’t met her yet, she’s right there.”

He points to her in the crowd. As their eyes meet, he winks.

“Once upon a time I asked her why she wastes her time on people who can’t give her anything back. And she should’ve looked at me like I’m the stupidest man alive, but she didn’t. She’s far too patient for that. No, instead she told me, ‘I’m human. Isn’t that the whole point?’”

He pauses.

“I didn’t get it at first. And I’m still learning. You’ll get it, too. If you’re smart.”

He looks around the room as if he’s daring anyone to object.

“Gia Ferrara.”

Then, he holds out his hand, stepping off the platform. Gia takes a deep breath. Her smile locks into place again. She takes his hand, he squeezes it lightly, and she steps onto the platform.

No cards. No notes. No talking points.

“Hi. I’m Gia,” she begins.

Lukas is front and center. Ira’s off to the side nursing a cocktail and looking like he regrets just about everything from the past half an hour, but also like he still thinks he’s right. Karolina’s texting.

“If I sound nervous, it’s because I am. Not because I don’t believe in this, but because I do. And I want to say this right,” Gia continues.

“I’m not a public speaker. Or, well—I once hosted a charity car wash. I spent eight hours with a megaphone trying to get strangers to let us soap up their cars. I made that work. I can make this work.”

There’s a few obvious side-eyes in the crowd.

“I was raising money for The East Queens Shelter Project. The very same shelter that the Lukas Matsson Foundation is now partnering with to launch our pilot program: Rebuild: NYC.”

She smiles. Wide.

“It sounds ambitious, right? Trying to fix the broken systems of an entire city. It is. But big problems need big solutions. And I didn’t invite you here to tell you sob stories. This isn’t about pity. I don’t need you to feel sorry for the unhoused. They don’t need your pity. They don’t want your pity.”

Her tone is a little more biting than she’d originally intended for it to be. She looks around the room. The same people that were just whispering about her, about him, about all of this—they’re paying attention now. And if it’s all theater, they might as well get a show.

“Did you get where you are because somebody felt sorry for you? No? You worked for what you have. The difference between you and them isn’t grit. It’s privilege.”

A few raised eyebrows. A few uncomfortable laughs.

“And I don’t mean to call you out on it. Trust me. I’m the most privileged person in this room. I get to stand here and be listened to? By all of you? The people who hold the power to make actual change happen? That’s rare. That’s an opportunity I’m not letting go to waste.”

She takes a deep breath to level herself.

“Real beds. Real paychecks. Real outcomes. Let’s rebuild.”

She smiles. There’s scattered applause that grows into something louder. People are whispering, again, but there’s a certain curiosity to it now. Wide eyes and raised eyebrows like she’s just claimed to have invented world peace. Lukas claps first and loudest and then steps up to help her back down.

“Jättebra,” he whispers in her ear and then, just as she’s about to ask if he’ll help her reel in more potential donors, he suddenly jumps up on stage again.

The people have started to disperse. Gia whips her head back. This is not in the plan.

“One more thing and then you can get back to drinking.”

The crowd stops. He clears his throat.

“The Lukas Matsson Foundation was never a real thing. Sure, we gave real money to real causes, but standing here tonight I could not name a single one. Fucking great for tax reasons, though. The same reason half of you are here.”

Some chuckles erupt from the self-aware parts of the crowd. Somebody pulls out their phone to record.

“But my wife—my stunning, generous, kind-hearted, too good for me wife—has given it meaning,” Lukas continues. “And I think she should just run the whole fucking show.”

Gia freezes. Run —what? How? What is he doing?

Lukas meets her eye.

“But I know my wife. She’s not in it for a fancy title. No desire to sit in a stuffy boardroom barking orders at people. Really bad with numbers.”

There’s some laughter in the crowd again. Gia tries to smile, but it’s hard to come by.

“But she has a fucking vision. She leads by example. By doing the work. The real work, down in the trenches, connecting with humanity,” he says. “So, moving forward, The Lukas Matsson Foundation will reflect the vision, the values and the heart of Gia Ferrara.”

Gia inhales sharply. People burst out into applause again and then the murmurs start, echoing the questions that swirl inside her head. Like, what does this mean? Or, more importantly—

No, that’s actually the most important thing.

What does this mean?

He jumps off from stage, swooping her in for a kiss, and Gia can almost hear the throbbing of Karolina’s forehead from seven feet away and—

“Come with me,” he says, grabbing her hand, and they push through the crowd of congratulations. Karolina appears beside Lukas, matching his pace, but before she can even speak, he says, “Q&A in five.”

Karolina looks like she’s about to say something else, something in the vein of have you lost your mind, but instead she just says, “Got it.”

And then she turns towards the curious crowd of donors and reporters and a limited selection of social media influencers to relay the plan. Lukas holds on tight to Gia’s hand until they’re back in the kitchen again. The staff don’t even bother to say anything.

“Q&A in five?” Gia asks. “As in five minutes? Are you doing that, because I have zero A’s and all Q’s right now.”

He leans up against the counter. “I got excited.”

“Yes,” she breathes out. Excited. Understatement of the year.

“I told you to do something with the foundation. I was not expecting you to create, uh, what did you call it—human infrastructure. You did this in what, six weeks? Imagine what this will look like in a year.”

She has imagined it. Carefully, hopefully.

“So, what do I do?” she asks.

“The same stuff you’ve been doing for years. Just scale it up.”

“I’m gonna need more to go on.”

“But you don’t. You did all this with zero input from me.”

He has that look again, that absolute confidence in her abilities. She sighs.

“Yeah, okay, but I didn’t expect you to make me—what? What am I?”

“You’re the fucking blueprint for what everybody needs to be doing.”

“Okay, so—can I hire people?”

“If there’s room in the budget.”

“Can I fire people?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Who do you want to fire?”

“I don’t want to fire anybody, but not everybody seems too happy about this new development of doing actual charity.”

“Yeah, no. Shun the non-believers,” he says. “Look, we’ll figure it out. Hire people who reflect the vision. Cut the ones who don’t. Write a fucking manifest about what we stand for now.”

“Okay,” she says. “And also—”

She hesitates.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe Karolina’s focus should be elsewhere. She’s obviously amazing at what she does, but—”

“You’re not vibing?”

“I mean…”

“G.”

“I’m your wife and I understand that very well. It’s the only reason I’m able to do any of this.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But sometimes I feel like she’s so concerned with how I’m making you look, that she’s kind of babysitting,” she says. “Especially after the thing with the wedding planner—”

“What thing with the wedding planner?”

“She was kind of playing puppet master. I told you, right?” she says, and he shakes his head. “It’s fine. I told her to stop. Everything was perfect.”

She twists her ring around her finger. Once. Twice.

“It’s just—you know. It’s her job to worry about stock price and shareholder opinions and optics, and I get it. But—you know. The more she controls this, the more it looks like we’re just doing this to rebrand you,” she says.

Lukas is already shaking his head. “Uh-huh. Yeah, no. I’ll redirect. She’s off the foundation. Fully. We’re going to bring in somebody better suited for you. For this.”

“Thank you. This is really important to me. And if we get donations—”

“If? No, fuck that. There’s no if. Even if these people don’t give a shit about the homeless, they’ll throw money at you.”

“So you keep saying.”

“And I’m right.”

Sometimes she hates it when he’s right. When he knows he’s right. 

But when her pilot program exceeds its funding goal? That isn’t one of those times. Tonight she absolutely loves that he’s right.

The night ends at The Greenwich Hotel. Just the two of them. Lukas sits at the foot of the bed, scrolling on his phone.

“You’re a hit,” he says.

She’s taking off her earrings by the desk. “What do you mean?”

He reads from an article. “Sources say Lukas Matsson barely touched the nonprofit until his wedding. Gia Ferrara might be the best thing to ever happen to the Matsson name.”

“That’s fast journalism.”

She tries to unzip the back of her dress, but the zipper is stuck, or her hand just won’t bend to a position that makes unzipping possible. He comes over to help.

“You know, one time we organized a canned food drive for families living below the poverty line. We fed eighty families for a month. I sent out press releases, begged a local reporter to cover it. Nothing. Not even a line in the back of the paper,” she says.

“Harsh reality.”

“Yeah. But one of the kids wrote about it in their high school paper. Interviewed me and everything.”

The dress falls off her and pools to her feet on the floor. She steps out of it to hang it up.

“You’re like Spider-Man,” he says.

“What?”

“Friendly neighborhood pasta girl.”

“What does that make you? The flying green troll?”

Lukas tilts his head like a question.

“What? I’ve seen one Spider-Man movie,” she says. He laughs.

He opens up the suitcase that was already in the room waiting for them when they arrived and tosses her an oversized t-shirt. She catches it on instinct, the cotton soft and unmistakably not hers. It’s not his, either—not his brand, not his scent, not even something she recognizes from his wardrobe.

It’s just there like everything else.

It’s one of those things she might never get used to. Things just happen. No planning, no packing. One minute he suggests staying at a hotel because going back home is too much of a chore and the next everything’s just sorted. A penthouse suite, massages booked at the spa for the morning after, a bucket of ice with non-alcoholic champagne and a minibar stocked with antioxidant organic smoothies.

A suitcase full of clothes in her size.

And as he takes off his shirt, she stares at him like she’s about to say something—like how she’s still not sure this kind of life will ever feel like it’s hers .

She doesn’t.

She turns to face the full-length mirror on the wall, placing her hands on her stomach. It’s tiny, but it’s there. Not noticeable enough for an outsider to see, but—

“You can see it, right?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says.

And he’s behind her then, wearing nothing but his underwear, burying his face in her neck. He wraps his arms around her, holding his hands above hers; above the bump. Soft kisses. The warmth of his body pressed against hers.

She leans against him, her body finding that familiar place it always does. But her mind doesn’t quite follow.

She swallows, then asks—barely above a breath, “Do I really own eighteen percent of GoJo?”

He stills. His eyes flicker, looking into hers through the mirror.

“Ira did the math for me,” she says.

“Of course he did,” he says. Then, “Yeah, you own eighteen percent.”

“Is that your safety net?” she asks, careful.

“Do you think that or is that Ira talking?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t answer.

“You had a fight or something?” he asks.

“Or something.”

“Huh.”

Then he lets go of her. Climbs into bed. She watches, her head tilted to the side.

“It’s not a safety net,” he says.

“No?”

“I get it. If I was Ira, I would make the same assumption. I’ve lied to you before. It’s not unreasonable to think I’d use you as some sort of—whatever,” he says.

She watches the way he lies back, arms behind his head, gaze fixed on her like he’s trying very hard not to sound bitter. But there’s a sharpness to his voice now, low and tight and slightly too flat.

He’s hurt. That much is obvious.

“I don’t think you would,” she says.

“No?” he asks, like he’s not sure whether or not to believe her.

She shakes her head. He sighs.

“I didn’t tell you the specifics of your trust, because I don’t think you care about what’s in it.” he says. “But I’ll set up an appointment with the guy who handles it, so you’ll know. So you’re not blindsided again.”

He pats the space beside him on the bed. She climbs in, and then suddenly his hands find the curve of her waist, gently guiding her so she throws one leg over him, straddling him between her thighs.

“Ira got into my head a little,” she says. Quiet. Soft. Apologetic.

He nods.

She leans down and kisses him. Slow, steady. The kind that suggests they’ve got all the time in the world. Her lips linger on his; his hands tighten at her hips like he doesn’t want her to pull away.

“Am I on the board?” she asks, almost whispering the words against his mouth.

“No, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re not on the board.”

Before she can ask what that means—or what it doesn’t—his phone buzzes against the nightstand. He picks it up, barely glances before turning the screen towards her. An official looking press release, stylish font over a black and white photo from the gala. Her, at the platform. Smiling.

The Lukas Matsson Foundation

Proudly reflecting the vision, values & heart

of Gia Ferrara

She stares at it. Sure, her name’s been in print before. A few articles about MasterChef. A few reviews of the pasta truck. Some scathing online commentary about her marriage.

But not like this. This is special. This is the start of something.

And yet, this feels all wrong.

“This is just a mock-up,” he says, possibly noticing the apprehension on her face.

“Okay. Can you tell them to make one change?”

“Yeah?”

She points to her last name. “Right there. It should say Matsson.”

He blinks. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

And then, he kisses her in the way that makes her melt into a puddle, slow at first and then deeper, greedier, holding onto her waist as he flips both of them with ease so he’s suddenly on top, looking into her eyes like there’s no way this is his real life.

“Say that again,” he whispers.

A smile tugs at her lips. “What? Gia Matsson?”

“Jesus, fuck.”

He kisses her again, hungrier now, his mouth trailing down her neck as his hands travel up, under, across—exploring every inch of skin like he’s making a map of her body. Her fingers wrap around his neck, firm, all heat and tingling and want, and she presses her lips to his shoulder.

Somewhere between ragged breaths and his mouth on her skin, the lights dim, and nothing else exists in this room, this city, this reality but him.

She falls asleep against his chest, listening to his heart beating. Steady, unbothered. 

In the early morning hours she wakes to the sound of muffled yelling in the hallway. She reaches for Lukas on instinct, eyes still adjusting to the dark, but he’s not there beside her. She gets up. He’s not in the bathroom either. The sound grows louder and clearer as she approaches the door and then she recognizes the voice.

“Who the fuck leaked it?”

Lukas.

“You don’t know? What the fuck am I paying you for?”

A pause.

“I don’t want excuses. I want names. Burn down their office. Bribe the fucking editor. I don’t care what you have to do, just kill the fucking story.”

It’s dark inside and then it’s bright as the door suddenly swings open. He’s obviously startled to see her, like he’s just been caught stealing from the cookie jar. He steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

“What’s going on?” she asks quietly, her voice still sleepy.

“Did I wake you?”

She shrugs. “It’s okay. I probably have to pee anyway.”

He laughs, stressed, and walks past her to turn on one of the bedside lamps. Then he sits down at the foot of the bed, rubbing his neck. He doesn’t look at her; his eyes seem fixated on a spot on the floor. His breathing sounds heavy. She crosses her arms, leans up against the wall. Looks at him.

And just waits.

“Vanity Fair is running an exclusive,” he says after a moment.

“About?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just glances at her stomach. “They have a source who confirmed you’re pregnant.”

“Oh.”

He rubs his mouth with his knuckles like he’s trying to erase the words. “Fuck.”

“It was gonna happen sooner or later.”

“But right now? It looks calculated as fuck.” His voice is flat. Not angry—just disappointed. “Tech tyrant grows a conscience, foundation, and fetus—just in time for the SEC to start banging on his door. It’s like Christmas fucking morning.”

Gia tilts her head. “You done?”

He looks up. “No. But I’ll stop talking.”

His phone vibrates with a message in his hand. His fingers wrap around it tighter and then—

He chucks it across the room. It lands on the floor in the corner with a soft thud against the carpet. He shakes his head like he’s disappointed it didn’t even break.

Then he looks at her again. “Are you okay?”

She gives a half-shrug. “I mean…”

“Last night you were so fucking unreal and now this? This is what people are going to talk about? This is the story?”

Her lips curve into a soft smile. “I thought we didn’t care about trying to control the narrative.”

“I care about you not being reduced to a fucking sideshow.”

“It’s okay.”

She walks over and takes his head into her hands, her thumbs resting on his jawline and slowly stroking the stubbled skin.

“I was so nervous to go up there last night. The things those people were saying were just—” Her voice is barely above a whisper. She shakes her head. “Awful. Absolutely awful. I don’t know how you do this. But you—”

She kisses him. Soft, all breath and warmth and goosebumps. He kisses her back immediately. His hands find her hips, pulling her into his lap like it’s second nature. Sure, steady.

“You look at me like I can do anything,” she says, murmuring the words against his lips.

“Because you can.”

“And that’s all I need.” She kisses him again. Slower. Deeper. “But also—”

“Uh-huh?” he asks, distracted now. His nose is against hers, his hands still grasping at her hips. 

“If the overwhelming story becomes ‘Gia Matsson is expecting a baby’ and not—”

“Gia Matsson is single-handedly going to end homelessness?”

“Something like that, yeah, then I think we need to find somebody to criticize that. Like, ‘why are we looking at her baby bump and not the work she’s doing?’”

“Feminist vibes, fuck the patriarchy. We weaponize the discourse.”

She laughs, louder than she should at this hour. “If they’re going to be talking about me anyway, I want it to matter.”

“Uh-huh. Yes.”

He pulls her in even closer, his hands traveling under her shirt with ease, dragging slow lines up her spine. She shivers; he feels it.

He does it again.

“We should go back to bed,” she says.

“Mm-hm.”

He leaves little kisses down her neck and along her collarbone, each one softer than the last; she can’t help but arch her back, leaning into the touch.

“To sleep,” she adds, her words coming slower and softer now.

“Yeah, uh-huh. Sure.”

Another kiss, this time with more pressure. More want.

And then his hands drift to her stomach, the tips of his fingers drawing lazy circles on her bump, just below her ribs.

Then they slide up.

Her breath hitches. Skin prickles.

He doesn’t rush, exploring every inch as though he’s just getting started and planning to take his sweet time. She shifts in his lap, and he just smiles against her mouth like he knows what it means.

Because he does.

He always does.

And in the early morning hours when the world is quiet and still, she forgets the headlines and the whispers and the narrative that’s being written.

In the early morning hours, she begins to understand the beauty of escaping.

Chapter Text

NOW PLAYING: SPIN CYCLE [PODCAST S02E10]

[cheery intro jingle with the sound of a washing machine layered on top]

MAX: Welcome back to ‘Spin Cycle’ where we spiral so you don’t have to. I’m Max, your unpaid therapist/resident cynic. 

LILA: And I’m Lila, the president of the unofficial Lukas Matsson fan club.

MAX: Friends, buckle the fuck up. We have updates.

LILA: So, quick recap for those not terminally online—

MAX: —or those who are terminally online but have attention spans that have been destroyed by short form content on a continuous loop—

LILA: —here’s what’s been happening in Lukas Matsson vs. The World. The SEC is officially launching a formal inquiry. GoJo’s dirty laundry has already been aired: fake numbers, fake reviews, unethical use of employee and user data. You name it, they’ve done it. Now it’s going to be put under a black light and examined by very serious people who will not distracted by vibes like the average Joe—

MAX: —and by that we mean Lila.

LILA: I love the vibes. A romantic getaway in Europe while your stock takes a nosedive? Iconic. Unhinged love notes on Twitter? Showstopping. The wedding? Art. Literally. Making your wife the face of your foundation? Tech Jesus, you have absolutely outdone yourself. The rebrand of all rebrands.

MAX: It’s giving Wife Guy. And the pasta princess of Elmhurst Gia Matsson is out there building transitional housing and social infrastructure.

LILA: This is a woman who is taking full advantage of her new platform while staying true to herself and I applaud that. Snaps for Gia.

MAX: She hosted a fundraiser. The media raved. And then? Boom. Baby bump. The question we’ve been asking since the beginning still remains—how much of this is real? 

LILA: I think if it wasn’t real, they would’ve timed the pregnancy leak differently. Give the charity angle some time to breathe.

MAX: But maybe that’s the point. Suddenly that’s all everyone can talk about. The official statement from The Foundation goes like this: ‘Gia and Lukas Matsson appreciate the public’s interest, but ask for privacy as they prepare for this exciting new chapter in their lives. They hope to keep the focus on the work—especially Gia’s leadership on Rebuild:NYC, which continues to drive meaningful, long-term impact in the community.’”

LILA: Look at my philanthropic wife, not the baby I put inside her? And definitely don’t look at the company I’m running to the ground?

MAX: But also—look at my baby. Look at how the media is treating my wife and my baby. She’s reduced to a uterus carrying the heir to a crumbling empire.

LILA: You think it’s a masterclass in distraction?

MAX: I think Lukas Matsson has not changed. He’s just found someone more compelling to stand in front of the cameras.

LILA: It’s giving redemption arc, and I am fully buying into it. I’m a romantic. Sue me.

MAX: He just might.

“Franny hasn’t replied to my invite.”

Lukas looks up from his laptop. “Oh?”

Gia stares at her phone, as though that’ll summon a response. “She’s read it, but I don’t know. Maybe she just forgot.”

“Probably.”

She’s in the kitchen, gathering supplies for dinner. She opens the fridge, takes something out. Checks her phone. Grabs a cutting board. Checks her phone. Opens a drawer. Peels a carrot. Checks her phone.

There’s something adorable about her minor annoyance slowly growing into something major—the little hmph that comes out as an exhale through her nose after every phone check, the tiny crease that forms between her brows as she tries to focus on the task at hand.

He turns his attention back on the screen. 

search: mood swings pregnancy week 20

The inevitable happens. Lukas hears the dial tone. Franny picks up almost immediately.

“Hey, you’re on speaker,” Gia says.

“Oh, okay. Hi, Lukas.”

“Hey, Franny.”

Mozzarella barks in the background, sharp and insistent, making Franny laugh. “Hello, fur ball.”

“Dinner. Friday. Are you coming?”

Not even a quick how are you? Lukas raises an eyebrow. Gia means business.

Franny doesn’t answer right away. “Um, I mean, sure. Maybe. I might not be around.”

A loud chop. Then Gia pauses. “What?”

“I have a lot of school stuff.”

“Okay, but it’s family dinner. I’m cooking.” Her voice tightens, just a little. Just enough for Lukas to notice.

“Okay.”

“And you have to come.”

“What’s the big deal?” Franny asks, a little too casual.

“I’m cooking,” Gia repeats, slower this time as though it’s a comprehension issue.

“Mom and dad will be there, right?”

“Yes.”

“And Alma and Ira, right?”

Gia’s mouth twitches at the second name. Just a little. “Yes.”

“So, why do you need me?”

“Because you’re my sister.”

“I’ll come to the next one.”

“There might not be a next one.”

“Are you dying?”

“No, but—”

“Are you denouncing this family?”

“No, but—”

“Then there will be another one.”

“I’m having a baby, Francesca.”

“Yes, and even when you have a baby, you will still have to eat, so there will be more dinners.”

“You’re coming to this one.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m cooking!” Gia’s voice jumps, her frustration finally getting the better of her patience. 

“What the—uh, Lukas? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” he says. Gia glares at him. He’s never seen her glare like that, like he’s insulted her ancestors.

“What’s going on?” Franny asks.

Gia points a knife at the phone on the counter. “Do not ask him. This doesn’t concern him. This is about you and me, and the fact that you’re being really selfish as usual—”

And in a flash Lukas is in the kitchen.

“Franny, we’re going to call you back,” he says, quickly disconnecting the call.

“Why did you do that?” Gia asks.

The knife is still in her hand.

“Do you know what I just realized?” he asks. A subtle change of subject that allows him to pull her in close, one hand wrapping around her waist, the other gently grasping at her wrist and trailing his fingers to hers. He grabs the handle of the knife, placing it down as far away on the counter as his reach will allow.

“What?” she asks.

“I forgot to buy ice cream.”

Her face falls. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah.”

“You forgot my ice cream?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But—how could you do that?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s trying not to laugh, but it’s extremely difficult when she looks so deeply upset, wide-eyed like a deer—like somebody just stole a wheelchair from a two-legged puppy in front of her. “Why don’t I go get that now and maybe on the way back I can get us pizza?”

“Pizza? But I’ve already started prepping for dinner.”

“Uh, okay,” he says, looking at the chopping board with exactly one diced carrot. “I’ll eat this with my pizza.”

She looks at the carrot, then back at him. “Alright.”

“Why don’t you take a bath while I’m gone?”

“A bath? Are you saying I smell bad?”

Fuck, no. That was the wrong thing to say.

“No, I mean—why don’t you take a bath, read a book, just, uh—relax,” he says. 

“Oh, I could finish folding the rest of the baby clothes. And then maybe read that book about healthy baby sleep habits.”

“Well, sure,” he offers. “But also, uh—nevermind.”

Reusable shopping tote, car keys, phone. Bugatti in the garage of a house in Queens. His pregnant wife waiting for him to make a Target run to get mint chocolate chip ice cream.

A year ago he would’ve laughed at this version of himself.

As he pulls out of the garage, he calls Franny. 

“What the hell is going on?” she asks. 

“Gia is—”

“A crazy, hormonal bi—”

“Struggling a little,” he interrupts.

“A little? She’s completely irrational.”

“Yes.”

“She’s freaked out about one lousy dinner. It’s one dinner! Why is it so important?”

“Because it is,” he says. “Just like getting baby gates for the stairs last night was important.”

“Baby gates? For a baby that’s not due for, what, another four months?”

“Yes, exactly,” he says. “Luckily there’s a 24/7 Walmart in New Jersey and luckily they had baby gates in stock and luckily I know how to use power tools.”

“Just because you’re walking on eggshells doesn’t mean the rest of us have to. She’s being unreasonable and stupid.”

“I don’t care. She’s carrying my baby.”

“Oh, god. Be normal for once. Do that challenge.”

“She’s going through a lot right now.”

Franny goes quiet. And then, after a moment, she says, “As am I.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“And whose fault is that? I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her right now and then I won’t have to come to dinner and—”

“I don’t care that you’re pissed at your mother. This isn’t about you, Francesca,” he says. “You’re going to suck it up and come to dinner.”

“But—”

“Or I’m kicking you out.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Silence. Franny hangs up.

As the line goes dead, Lukas tosses his phone on the passenger seat and exhales. The car hums as he backs out of the driveway, somehow smug, like even it knows it doesn’t belong here.

He glances at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His jaw is too tight. His eyes look like he hasn’t slept.

Which is fair.

Last night he called four different stores to find baby gates, because she was convinced the baby would immediately fall down or climb up and then fall down the stairs upon arriving into the death trap that is their house.

And he tried logic and reason, but—

They were not welcomed into the conversation.

Ice cream. Pickles. The weird oven baked chips that she likes and he swears taste like cardboard. Two pizzas from the place she likes—the one where the owner likes to flirt with Gia and hates Lukas with burning passion.

When he gets home, she is not taking a bath. The baby book is flipped over on the coffee table.

“Hello?” he asks, because she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Upstairs!” she yells out.

He unpacks the groceries and then treads up the stairs. She’s sitting crosslegged in his office chair with his laptop open on the desk. She gestures for him to come see something, a similar gleam in her eyes as he’s seen many times before. He walks over to see she’s got a website open.

Route 17 Auto Group

Right off the highway. Right on the price.

“What’s, uh, what’s all this?” he asks, his brow creasing as he looks at the website and the fact that she’s got about thirty tabs open with what he can only assume are the finest automobiles sold in New Jersey.

“We need a car seat,” Gia explains.

“Yeah, sure.”

“It needs to go in the backseat.”

“I know.”

“The Bugatti doesn’t have a backseat.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you think we could put a car seat in the front? Because we can’t. That’s, like, incredibly dangerous, and I’m not going to risk—”

“G—”

“No, don’t interrupt me. We need a new car. And before you ask about the Porsche—”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Technically it would fit. But it’s not practical. I mean, where would we put the stroller?”

“Right, right,” he says. “So, you’re shopping for a car?”

“Yes.” She clicks on one of the tabs to show him a car she’s found.

“Uh-huh. That’s, uh, a good idea,” he says. “But, uh, a Volvo?”

“It’s safe. And spacious. And Swedish.”

“Uh-huh, yeah.”

He’s nodding, trying to find a way to tell her hell no without using the words hell or no. Not only will he absolutely not be caught dead in a fucking Volvo, he’s also not making the trip to some dealership in New Jersey that, frankly, looks like one of those places that would have an inflatable tube man outside and that is just not the vibe.

He’s not a snob. He’s not. But fuck, this is where he needs to draw the line, and so—

“I already bought us a car,” he says.

“What?”

It’s risky as fuck. There’s a chance she’ll be upset he made this decision alone or—

“You bought a car? A family car?” she asks, her eyes wide and glassy already.

He bites his lip. “Uh-huh.”

“For us?”

“Yeah, of course. I realized we needed something more practical.”

She’s now weeping, in that way that looks like she doesn’t want to fully cry but it’s inevitable. Her face scrunches like she’s trying to hold it together, and she covers her mouth with one hand like that might stop the emotion from leaking out.

“What did you buy?” she manages to ask.

“Huh?”

“The car. What is it?”

“Right, right. I bought us, uh—”

Fuck. Think.

“A G-Wagon,” he says.

And then her emotional breakdown just—stops. Abrupt. She looks like she’s about to ask why, and he can’t exactly tell her it’s because it’s the only family friendly car he could think of in this moment and that’s only because—

Her brows knit together. “Is that the same one you have at the cabin?”

He nods.

“Oh,” she says.

“It’s safe, and uh—roomy.”

“Definitely big enough for a stroller,” she says. “It’s just kind of… flashy.”

“Flashy?”

“And boxy.”

“It’s visible. For safety.”

“Right.”

She goes quiet, her gaze shifting to the ring on her finger.

He rushes to explain, as if he has an explanation. “I know, I know. It’s a fucking tank, but hear me out—”

Her bottom lip quivers. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No?”

The tears come again. She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.

“I hadn’t even thought about this car thing until now, and then I’m here stressing out and Googling stuff, and you’ve already handled it,” she says and jumps up from the chair. She leans into him, burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist tight. “You’re so sweet. And so prepared.”

He is neither of those things, but what’s a little white lie compared to the emotional breakdown that might’ve happened if they had to have the a Volvo is not a car, it’s a midlife crisis conversation.

“Sure,” he says, stroking her hair.

Downstairs, while she gets the plates and drinks ready, he texts his car guy.

« need new g wagon asap
« in a pretty color
« and the best car seat for a baby

Four days later, the house smells like garlic. Not in the overpowering kind of way, but in the makes your mouth water kind of way. Garlic. And cheese. And heat.

Ira’s already there when Lukas arrives with the wine—Gia had sent him out for just one more bottle, which she’d requested in a voice that didn’t sound like a request. He walks in to find them in the kitchen, mid-conversation; she’s stirring the sauce on the stove while Ira leans up against the fridge like he owns it. Her face lights up. Ira turns slower. Doesn’t smile.

“You’re early,” Lukas says, setting the bottle down on the counter.

“I had some stuff I wanted to run by Gia,” Ira replies.

“Oh, yeah?” Lukas asks. He walks over to kiss Gia. His lips meet hers; it’s not a quick peck or a greeting. It’s the kind of kiss that makes a point. His hand lingers briefly on her waist.

Gia blinks, caught off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly. “We were talking about the program launch. Ira was just sharing some notes.”

“Yeah?” Lukas asks. He squares Ira with a look. “He’s full of those lately.”

Gia’s stirring slows. She looks from Lukas to Ira. “You know what? I need to focus so I don’t mess this up.”

Then she reaches into the cabinet and pulls out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey.

“That looks expensive,” Ira notes.

“It is,” Lukas deadpans.

She pours and hands them drinks. “Out of my kitchen, please. Both of you.”

In the living room the two men stand like they’ve never been there before. Awkward, neither wanting to be the first one to sit down for some strange reason undoubtedly rooted in testosterone.

Lukas sips. Ira does, too.

Gia has turned on the kitchen radio. The faint tunes of golden oldies fail to fill in the silences.

“She’s doing good work, you know,” Ira says finally.

“Yeah. I noticed,” Lukas replies.

“No, you didn’t.”

Lukas doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t even flinch. “You got something you want to say?”

“It’s a shame about the leak. It overshadowed the gala.” Ira glances toward the kitchen and then lowers his voice just a little. “Is that what you wanted?”

“You think I leaked it? Jesus, fuck. In my country doctors are smart.”

“I think you let it happen.”

Lukas scoffs. “I’m dealing with it.”

“How?”

“That’s actually none of your business.”

“I don’t have a problem with you, man, I’m just worried about my friend.”

“Yeah? That’s fine. Just know your place.”

Ira laughs—the kind that says he won’t even bother to retort.

“You took her to brunch and gave her some lame-ass apology and now you think everything’s okay again?” Lukas asks.

“We’ve been friends for more than a decade. You think she’ll just cut me out of her life after one fight?”

“Nah. But I think at some point you can’t be the guy who hates her husband, and still expect a seat at the table.”

“Husband? Right. You married her. That doesn’t mean you know how to be married to her.”

“And what? You do?”

Lukas doesn’t mean to go there, but he does. It just comes out. Ira shakes his head, a dry laugh under his breath. Before he can respond, Lukas’s phone vibrates with a message. Ira watches carefully as Lukas reads it, examining every little expression with surgical precision.

» Board moving ahead with the vote. No chance for you to block it.

“I gotta, uh—” Lukas says, vaguely gesturing towards the front door. “Why don’t you go see if Gia needs help setting the table?”

“Oh, wonderful. Nothing like a little blunt force cranial trauma via a meat mallet,” Ira says.

“She wouldn’t hit you.” Lukas places his drink down on the coffee table. “Not if you keep your mouth shut anyway.”

“Touché.”

Outside, the sun is beginning to set. The air is cooler. The house next door is fenced off. Monday is demolition day.

Lukas calls Gerri. “Tell me you have a plan.”

“Just because you don’t like this reality doesn’t mean you can create your own,” Gerri says.

“Fuck off. Who flipped? I can flip them back.”

“They’re all flipping. If they haven’t yet, they will by Tuesday.”

“You told me they don’t have the votes.”

“Things change.”

And he’s about to say something else—something aggressive and offensive, probably—when he hears the crunch of gravel behind him.

He turns.

Franny.

She’s got that look on her face. Already over it, did not want to come. Black oversized hoodie, a tote bag slung over her shoulder, headphones hanging around her neck. Her makeup is dark, smudged, like she’s been wearing it for two days straight.

He hangs up the phone.

“Evening,” she says.

He raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t sure you were actually coming.”

“You made a convincing argument.” She glances at his phone. “What was that about? Or let me guess—nothing important?”

“Let’s not get into it.”

“Right.” She crosses her arms, nodding her head towards the house. “Are Mom and Dad here yet?”

“Nope. Just Ira.”

“Oh, fun.”

It’s obvious she’s been looped in on the drama, but to what extent? Lukas isn’t even sure he’s fully caught up on everything that happened the night of the gala. Gia’s not the type to bitch and moan, but the tension isn’t fully gone. Brunch was fine, she and Ira talked, and then that was that.

She didn’t tell him the details. It bothers him more than he wants to admit, because, fuck. If they talked, did Ira apologize? Did he admit he was wrong? Did she forgive him because she’s just such a fucking good person, or because he made a convincing argument?

“What’s, uh—what’s his damage, anyway?” Lukas asks.

Franny laughs. “I don’t know, Heather. What’s yours?”

“What?”

“He’s not jealous of you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

“Oh, sure.” Franny rolls her eyes, dramatic and teenaged and somehow wiser than her years all at once. “You know, she’s dumped guys before because Ira didn’t like them. Not Mom. Not me. Ira fucking Kaplan.”

“Am I supposed to be scared?”

“No. Nothing scares you, right?”

She says it like it’s a dare. He swallows hard, wants to tell her a lot of shit scares me, but can’t.

“But he has, like, 20/20 vision for bullshit. Like some NASA level radar,” she says.

“Nah. I don’t buy that.”

“It’s a fact.”

“Yeah? So why didn’t he clock my bullshit the first time we met?”

Franny pauses.

“Maybe that’s what this is about. He’s making up for lost time. Trying to retroactively be right,” he says.

“You think Ira gives a shit about being right?”

“I think he’s exactly the fucking type, yeah. And if his radar missed something, missed me, then his whole existence is futile. Because he’s, what, her moral compass? Her fucking gatekeeper?”

And the way Franny looks at him reminds him so much of Gia it’s unbearable. That head tilt, that slow realization that creeps behind her eyes, like he’s the dumbest fucking man alive.

But, unlike Gia, she lacks the patience to soften the blow, the understanding to see where he’s coming from.

“Did you ever consider that it’s not about you?” she asks. “He’s just trying to make sure she doesn’t get hurt. That’s all.”

“And I’m the guy who hurts her?”

Franny shrugs. Shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“She’s been defending me, right? To him. To you. All of you,” he says, his tone flippant as ever. “Like I need that.”

“You do, actually,” she says.

It hits harder than it should. Not because she says it like she means it, and she does, but because she says it like she knows he already knows it, too. And he does.

“She believes in you. And she’s defending you even when you give her every reason not to,” she continues. “So, you know, maybe instead of psychoanalyzing Ira, you should just… I don’t know. Show her that she’s not believing in nothing.”

“Ouch.”

She shrugs one shoulder. He tilts his head towards the house and they go inside. Gia’s singing in the kitchen. Ira’s folding napkins for the table.

Alberto and Sophia arrive right on time. Alma is only a little bit late. There are drinks and there are small bite-size appetizers.

There’s no small talk, not in this crowd.

Lukas sits in an armchair with Gia perched on his lap as the family dissects the hot topic at hand: Gia’s pregnancy and how it’s making the rounds through various news outlets. Alma opens up the bottle of limoncello she brought ‘just in case the wine is too dry’ and pours herself a little glass.

She looks at Lukas. “You’re suing, right? This has to be an invasion of privacy. Libel. Something.”

“When we find the leak, we’ll pursue legal action, absolutely,” he says. His hand is on Gia’s thigh, his thumb idly drawing circles over the fabric.

“Who would do such a thing?” Alberto asks.

“Maybe the call is coming from inside the house,” Ira mumbles into his whiskey.

Gia sits up a little straighter.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” she says with a smile. “It would’ve been nice to do it on our terms, but—it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Lukas says, sharper than he intends to.

“I agree,” Sophia says. “It’s not fine. But it happened. And now you take the high road.”

Franny is nearly sunken into the couch with Mozzarella curled up into a ball on her lap. She groans. “Boring.”

“Maybe so, but effective. The work will speak for itself,” Sophia says.

Franny glares at her mother. They’ve barely said two words to each other so far, and it looks like it might stay that way.

Gia turns her head to look at Lukas. A subtle glance, just enough to let him know that now is not the time to discuss strategy. Are they taking the high road? Absolutely. A simple statement and then silence. On the record, anyway. And off the record? Well, they’ve fed the right lines to the right people. In two weeks she’s opening the first transitional housing site. That’s the focus. That’s the push. Baby bump watch? Fuck that. Anybody who’s still staring at her stomach deserves to be labeled anti-feminist.

It doesn’t even matter if it makes him look more strategic, like he’s planned the whole thing—it’s enough to make people second guess what’s PR and what isn’t.

It’s enough to shift the narrative, not rewrite it.

The family means well—of course they do. But they’ll never fully get it, the delicate balance that Gia has come to understand in a way he wished she never had to. To them, the leak was just unfortunate. Rude, maybe. Invasive for sure. And maybe they’re right, maybe the truth would eventually prevail—but Gia doesn’t have the luxury of waiting around while she’s being reduced to ‘pregnant wife on meaningless side quest.’

Sincerity isn’t always enough if the world is out to make you into a spectacle.

He nods. She smiles. They’re not going to explain it. This isn’t a war room—and these aren’t the people that need to know every single detail.

The conversation lingers. Alma tries to lighten the mood by pointing out that at least Gia looked radiant in the photos from the gala. Franny’s scrolling on her phone.

Gia squeezes Lukas’s hand. He squeezes back.

“We actually have some news,” she says, gaining the attention of the room. “We had another ultrasound.”

“Oh, is this a gender reveal party?” Alma suggests, excited.

“It’s a party where we reveal the gender,” Gia says with a smile.

Franny tosses her phone off to the side. “What’s the difference?”

“This one doesn’t involve cutting a cake or popping a balloon or causing a forest fire.”

“Right.”

“And we know the gender already.”

Alma shrieks. Sophia inches to the edge of her seat, literally, as though closer proximity will help her be the first to know.

Gia wraps Lukas’s arm around her stomach. “So, without too much fuss—”

“It’s a girl,” he says.

“Oh my god!” Alma gasps, clutching the chunky necklace she has on.

“That’s wonderful news,” Sophia says, and in a flash she’s on her feet, grasping at Gia’s hands and pulling her into a hug.

Alberto sobs. “My first granddaughter.”

Ira looks at Lukas, his expression nearly unreadable but polite. Classic doctor face. “Congratulations.”

His tone isn’t unkind. It’s not full of love and joy, either. His lips press together, not quite a smile but something akin to it, like he’s torn between calculating the risks and simply accepting the fact that there’s going to be an actual baby, and nothing else could ever be as important.

“Thanks, man,” Lukas says. He reaches out his hand to shake Ira’s.

“Imagine if she gets your face and his height? Like, hello? I could manage her modeling career,” Franny says.

Alma nudges Franny with her elbow. “Oh, sweetie. You’re not thinking big enough. Her kindness and compassion with his intelligence and charm? This girl is going to change the world.”

“I feel like my brain was just subtly insulted,” Gia says, still locked in her mother’s arms.

Alma laughs.

“You better not name her anything weird. I’m not going to the park with Pixel Rae or Beta Bunny or whatever,” Franny says.

“Why would we—” Gia begins. “Actually, nevermind.”

Lukas laughs. He remembers the moment the doctor had told him it was a girl.

Something in his fucking brain short-circuited.

A girl.

He nodded like it was nothing, like it was exactly what he’d expected. Because it was—statistically, it was 50/50. It wasn’t surprising, wasn’t anything to be happy or sad about. It was just a fact. As long as it’s healthy, people always said. That it didn’t matter.

But still—

The doctor was talking. Gia was smiling, glowing and radiant in a way that hurt to look at. And he was standing there like a complete fucking idiot trying to keep his face from twitching. 

He’d managed a nod, maybe even a smile. Whatever passed for socially acceptable.

Because it hit him like a brick to the teeth.

A daughter.

Someone whose first idea of a man would be him.

Fuck.

His chest went tight. Beads of sweat formed under his collar.

He nodded at the nurse and said, “That’s great,” like he was ordering a fucking sandwich. Because what was he supposed to say? That’s fucking terrifying? That it made him want to throw up?

For a second, just a second or maybe five, he wondered if he would’ve been less terrified had it been a boy. Someone he could fail in a way that made more sense.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But a daughter? Fuck. The word wouldn’t stop looping in his head. A girl. His daughter. Someone small and fragile and perhaps exactly like Gia—or exactly like him. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

Because Gia would love her as she was. And he—

He was the boy whose mother couldn’t even stand to keep him around. The one everyone said would end up just like his father.

And maybe—

Fuck.

Maybe he had fought that so hard that he had ended up exactly like his mother instead. Allergic to vulnerability. Absent in all the ways that mattered.

And his daughter? His soft, perfect, tiny little daughter? The one that would be so easy to love—and even easier to fail. The one that would look at him like Gia did, with that same unreasonable belief that he could be better. That he would be. That he was. And maybe that belief would last a year, or five, or ten. Maybe she’d keep handing it to him like a fucking gift every time he missed a dance recital, disappeared into his phone or raised his voice. But one day—one perfectly normal fucking Tuesday—she’d look at him and something would shift. Just a little, just a flicker of something, like she’d finally seen it. That he wasn’t going to change.

That this was it.

And she wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t yell or slam doors. She’d just—stay. And adapt. Quietly, like kids do.

And he would mistake the silence for success; he would think he had done something right.

It would be so easy to check out. To leave it all to Gia. She was already better at it. All of it.

She’d read the baby books cover to cover and marked the important pages with post-it notes. She’d googled car seat safety and recalls. She asked smart questions at every appointment and took her vitamins.

He barely made it to the last ultrasound.

And somehow, she still looked at him like he belonged in this story. Like he would figure it out.

She would show up—really fucking show up—and their daughter would grow up bright and funny and loved, and learn to communicate her big feelings with words, and none of it would be because of him.

That was the thing nobody ever said about being a father.

It wasn’t the baby that was scary.

It was you.

Someone has already opened a second bottle of wine. Laughter carries through the room as they settle in for dinner. Gia has been cooking and prepping for three days. Dinner smells like comfort and being loved. Short rib ragu with polenta. A giant vat of Parmesan risotto—a little too salty because that’s how Lukas likes it. Charred broccolini, focaccia and a bowl of olives for Franny.

For dessert there’s panna cottas in the fridge. And cinnamon swirls to take home for breakfast.

There’s only seven of them, but enough food to feed at least a dozen.

“And when Gia was three, she got chickenpox on a plane. Can you imagine? We boarded a flight in JFK, she was fine.” Alberto’s voice booms over the table. “Flight time eight hours. By the time we landed, she was covered in red spots.”

“And terrified she would turn into a chicken,” Sophia adds.

“The other passengers were mad that we brought a sick child on board. One of them claimed we put makeup on her spots before the flight. Makeup! Like we were smugglers or something.”

Everyone laughs. Lukas thinks they’ve all most likely heard the story a hundred times before, but he can’t remember if he has, specifically.

Gia’s face is flushed in that adorable way it sometimes gets.

Conversation flows as freely as the wine. The pregnancy leak is a thing of the past. Alma envisions knitting little socks for Baby Girl Matsson; Franny reminds her that it’s much easier to just buy socks and at least then, they’re less likely to unravel.

Sophia sets her glass down and turns to Gia, a maternal softness in her eyes. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Gia shrugs. “Pretty good. I feel like every day I find new things to cry about or get mad about or—”

Franny laughs—abrupt, sharp.

Gia shoots her a glare. “And I can hear myself being crazy, you know? But I can’t help it.”

“Sounds about right,” Sophia says with a smile. Her gaze shifts to Lukas.

Gia clocks it immediately. She places a hand on his shoulder. “The other night I cried because we ran out of butter.”

“The good butter,” he adds.

“The French butter, you mean?” Franny chimes in.

“Yes, exactly,” Gia says. “And he—”

She almost tears up again but fights through it. “He went out at six a.m. and drove to Williamsburg to get it for me. I woke up and there were four packs in the fridge.”

Sophia raises an eyebrow. “You went to Brooklyn for butter?”

Lukas nods.

Sophia smiles, throwing a subtle nod of acknowledgment his way.

“Oh, he’s been driving all over,” Gia says. “And when I was freaking out about getting a safe car, he had already taken care of it.”

“You’re talking about the assault vehicle in the driveway?” Ira asks, his tone teasing rather than mean.

“Don’t mock the man, Ira,” Alberto chimes in. “He’s about to be on the frontlines of fatherhood.”

“With everything I’ve been putting him through, he deserves a medal. Literal war hero,” Gia says.

“You’re not that bad, babe,” Lukas says.

Their eyes meet. She’s so fucking beautiful. She’s so—

Fuck.

She’s just looking at him like he’s this perfect husband. Like her life is everything she ever wanted. Her eyes are soft and full of love, and Lukas can hear it in everything she says—she’s doing that thing again. Defending him, except this time she’s not making excuses for him. She’s just stating facts.

He’s been around. He’s been trying.

And the thing is, it feels effortless sometimes. He has no idea what he’s fucking doing, but it’s easy to just be with her, to love her, to be absolutely freaking terrified of her whims and also to be the person who gets to fix things, who gets to make her anxiety go away even if it is something as silly as installing baby gates before there’s even a baby.

And maybe—just fucking maybe—he’s already one step ahead, and she’s not believing in nothing.

Eventually the conversation turns to other subjects. Work—to which Lukas says nothing because what is there to fucking say, and Gia’s face flashes with a fleeting wistfulness. He notices. Ira tells a story of a guy with maggots in his leg and how a med student fainted at the sight. Alma quickly changes the subject. Weather, headlines, more questions about the baby and Gia’s health.

Then Gia mentions, offhand, that she’s excited to start packing things away next week, and conversation turns to house renovations.

“Where is the extension going to be?” Ira asks.

“Oh, right through that wall,” Gia says, gesturing to the living room.

“We’re going to keep most of this old kitchen intact and expand it. Extend the living room, extra rooms downstairs, bedrooms upstairs, add another garage and a sunroom,” Lukas says.

Alberto raises his eyebrows. “Big plans.”

“Yeah, really big,” Gia says.

“You’re gonna keep this kitchen?” Franny asks in disgust. “Why?”

“Because it’s full of memories,” Gia says.

“And mold, probably,” Franny says.

“There is no mold.”

“There will be some upgrades for sure. But we want to keep a lot of the original features,” Lukas says. Gia catches his eye, reaching under the table to squeeze his hand.

Alberto smiles. “That’s wonderful. This house is so important to Gia.”

Then he starts off on yet another anecdote—this time about how Gia hosted a party in high school and Ira broke the porch swing. Ira objects to the accusation. A heated debate breaks out. Sophia laughs. Alberto presents the evidence.

Franny leans in to talk in Gia’s ear, obviously over the subject that has clearly been well covered over the years. “I will never, ever fathom why you choose to live here when you could live in his penthouse. He has a personal gym and a movie room.”

Gia laughs, soft. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s now a treadmill in my garage, and I think that’s just the beginning.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, he runs freaking marathons. He wakes up at five to workout.”

“You wake up at five to cook.”

“I used to. Now that I’m pregnant I’m sleeping till ten and taking a two-hour nap every day.”

“Wow. You’ve really let yourself go,” Franny teases. “How does a treadmill fit in the garage? Isn’t the truck in there?”

“Yeah. It’s not ideal. But it’s temporary.”

“And I bet you’re super excited to have your house turned into Planet Fitness.”

“You know I can hear you, right?” Lukas asks.

“Yes, and?” Franny says.

Gia laughs. “Don’t worry, babe. I wholeheartedly support your physical wellbeing.”

“Good.”

“Let’s face it. I get to enjoy the results.”

She leans in to kiss him—soft at first, but then it lingers, almost veering into inappropriate dinner table behavior. Her hands slide to the back of his neck; his fingers slip to grasp her waist. She hums a sound of pure fucking bliss.

Around them the debate is still going, almost everyone oblivious to anything else. Alma’s taking a sneaky picture on her phone, holding it too close to her face while her reading glasses are safely hanging around her neck.

“Literally, ew,” Franny says. “I’m trying to eat here.”

“Gia, please,” Ira pleads, breaking the moment. “Tell your dad what really happened.”

Gia laughs against Lukas’s mouth. “Every time. It ends like this every time.”

Then she turns to them, and before she can even say anything, Alberto’s already shushing Ira from trying to get a word in.

“The swing was already broken,” Ira argues.

“The swing was fine—”

“Oh my god, stop. It’s been fourteen years. Nobody cares,” Franny says.

Alberto throws his hands up in defeat, and the argument dissolves into the usual static—Franny groaning, Ira defending himself with far too much energy for a man in his thirties, Gia laughing like she’s heard this bit a hundred times (because she has).

Lukas leans back in his chair, one arm slung around Gia, his hand resting on the curve of her hip. He watches them—the whole ridiculous, over the top, utterly unbreakable ecosystem that is her family.

His family, now. Apparently.

They’re arguing about something as trivial as a decade old porch swing incident like it’s a civic matter. Ira on the defensive, Alberto playing prosecutor. Franny contributing colorful commentary from the sidelines with zero respect for the proceedings. It should be annoying. Pointless.

But it isn’t.

He watches Ira refill everyone’s glasses without asking, like he’s done it a thousand times. Watches Franny steal the last olives from Gia’s plate. Watches Sophia lean back, resting a hand on Alberto’s shoulder, her smile tightening at the corners like she’s counting down to intervention.

Everyone’s talking at once. It’s odd. The noise. The chaos. There’s something there; something he’s never had.

A deeply unsettling kind of comfort.

A limoncello bottle clinks against the table.

“So, Francesca,” Alma says with a smile that says she’s determined to move on. “How’s school?”

Franny nearly chokes on her wine. She coughs once, twice, then shoots a look at Lukas, sharp and quick and almost subtle. He keeps his gaze locked straight ahead.

Franny pastes on a careless smile, tilting her head like she’s been lying all her life. “School is fine. I still don’t know my major.”

And the conversation moves on. Ira pipes in about how there’s no rush, and how nobody knows what they’re doing at twenty, and Alma starts a tirade about how children are expected to have life figured out way too soon. Lukas stares at his plate, breathing a silent sigh of relief, leaning in as Gia places her head on his shoulder.

And then—

“What was that look?” Sophia’s voice is cool, collected. 

Conversation stops. Heads turn.

“What are you talking about, mom?” Franny asks.

“Alma asked about your school, and you looked at Lukas like a deer in headlights.” 

“I didn’t.”

“So, I’m blind?” She narrows her eyes at Franny. Franny doesn’t say anything. “No? Fine.”

Then she turns her head, slowly, to Lukas. He feels it immediately, the intensity of her stare; the heat of it crawling up his neck like a bad reaction. He picks up his wine, takes a sip, sets it back down with care.

Gia’s eyes flick between them. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on,” Franny says, too quickly.

“Are you still going to school?” Sophia asks.

Franny scoffs. “What? Where—where did you get that idea?”

“I’m so confused,” Gia says. She looks at Lukas now.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. Stares straight ahead like he’s been trained not to react. His fingers twitch against his thigh.

“You’ve barely said three words to me tonight and now you’re acting strange.” Sophia doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to. “We had a deal, Francesca. You get to live on campus if you keep up with your classes.”

“Okay, well I failed my classes. Who cares?”

“You failed? What do you mean you failed?” Gia’s voice jumps. Shock. Not anger.

“Even with the extension and the extra course work?” Sophia asks.

Franny shrugs, her eyes darting towards Lukas again. “I never got an extension and I never did any extra course work.”

“And I’m not living on campus, either, so technically, I’m not breaking our deal,” she adds, lower now.

“What?” Alberto asks, already pushing back his chair. “Where have you been staying?”

Franny goes quiet.

Lukas feels it before she says it. Pressure. Air thick like right before a thunderstorm. Blood rushes between his ears.

“Francesca Lucia Ferrara,” Sophia demands, “answer the question right now.”

“I’m living in Lukas’s penthouse,” Franny says, mumbling the words as if that’ll help.

Somebody gasps, quietly. Possibly Ira. All eyes land on Lukas. The silence is aggressive. Lukas can’t turn his head; doesn’t even need to. He knows the look on Gia’s face from experience.

“How long?” Sophia asks.

“Since the wedding,” Franny admits.

Sophia turns to her other daughter. “You didn’t know?”

Gia shakes her head once. Small.

“Oh, he has so much to learn,” Alberto mutters, almost to himself but loud enough.

“Can everybody just chill? It’s literally not a big deal,” Franny says.

“Francesca, be quiet,” Sophia snaps.

Lukas reaches for Gia’s hand under the table. He half expects her to yank it away, but she lets him hold on.

Sophia’s stare fixates on him next. “And you? You have some nerve.”

“Mom,” Gia says. A plea—or warning.

“This is not how we do things in this family.”

“With all due respect,” Lukas says, meeting her eyes. His voice is steady. ”Franny is an adult.”

Sophia scoffs. “An adult? Unable to take responsibility for herself, keeping secrets, telling lies? Is that adult behavior?”

Franny pouts, tears pooling in her eyes. Just a little.

“I was afraid something like this would happen if she moved out,” Sophia adds. “From a 4.0 to, what, a dropout? In one semester? And you’re enabling this behavior?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Lukas says.

“Disrespectful is what I would call it.”

“Mom, stop,” Franny says.

“No, I will not.”

“It’s not his fault. It’s my fault. Everything is my fault.”

“Francesca, be quiet.”

“Maybe you should listen to her.” Lukas meets Franny’s gaze. She looks so small, a far cry from the defiant miniature adult she’s always projecting.

“She is a child. She does not get a say in this,” Sophia says.

“I never get a say in anything,” Franny says.

“Oh, please. You get your way every single time and the one thing we have asked from you—”

“I didn’t even want to go to college.”

Sophia shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You chose NYU all on your own.”

“Because I had to. And do you know why?” Franny asks, her tone exasperated. “Because you were supposed to stay in Italy. Because Gia was supposed to stay in Italy.”

Sophia flinches. Barely, but it’s there.

Franny stands up, slamming her napkin on the plate. “I had to go to college, so I did,” she says, her voice strained now. “I picked one far away from any of you, because I could. And then you told Gia to move here, so she could babysit me.”

“With good reason,” Sophia says. “It’s obvious campus living was a mistake.”

Franny pushes back her chair so hard it screeches against the floor. Then she snatches her wine glass, downing what’s left in one big gulp.

“Francesca, you are not leaving this house—”

“Why not? You’re already disappointed.”

She turns on her heel, grabs her coat from the hook by the door and her shoes from the rack without bothering to put them on, and marches out.

The door doesn’t slam, it locks with a deafening click.

“She needs to move back home,” Sophia says.

Alberto nods. Gia’s looking down at her hands, at Lukas’s fingers still threaded through hers.

He looks at her face, her beautiful fucking face that’s so confused and hurt and disappointed all at the same time, and swallows back something in his throat. A part of him just wants to apologize, to shift the blame or diminish his part in this—to lie, basically.

To make it easier.

But he can’t, because he’s fucking right.

He clears his throat. “Franny is irresponsible. She can’t hold herself accountable for anything. But it’s not because she’s a child. It’s because you treat her like one—”

Sophia shakes her head. “Gia, sweetie, please tell your husband—”

“No, I’m still talking.”

Ira gasps at the audacity. Sophia stares at Lukas.

“Franny got a job four weeks ago,” he says.

“What?”

”I gave her money every week, enough to buy food and essential items. She said it’s not enough. I said ‘get a job’, so she did.”

“What job?” Sophia asks, almost simultaneously with Gia.

“She’s a waitress at IHOP.”

“What?”

“She likes pancakes and syrup. They like cheap workers. It’s a match made in heaven.”

Sophia does not look impressed. “You have lied to your wife. You have helped Francesca lie to her entire family. All so she could be a college dropout?”

Gia’s face doesn’t change much, but Lukas sees it. A shift, a flicker. Hurt, maybe, or just recognition. Like someone’s just slapped a label on Franny that nobody ever bothered to slap on her.

Dropout.

Sophia says it like Franny’s throwing something away. But when Gia left school to take care of her grandpa? No one argued. It’s clear they think Franny has potential. And Gia? What, she didn’t?

It was the right thing to do. She would do it all over again, this much Lukas knows.

But still—he wants to throw his fucking plate across the table.

Sophia gets up. Drops her napkin on the plate. “Thank you for a lovely dinner. Congratulations on your baby girl.”

Alberto gets up as well. He clears his plate to the kitchen, silently finishing the rest of his wine as he goes.

“Gia, will you walk me to the door?” Sophia asks.

Ira and Alma sit silently. Lukas holds his knife against the plate, spinning it in place. He can hear the conversation happening at the front door.

“She lied because she was scared, Mom,” Gia says.

“Scared of what?”

“Of your reaction. When I dropped out—”

“You dropped out for a reason. You forged your own path. I am immensely proud of you, sweetheart,” Sophia says, her voice genuine. Yet again Lukas is reminded that the world isn’t black and white. Sophia sighs. “Francesca is just staging another teenage rebellion.”

“Lukas might have a point. We can’t hold her hand forever,” Gia says.

“This is not the time to defend your husband, Gia. You know that.”

And the hits just keep coming.

Alberto and Sophia leave, hugging Gia before they go. The dinner party comes to a natural halt. Ira’s speechless, for fucking once, and Alma—well, she starts clearing the table and putting leftovers in containers until Gia stops her.

She walks them both out to the porch. They stay out there, talking.

When she comes back, Lukas is standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands wrist-deep in hot, soapy water. The clink of dishes is the only sound in the kitchen. He doesn’t turn right away, but he knows the look that’s on her face anyway. She’s waiting—for an explanation, an apology, something. Anything.

“I’m not going to apologize for giving Franny a place to live,” he says, his voice calm. He rinses his hands under the tap and dries them on a kitchen towel.

“I’m not asking you to. But you should have told me,” Gia replies. Her voice is steady.

He turns. “You don’t need the unnecessary stress.”

“She’s my sister.”

“That doesn’t mean her problems need to be yours.”

“That’s exactly what it means. This isn’t how a family works, Lukas. This isn’t how a marriage is supposed to work.”

“I’m fixing it.”

“Okay, great. But if something’s broken, I need to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t always know best, Lukas.”

His jaw sets in place. “That’s not what I’m implying.”

“No?” she asks. Her voice is full of soft disappointment. “What about GoJo?”

“What about GoJo?”

“You’ve told me everything’s fine. I’m trying to believe you. I swear.”

The kitchen feels smaller, suddenly. Like he needs to call the demo guys in there right fucking now to bulldoze through the wall.

She’s standing at the doorway. Her curled hair has fallen a little, her arms are crossed. “But if you lied about Franny, then—”

“Jesus.”

“Who did you call tonight?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Outside. Who did you call?” she asks again.

It’s not a secret, really. It’s just—a thing. Something he didn’t mention, because it wasn’t important, not tonight anyway.

“Ira saw you through the window. He said you looked panicked,” she says.

Lukas exhales, sharp. “Of course he did.”

“Was it about the board?”

He grits his jaw so hard it hurts. It’s not a fucking secret.

Say it.

She watches him for a moment longer, then shakes her head and shrugs like she’s ready to give up. She turns to walk away.

And he can’t bring himself to say it, to say any of it. Not tonight. Not on top of everything else—not when it’s going to sound like he’s just been lying this whole time when he’s just been—

What? He’s been what? Protecting her? Hoping he’ll never have to say it out loud? That he’s fucking failing at the only thing he was ever good at?

He grabs his keys off the little hook by the door. The night air is cold when he steps outside. When he gets in the car, he’s not sure where he’s going.

But as the cliche goes, misery loves company. Maybe failure does too.

Franny opens the door of the penthouse wearing a fuzzy robe and a headband with bunny ears.

“You just couldn’t be cool?” Lukas asks.

“Come on. Look at me. I’m the coolest.”

He steps inside. The apartment is clean. Spotless, in fact. “You’ve cleaned.”

“Yes, I have. I’ve had to do that ever since you sent my cleaning lady—”

“My cleaning lady.”

“—on a Mediterranean cruise, that she’s obviously never coming back from.”

“Nah. This is good. You’re learning responsibility.”

Franny groans, dragging her socked feet across the shiny floor as she flops onto the couch. He follows, leaving his shoes by the door.

“Sorry if I got you in trouble,” she says.

He shrugs. “Nah.”

“Did Gia kick you out?”

He tilts his head, almost smiling.

Franny laughs. “You’re right. That doesn’t sound like her.”

“I came here to talk.”

She pulls her robe tighter. “I told you already. I’m figuring things out. I don’t know what I want and it’s—”

“I’m not here to talk about you.”

“Oh.” Franny frowns. Then, “Oh.”

Lukas leans back on the couch, arms crossed. The overhead light isn’t on. Good. He never liked it anyway. There’s a can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of popcorn on the sofa table along with Franny’s laptop. It’s covered in post-it notes. Some scribbles of a life plan.

His giant TV is paused on some show. The GoJo logo sits in the corner of the screen.

“You’re up to date on current events, right?” he asks.

“Current events pertaining to GoJo and its reportedly unstable CEO? Sure.”

“How do I tell Gia?”

“What do you mean how? She already knows. She’s just living in this magical reality where you have the ability to fix everything.” Franny grabs the bag of popcorn and offers him some. “A reality of your own creation, I might add.”

“I could fix things if people stopped pegging me as a fucking failure. It’s confirmation bias. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s all wrong.”

Franny lets out a small, dry laugh. “Sounds like you and I have the same problem.”

“Yeah? Wanna trade? I’ll deal with your mother. You take on the SEC.”

“Oh. Iconic. I’m gonna need a whole new wardrobe for that.”

She places her hands under her chin like she’s ready for a close-up. He laughs. Then, she grabs a pillow he’s never seen before—green, fuzzy—from the couch and throws it at him.

“Go home, you freak. Tell her everything.”

The lights are still on when Lukas comes home. Mozzarella is asleep on the couch. The kitchen is spotless; the table is cleared. The panna cottas are still untouched in the fridge.

The cinnamon swirls lay forgotten on the counter.

There’s no sign of Gia downstairs. He finds her in the would-be nursery, surrounded by organized chaos. Swaddles, onesies, a pillow, an open bag of chips and a half-eaten granola bar. All laid out into neat little piles.

He stops in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

She doesn’t look up. “Packing my hospital bag.”

“Uh, okay.” He leans against the doorframe. “Isn’t it a little soon?”

“What if she’s premature?”

“Fair point,” he says. “So, what is all this?”

“Well, that’s her clothes.”

“Uh-huh?”

“I need to bring a few sizes because I don’t know how big she’s gonna be. I mean, with your genes?” She throws him a look that’s equal amounts of affection and accusation.

He nods.

“And those are my snacks.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Need to restock those, actually,” she mutters. “And my pillow, obviously, and—”

“Okay, right. I get the basic picture.”

He steps inside the room and crouches down next to her, careful not to disrupt whatever system she’s got going on.

“Where did you go?” she asks without looking at him.

“To see Franny.”

She glances up at him, but doesn’t say anything. She folds a muslin cloth and places it in a pile with the others.

He swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper.

This is the point where he can’t pretend anymore. But he wants to—oh, fuck, does he want to.

He wants to sit on the floor and ask if the baby is awake and kicking. To check the baby app to see what kind of fruit she is this week. Pretend that everything is fine and normal, that the writing isn’t on the wall. He wants to freeze this moment as it is.

He wants to make a spreadsheet about what to pack in a hospital bag.

And instead—

“The board is going to hold a vote of no confidence,” he says.

Gia freezes mid-fold, her hands hovering over a pink onesie. “What?”

“They want me out.”

“Can they do that?”

“In theory.” He sits down, cross-legged, and runs a hand through his hair. “But, uh—I own forty-two percent. Forcing me out would be extremely difficult. It’s just about sending a message.”

“A pretty clear one.” Her voice is small, fearful. “You told me not to worry. Over and over again.”

“Because you have nothing to worry about.”

She pauses. Looks at him like she’s waiting for him to say he’s joking. “And how do you figure that?”

“Because nothing is going to change,” he says. “I have two options. I can stay. Force their hand. Fire everyone. Get into a fucking proxy battle. Tank the value.”

“Or?”

“Or I can cash out.”

“Sell?”

“Uh-huh.”

She blinks, slowly, like she’s trying to understand a language she never wanted to learn in the first place.

“Either way, you don’t need to worry. This doesn’t affect you,” he says.

“The fact that you actually think that is insane.”

“What—”

“Okay, first of all, the SEC?” Her tone is sharp now. “Even if you walk away, you’ll still be responsible for whatever happened while you were in charge. That affects me.”

She waits for a moment, looking into his eyes as if to see that he’s really listening.

“And second of all, you? You affect me. I’m not even sure you know who you are if you’re not Lukas Matsson, CEO.”

Fuck.

This is the problem with marrying a girl like Gia—she may know him better than he fucking does.

“And third—” she starts.

“There’s a third?”

“I own eighteen percent. As the second biggest shareholder, your decisions affect me.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

He looks away. There’s something crawling under his skin. He hadn’t even thought about her shares. Not like that, not like—

“I don’t want to be the second biggest shareholder, but I am, and whatever you decide—you know. If you sell, where does that leave me? What am I supposed to do?” she asks.

Whatever you want, he wants to say, but doesn’t. She doesn’t want them. It was a package deal—the trust. And when he had it drawn up, the thought never even occurred to him that one day she might have GoJo stock—and he wouldn’t. The fucking thought never crossed his fucking mind that one day he might not be Lukas Matsson, CEO, founder, majority shareholder.

And if he sells—

Jesus, fuck.

He didn’t set out to make her a proxy, but if he sells, and she doesn’t—can he fucking leave it alone?

“You told me you were gonna fix it and then walk away. I don’t know if either of us believed that, but…” Her voice drifts off, like she can’t finish the thought. She holds her hand over her stomach. “We never talked about what would happen if you couldn’t fix it.”

Because that wasn’t even an option.

She reaches over, taking his hand into hers. It’s warm, familiar. He looks up to see her staring at him, blinking.

“I don’t think you want to walk away from this thing you built,” she says, her voice still steady. “And I don’t know how to watch you burn it down just to prove a point.”

“What point is that?”

She shrugs. “That it’s yours.”

“Gia—”

“Lukas.”

She shifts in place, kneeling in front of him now. She grabs his jaw with both hands, steady and certain; her thumbs press gently against his cheekbones. She leans in, her forehead brushing his for just a second.

And then, she kisses him.

It’s slow, sure. Like forgiveness.

“Run away with me,” she whispers against his lips.

And Lukas doesn’t say anything. He just kisses her back, again, soft and then harder, like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet.

But he fucking will.

Chapter Text

Franny’s iPhone: Notes

things lukas matsson once said

“Therapy is a scam.”

When asked for an opinion on Elon Musk: “lol” [in live interview, the man literally spelled it out]

“It’s not my job to fix the lives of the poor, sick and needy.” [walked out of interview]

“Everyone wants to be the next me. Good fucking luck with that.”

On taking a romantic getaway post-scandal: “Hiding? I’m not Bin Laden. I was taking a fucking vacation.”

“People think [my padded room] is for rage. It’s for silence.”

“Cry harder.”

When asked for his favorite American city: “Departures at JFK.”

“Yes, I married up. Emotionally, spiritually, aesthetically. Sexually, too. But sure, yeah, let’s talk stock prices.”

“Capitalism is a cult. And I’m not saying I’m Jim Jones, but—” [interrupted by PR rep before he could finish the thought]

On America: “You go to a national park and there’s a sign that says ‘don’t fall off the cliff.’ Like, thank you. I was this close to jumping. You can’t even stand in line at the grocery store without being told where the line is. There’s literally a person with a sign that says ‘line starts here.’ For standing. In line.”

There’s nothing quite like hosting a baby shower for your sister, whose husband you’ve been conspiring with.

There’s nothing quite like co-hosting it with your mother, who is absolutely furious with you because of the aforementioned conspiracy.

But things happen. Two idiots forget birth control and boom, suddenly you’re about to be an aunt. A cool one, for sure. The kind that hosts a baby shower with games that don’t revolve around how fat the mother is getting. Or eating melted chocolate out of diapers.

Franny’s watching Lukas hang up a banner across the far wall. Pink glitter script, ‘Welcome Baby!’ The room is filled with pink and purple balloons. Baby pictures of Gia and Lukas act as the centerpieces for the tables.

Mom’s outside, coordinating. She’s been doing that this whole morning. Coordinating with the venue. With the vendors. With the cleaning crew. Coordinating with just about anyone except Franny.

Or Lukas, for that matter, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

The plan was made weeks in advance. Before the wedding. Before—

Everything.

It was all supposed to be very civilized. Lowkey. Classy but not bougie. Relaxed, like Gia used to be before she was overrun with pregnancy hormones. Central Park Boathouse. Family. Friends. No corporate goons or overzealous publicists.

No unresolved mother–daughter–brother-in-law issues.

“It’s crooked,” Franny says.

“Which way?” Lukas asks.

“That way.”

Lukas stops. He makes a dramatic turn.

“I mean—it’s slanting to the left,” she adds.

He adjusts the sign by maybe half a millimeter. Raises an eyebrow like it’s a question mark.

“Now it’s slanting to the right,” she says.

“You’re welcome to give it a try.”

“Rather not.”

He hangs it up and jumps off the little step-ladder. Franny’s checking off her to-do list on her phone.

“We all set?” he asks.

She nods. Technically everything’s in place. Snacks, activities, decorations. The guests are set to arrive soon and then—Gia. And fetus. She’s been told to come for lunch. Noon, sharp. There’s a good chance she suspects something, given recent events, but—

She’s coming. Confirmed by Lukas this morning.

“Where does she think you are?” Franny asks, adjusting one of the centerpieces that doesn’t need adjusting.

“Out for a run.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

Her eyes flick to the window. Mom is on the phone with someone. Laughing. Franny feels a little pang of guilt. This is a happy day. This should be a happy day.

Lukas picks up the photo she’s been fiddling with. It’s him. With a bowl cut. Age five. Franny snorts out a laugh.

“Where did you even get this?” he asks.

“As if I’d tell you.”

He’s smiling in the photo, with all his little teeth.

“Did you ever have braces?” she asks. He shakes his head. “Gia had braces, you know?”

“I think I’ve seen some photos.”

“I hope the baby gets your teeth.”

Lukas laughs. “I hope she gets Gia’s everything.”

“You guys are, like, okay, right? I didn’t—”

She pauses. She can’t even finish the sentence.

It’s not like she wanted to cause drama. Not with Mom and Dad. Not with Gia. And definitely not with Gia and Lukas. It was just—easier. To take a break. To get her head straight. To experience the wonderful world of working in hospitality like all the other lost twenty-year-olds.

Technically, she didn’t even lie that much. She’s still enrolled, still in school. Just—not living on campus. And not going to school. Potato, tomato.

Lukas interrupts her thoughts. “We’re fine.”

“Really?”

“I think she understands why I gave you a place to live and why I didn’t tell anybody.” He says it like he’s sure, but also isn’t. It makes Franny feel worse. Then his brows furrow together. “I don’t think she understands why you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to stress her out,” she offers. She crosses her arms, as though suddenly cold.

“That’s my excuse. And honestly, even that’s just half-true.”

“I don’t have another reason. I just needed time—”

The explanation is rushed. He clocks it immediately, tilting his head like he won’t even hear the rest of it. She pauses.

“I think she’s hurt because you assumed she would act like—” He tilts his head towards the window. “—and freak out.”

Franny goes silent. Biting her lip, she looks outside again. Mom is wearing a really pretty dress—fitted and classy and pink, for a girl. Her hair is done up.

Franny looks down at her own outfit: a champagne-colored satin camisole with delicate lace along the neckline. It’s the kind of top you wear when you’re trying not to look like you’re trying—like you just rolled out of a Berlin afterparty where you spent the whole night arguing about feminism while drinking boxed wine through a paper straw.

Mom bought it. Franny called it millennial core before realizing it’s actually cool.

She’s paired it with olive-green trousers, wide-leg and high-waisted, tailored in a way that makes her waist look super skinny. The outfit is a slam dunk, for sure, and her fit check is already gaining likes on her socials, but—

It’s funny.

It’s just a top and not a metaphor. It’s just a top and not an olive branch. She wasn’t expecting it to be a thing.

And Mom hasn’t commented. Hasn’t even asked why she’s wearing so many necklaces.

It’s not a thing. She wasn’t expecting it to be a thing.

But maybe just a little.

“I mean, you said it yourself in your speech. Gia’s literally always there for you,” Lukas continues.

“Right.”

“You disagree?”

“It’s more complicated than that. She’s there for me, yes, but also—she goes along with everything they tell her to do. I chose NYU, and suddenly it’s all ‘Gia, drop your life and pack your bags to go babysit Franny’ and she just does it. She doesn’t ask, she doesn’t—”

“It is more complicated than that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Pray tell.”

“She told me.”

“She told you what?”

“About the hospital.” His eyes lock onto hers. She freezes on the spot. “They were going to let you move to New York on your own, and then—”

She shakes her head. “I don’t believe that. I think they found any excuse they could to—”

“Francesca, you ended up in the fucking ICU with alcohol poisoning,” he says. His tone is dry, but not uncaring.

She looks around. There’s nobody who could’ve heard.

“And I promised I would never do that again,” she says.

Her voice is small. Surprising.

She remembers yelling when it happened. That it was unfair, that she wasn’t allowed one little mistake.

He tilts his head. “Your parents were going to move with you.”

“What?”

“Gia volunteered.”

“Volunteered? Who is she, Katniss? That’s not what happened.”

“That’s exactly what happened. She thought at least that way you would have some freedom.”

Freedom? Gia did—

What?

No. That’s not what happened. They freaked. They sent Gia back to New York even though she’d just left it all behind after the whole Michelin star restaurant fiasco. They did, not—

Franny swallows the lump that’s formed in her throat. “They didn’t guilt her into it?”

“No.”

“Why did everybody let me think that?”

Lukas shrugs. “Maybe because you would’ve fought her on it. You would’ve told her that she doesn’t need to be a martyr.”

“She didn’t need to. I could’ve… I could’ve lived with Mom and Dad. I did it for eighteen years, I could’ve—”

“Uh-huh. And after eighteen years you chose a college 4,000 miles away,” he says. “So, you know. Gia’s in your corner. And I’m in your corner. I’m just the fuck-up who thought he could fix everything before anyone found out.”

“You’re not a fuck-up,” Franny says. “You’re the guy who stocked his kitchen full of cereal when I moved in.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of guests—friends, cousins and the like, all bursting through the doors in various combinations; all bursting with excitement to celebrate Gia, Lukas and the baby. They pat him on the back, congratulate Mom and Dad for getting the promotion to grandparents, and—

They tell Franny she’ll be a wonderful aunt, because she’s a wonderful sister.

And they mean it.

At noon, sharp, Gia arrives. The crowd gathers to greet her. The door opens.

“SURPRISE!”

Party poppers go off; confetti floats in the air, an eruption of pink and purple. 

Gia freezes in the doorway, one hand on her stomach, which is now officially big enough to warrant the purchase of maternity clothes, like the pink floral printed dress she’s wearing. She looks pretty. Glowing.

Franny looks to her side, to Lukas. He’s standing there like he’s not sure he’s in the right place. A little awkward, a little uncomfortable by the whole thing, she’s sure. And still—he’s looking at Gia like she’s the sun and he’s just lucky to revolve around her.

“She looks happy,” she says.

He nods.

“You keep it that way.”

Mom is at Gia’s side in an instant, squeezing her arms and pointing towards her stomach like nobody would notice it without the excessive show and dance. Dad is laughing like he’s about to cry.

Lukas’s hands are in his pockets. People pat him on the back.

Again.

His expression is unclear; Franny can’t quite read him well enough to say if he’s physically uncomfortable and wondering when all the back patting will end, or if he’s secretly loving the invasive familial attention. Might be a little bit of both.

The crowd begins to gather around Gia to ooh and aah, to offer congratulations and unsolicited advice about sleeping when the baby sleeps. Franny steps through the crowd like a woman on a mission, glaring at people like she’s about to throw them out for misbehaving. There’s a plan, and she’s sticking to it.

“Come in, come in,” Franny ushers and takes Gia by the hand. “This is your seat.”

In the middle of the space sits a chair. A throne. It’s golden with a plush velvet seat and an extra pillow with tassels.

“Don’t you think this is a little much?” Gia asks.

Franny shakes her head. “Sit. We’re gonna play games.”

Gia glances at Lukas, who simply shrugs like he’s as out of the loop as she is.

People start gathering around, pulling up chairs in a semicircle. Mom brings Gia a plate of snacks.

“Eat,” she says.

“I got your arrival on video,” Alma says as she sits down, waving her phone in the air. “I have to show you later. You looked so shocked.”

“I was surprised. I didn’t expect this,” Gia says with a smile. Then she turns to Franny and lowers her voice. “Who planned this?”

“We did. Mom and I,” Franny says.

Gia raises an eyebrow.

“Before everything, you know. But don’t worry. We’re not going to fight today.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

Franny laughs. Then she claps her hands together like she’s about to host a game show, which in fact she is.

“Alright, let’s play The Price Is Right, baby edition!”

Franny calls out the first group of players while Mom hands them all handheld whiteboards and markers. Gia gets to act as a model, with Mom handing her a never ending rotation of baby items. A pack of diapers, of which Lilly guesses the price almost down to the cent and advances to the next round. Ira makes a lucky guess and beats out Alma in the baby food category.

The toy round stumps everybody.

“Two grand for a teddy bear?” Ira shouts out as Franny reveals the price for the disappointed contestants.

“It’s Dior,” Franny says with a wicked smile.

“You spent two thousand dollars on a teddy bear?” Mom asks in that unique tone of disappointment she does so well, looking at Franny in utter disbelief.

Franny shrugs. “What? It’s nice.”

She’s met with a blank stare. Gia shifts in her seat.

“And it’s not my money,” Franny mutters.

Mom turns her head towards Lukas, and Franny can sense the question she’s about to ask.

So can Gia, apparently. She stands up, abrupt. “Alright! That was a fun game.”

“Nobody won yet,” Ira pipes up. Gia shoots him a glare. He quickly shuts up.

“What’s next?” she asks.

“Well, we have more games—” Franny begins.

Gia cuts her off, tone pointed. “I hope it’s food, because I’m starving.”

“You just had a plate—” Franny begins and then pauses.

The look on Gia’s face is telling—very I need you to stuff your face so you don’t escalate this fight into a war.

“I mean, yes! Everybody please line up for the buffet. The incubator goes first, obviously.”

Once the line forms and plates start filling up with fancy salads and gourmet finger sandwiches, Franny inches closer to Gia. Lukas is somewhere across the room, talking to Alma. A safe choice, to say the least. Mom and Dad are with cousin Jenny who is undoubtedly asking about why Franny’s not in school, because she’s nosey like that.

Or—perhaps—she’s just asking about Gia and the baby and Franny’s just projecting.

Perhaps.

“Can we talk?” Franny asks, cautious.

Gia doesn’t look at her. “Honestly? I don’t really feel like it.”

Franny’s teeth grind together; her stomach twists in a knot. “I just—I mean, Lukas gets husband points for taking care of me, right? Of your family?”

Gia’s eyes flicker to him. He glances at her like he senses she’s looking.

“I literally asked him to lie for me. Don’t—”

“Franny.” Gia’s tone is sharp like a warning.

Franny can feel heat rising to her chest, an anxiety unlike anything she’s felt before. Her voice comes out trembling, fast. “But—you’re okay? Lukas said you guys are okay.”

And Gia’s eyes soften as she turns her head to face her sister, like she’s worried Franny might implode on herself any second now. Her voice is tired, but her mouth curves into a subtle smile like she can’t even help it. “There’s a lot of things going on, but—yeah. We’re fine.”

“Really?” Franny asks, swallowing the urge to ask if they’re fine in the deep-in-denial-and-excuses kind of way that Gia’s sometimes too good at, or if they’re actually fine.

“Really,” Gia says. “Let’s just enjoy the party. Please. We can talk after.”

“Promise?”

Gia nods.

Then she takes her plate over to Lukas, and it’s automatic, like clockwork, like something that’s always been; the way his hand wraps around her waist before she even fully stops walking. He leans down, pressing a kiss against her temple, and another on her cheekbone, right where her hair’s tucked behind her ear, and then he whispers something into her ear to make her laugh under her breath and duck her head against his chest like she can’t believe how lucky she is, and he grins—grins—like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like the whole thing is orchestrated just to make Franny want to throw up because of the domesticity.

And it’s sweet.

Like sugar on syrup on chocolate chip pancakes kind of sweet. Like a Hallmark movie directed by Sofia Coppola.

Like—

It’s just sweet. And disgusting.

And maybe they actually are fine.

The unmistakable scent of Calvin Klein’s CK One invades the airspace around Franny—citrus and nostalgia and the vibe of someone who bought their first cologne in high school and just never looked back. It’s cheap. Charming, sort of. Unapologetically earnest.

Ira.

He slides into place beside her. And then—

“She forgives him so fast I think he forgets he fucked up at all,” he mutters.

Franny barely reacts. She’s watching Lukas across the room, his fingers laced through Gia’s, their foreheads nearly touching.

Lukas does not wear CK One. No, he smells like Tobacco Vanille. Tom Ford. Obviously. It smells like money. And power.

And sex.

“Is that your way of starting a conversation?” Franny asks.

Ira shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Well—”

“Besides, you’re not allowed to say that.”

“I know. I’m not allowed to say anything.”

Franny raises an eyebrow. “Has that ever stopped you before?”

“Guess not.”

They’re not being subtle about it, that’s for sure.

Franny had looked away for maybe ten seconds—long enough to consider going back to the buffet for another cheesy little snack she doesn’t know the name of—and by the time she looks back, Gia’s hands are on either side of Lukas’s face and he’s kissing her like it’s the final episode of The Bachelor.

No tongue.

Thank god.

But it doesn’t end. It just keeps going like they’re the only two people in the room, with that kind of weird, unhinged intensity like they’re just falling in love. Again. For the first time. For the last time. Whatever.

“She looks happy,” Franny says.

“Sure.”

She tilts her head, gives him a look like can you try to be happy?

“What? I’m supposed to clap for him for doing the bare minimum? Because it’s true love?” Ira asks.

“I’m just saying. Maybe you got him wrong,” she says with a shrug. “His own mother didn’t even come to the wedding, you know?”

“Right. Because every guy with mommy issues gets a free pass to be a walking red flag.”

Franny doesn’t answer. Are there red flags? Maybe. For sure. There were. And now? He’s not perfect, but—

She glances at Ira again.

It’s not really about now. That’s what she’s starting to understand. It’s not about Lukas lying or not being present enough or whatever he’s done lately. Ira’s stuck on the beginning, on the fact that he already hurt Gia once, and Ira can’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s confirmation bias, sort of, because he can’t see anything beyond the things that enforce his belief. That Lukas is bad news. Driving around the tri-state area to please every pregnant whim is just bare minimum? Performative? Starting up a trust fund for her, because he’s so emotionally scarred that he needs an insurance policy against himself is just—crazy? Some capitalist scheme?

The pregnancy leak was somehow Lukas’s fault, too?

And letting Franny crash at the penthouse? Keeping it a secret? Sure, in hindsight not the smartest move. Maybe even stupid. But a betrayal? A manipulation? In Ira’s mind, probably.

In Gia’s mind?

Maybe a little.

But in real life? For Franny? It felt like someone seeing her drowning and not asking questions before pulling her out of the water.

Lukas lied. Once, twice. A few times since. The motivation behind it doesn’t matter; the fact that Gia forgave him doesn’t matter. Lukas hurt her.

Eventually he’ll do it again. Surely. That’s the black and white version, because when it comes to Gia, there’s no room for nuance. Not for Ira. And it’s not about being right, or maybe it is a little, but not because Ira needs to be right—but because he needs to be wrong. Because he’s never fucking wrong.

And if he’s not wrong—

“I’m not saying she doesn’t look happy,” he says, interrupting her thoughts.

“Good.”

“I want her to be happy. I’m—uh, I’m rooting for him.”

And there it is. The surprising truth she never would’ve expected him to admit.

“Try saying that with a straight face,” she teases.

“I’m serious.”

“You should tell him that. Because honestly? Right now you’re just the guy who wants to get rid of him and that’s, like, his biggest fear. Losing her, you know. Losing all of this.”

Ira shoots her a look.

“What? I’m a very insightful person,” she says.

“Beneath the cynicism.”

Before Franny can comment on his hurtful but accurate assessment, she catches movement in the corner of her eye. Mom, approaching Gia, her face warm and welcoming but with some apprehension. Like she’s unsure about where Gia stands right now. With Lukas. With Franny. With all of it.

Mom signals for Gia to come closer, and she does—but first she kisses Lukas again, quick and easy, and leaves her plate with him for safekeeping.

They’re near enough that Franny catches some words of the conversation.

“This place is beautiful,” Gia says. “I can’t believe you guys did this for me.”

“I’m so glad Lukas could make it,” Mom says and it’s maybe a little passive aggressive, because maybe she can’t help it right now, but ultimately it sounds genuine.

“Of course he did,” Gia says.

“Come see the outdoor space with me.”

They walk outside, visible through the window still. It doesn’t take long for Lukas to appear by Franny’s side.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” he asks.

“Mostly me. You’re just an accomplice,” she says.

Lukas snorts a laugh.

“Hey, man,” he says, nodding at Ira in that very I’m a guy and you’re a guy kind of way.

“Hey,” Ira replies. He nods, too.

It’s quiet for a moment. Not elsewhere, no—the other groups that have formed are full of life and laughter and somebody is taking bets on what they’ll name the baby. Dad is telling another Gia as a baby anecdote that everyone around him has surely heard a million times over.

In their group, it’s dead silent. Franny’s looking at Mom and Gia through the window. Both of their arms are folded and they’re talking. Serious. Not angry, but serious. Lukas is typing a message.

Ira breaks the silence. “So, uh, have you picked a hospital?”

“Uh-huh.” Lukas tucks his phone away. “Premium suites at Mount Sinai. Apparently they have a piano player and an omelette bar.”

“That’s what childbirth has been missing. Omelettes.”

Franny’s not sure if it’s a jab or a pathetic attempt at a joke, but Lukas seems to land firmly on the first guess. He has that look, that I’m letting that one slide kind of look, and he takes a sip from his bubbly water like it’s hard liquor.

“Are you going to be in the room?” Ira asks.

“Obviously,” Lukas says.

“Obviously?”

“Apparently not if you had to ask.”

Oh, god. Someone’s going to die. 

Lukas takes another sip. “Any tips, doc?”

“Just—don’t make it about you,” Ira says, and there it is again. That side of him that can’t seem to stop antagonizing.

“I’ll try not to live-tweet it,” Lukas says.

Ira blinks.

“That was a joke,” Lukas adds.

“Oh. Ha ha.”

Franny laughs. Awkward. “Cool. Love this energy. Anyway—”

“For the record, Gia wanted the fucking omelette bar,” Lukas says.

“She did?” Ira asks, his tone blatantly surprised.

“Uh-huh. And I’m the guy who gives her what she wants.”

“Right. Of course you are.”

“You still don’t like me?” Lukas asks. “Shocking. Must be exhausting to be correct all the time.”

Ira opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it. He looks outside. Gia catches his eye and waves. A smile on her face, that pregnancy glow radiating from inside out, her gaze drifting from Ira to Lukas to Franny like she’s cautiously optimistic that they’re all getting along.

He sighs. “I’m not correct all the time.”

Franny’s not sure she heard correctly. Apparently Lukas isn’t either.

“Say that again?” Lukas asks.

“Don’t push it,” Ira replies.

And then, his mouth curves into not quite a smile but far from a scowl.

Progress.

“Hi, excuse me,” somebody says from behind Franny.

She turns to see cousin Lucy holding her chubby little baby. Franny can’t remember if it’s a boy or girl and the gender neutral all-white outfit isn’t really helping matters.

“Oh, hi,” Franny says.

The baby spits up. Lucy wipes at its mouth with a rag of some sorts. “Can someone hold Enzo? I really need to pee.”

Franny almost volunteers; some sort of deeply ingrained matriarchal programming surely kicking in, but then—

“Yeah, sure,” Lukas says, already holding out his arms.

Lucy hands the baby over, guiding Lukas to hold him upright so he doesn’t get fussy.

Franny and Ira share a look.

Lukas shifts Enzo carefully against his chest, one hand steady at the baby’s back, the other cradling the soft, oversized head like he’s done it a thousand times—like he didn’t just learn how to hold a baby ten seconds ago from a woman with spit-up on her shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Enzo immediately rests his cheek against Lukas’s shoulder.

And Lukas stands there—tall, composed, the fabric of his crisp shirt creasing slightly where Enzo’s hand grips it in a sticky little fist. His mouth does this thing, like he’s trying not to smile, but he doesn’t quite succeed. His jaw shifts like he’s about to say something cynical or flippant—something about this weird and chubby and tiny human clinging to his shirt, but then—

The baby makes a sound. A little hiccup.

And Lukas just—nods.

Like the baby just told him about a good investment. Like he can’t wait to hear more.

Franny looks over to Ira again. He’s staring. They both are.

“You once asked if I would help you get an internship,” Lukas says.

“Huh?” Franny asks. The words don’t register.

“Internship,” Lukas repeats. “Might be a good idea. For the summer.”

“Really?” Franny asks.

Enzo sticks his little fist in his mouth. Lukas looks at him with a you do you kind of glance.

“But—” he says, and the word is pointed. Loaded.

“I have to go back to school?” Franny offers.

“Only if you want my help.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It’s an incentive. A choice.”

“I can’t just be a college drop out nepo baby?”

He shakes his head.

Mom and Gia return back inside. Mom gives Franny a look that says so much without any words. Regret, maybe, just a little. Confliction, for sure. Kindness, and the kind of self-assurance that comes with always being right. And maybe she is right.

Maybe Franny would’ve been better off living at home with someone to check that she’s doing her assignments and going to class. Maybe she would’ve maintained her GPA.

But then again—

Maybe she would’ve just imploded later.

Meanwhile, Gia has almost frozen in one spot. She’s looking at Lukas. And Enzo. Her eyes are wide, and soft, and her lips have slightly parted like she’s about to short-circuit or she’s just trying to remember how to breathe.

Her expression is very—

If I wasn’t pregnant already, this would do it.

That. It’s very that. And there’s Mom, still yapping in her ear about something, probably a plan to get Franny back on track, but Gia probably isn’t hearing any of it because she’s staring at her six-foot-four husband with a tiny baby that is now grabbing at his chin like it’s play-doh.

“I think her ovaries are exploding,” Ira whispers.

Franny laughs.

As Mom ushers Gia to sit back on her throne, Franny snaps right back into host mode. She claps her hands again to get the crowd’s attention. “Now, when you arrived, you were given some note cards, and I think Mom has collected them back from you all?”

She looks to Mom, who confirms with a nod.

“Great! So, let’s play Inheritance!” Franny says with over-the-top excitement.

“What is that?” Gia asks with a laugh.

“Exactly that. Our esteemed guests have written down whatever they think baby girl Matsson will inherit from mom, dad, grandparents and her stunningly gorgeous and witty auntie.”

Franny collects the note cards from Mom before returning to Gia’s side.

“And this is fully anonymous so you can’t get mad. Let’s go. First up—”

She hands Gia a card.

“I have to read them?” Gia asks.

Franny nods. Gia flips over the first card. In big, bold letters it says: TRUST FUND.

She laughs. Holds up the card for everyone to see. “This is one of yours, isn’t it?”

Franny grins. “Maybe. Go on.”

Gia does as she’s told and reads: Gia’s carb addiction. Lukas’s cursed height. Her emotional intelligence. His stubbornness.

Passion, from both.

Lukas is given the all important duty of card keeper. Each card she reads goes straight to him, for memorabilia. Franny sees him flipping through them, his face locked in a deep concentration like he’s trying to build an image of this kid in his head, like he’s trying to make sense of it all.

“I hope she gets Gia’s everything,” he said.

And now—Franny realizes just how much he might have actually meant that.

Gia sees it, too, the face. She tugs on Franny’s hand to ask for a blank card and a pen before excusing herself to the bathroom for a moment.

The game continues.

Triple citizenship. Her laugh, hopefully, and his inability to fake one. An advanced knowledge of profanities in at least four languages. Franny’s not-so-silent judgment. Nonna Sophia’s protectiveness. Nonno Alberto’s patience. The part of Lukas that thinks he always knows better.

The part of Gia that believes in second chances. 

Gia tears up, just a little, as she reads through each card. Franny passes her a napkin. People laugh about pregnancy hormones, but lovingly.

Franny hands Lukas each card as Gia reads them aloud. And when Gia hands her the last one, the one that simply says a family full of love, there’s another card on top. Franny looks at it, almost about to hand it back and say you missed one, but she stops.

her great-grandmother’s name?

Franny knows the handwriting. She doesn’t say a word.

Instead, she stacks the cards so the new one’s right on top. And when she hands them to Lukas, she holds the stack in a way that makes sure he sees it first.

He does.

He freezes.

She sees his thumb come to a halt on the edge, his expression shift. His brow pulls together just slightly, just enough for her to know he’s read it.

He looks up at Gia. Their eyes meet.

She smiles—it’s that same stupid smile she always has on her face when he’s around. And Franny sees it, the way Lukas’s face melts like he’s a snowman seeing sunshine for the first time.

The way it always does.

Franny makes a mental note to ask about the name. It must be the grandmother with the cabin Lukas once escaped to, the one in the middle of nowhere. The one that Gia called lovely and rustic before diving into a spiel about how Lukas made her coffee in some rusted little pot, and how romantic the lack of running water was.

Then there are presents. Tiny clothes. Tiny toys. A cake made of diapers. A collapsible travel bassinet.

“It’s French,” Franny says with a smug smile as Gia admires the design, and Alma raves about how chic the fabric is.

“What if one day you found out you weren’t born in France?” Gia teases. ”Would your whole identity crumble?”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

Baby books. Parenting books. And—

A baby carrier. It’s sleek, structured, all black. Minimalist.

Very Lukas.

Gia lifts it up for everybody to see, and Franny can tell she’s already imagining the baby in it and strapped to Lukas’s chest.

And he’s—

Answering his phone.

Walking away. Outside.

Franny sees the look on Gia’s face. She understands, obviously. She seems to always understand.

But Franny doesn’t, because this is not the time.

Because there were messages, many of them, in which he swore to be present for this. In which he said his whole calendar was blocked off for this.

Because everyone is counting on him. Because he’s actually showing up for once and proving that Gia hasn’t just been making shit up.

Because—

This is just not the time.

She storms out. He’s already made it to the dock, phone glued to his ear, jaw locked firmly in place and his eyes intense like he’s in a life or death staring competition with the trees out in the distance.

“What the hell, man?” Franny yells. “You can’t just—”

Lukas puts a hand up. She pauses, abrupt, too shocked at the audacity to even respond and then—

“You are out of your fucking mind,” he says into the phone. His voice is low and tight, the kind of calm that comes right before someone breaks a glass against a wall. “The board has no say in my life—”

He’s cut off.

Franny doesn’t hear what the voice on the other end says, but she doesn’t need to. She sees it—how the vein in Lukas’s neck pulls tight, how his expression shifts from controlled temper to barely contained rage. A subtle shift, but terrifying.

And impressive.

“And you are not fucking interrupting me right now,” he snaps into the phone. His voice is louder now. “You’re fired. Effective immediately.”

There’s a second of silence—he doesn’t wait for a response.

He hurls his phone into the lake.

A splash. Final. Loud. Like punctuation.

“What—” Franny begins.

“Helvete!”

The word seems to echo across the lake in ripples. Franny flinches like it hit her, but he doesn’t notice. He’s staring out at the lake, breathing hard like he’s finished a triathlon or whatever, and then he squats down slowly, elbows on his knees and his knuckles pressed against his mouth like he’s holding something in. Not words, maybe. Something worse.

Franny watches him. Quiet. Her heart is thudding a little harder than it should be.

The air feels charged.

This is the part of him Franny hasn’t seen before, not to this extent. Not the interviews or headlines or half-charming arrogance. This. This thing that’s boiling under the surface, that’s gotten him where he is right now. The thing that built an empire.

You don’t get where Lukas Matsson is without it.

It’s an instinct. Survival. It’s fear turned into capital. Charisma. Control.

He doesn’t apologize for the space he takes up. He doesn’t explain his decisions. Builds fortunes. Burns bridges. He keeps moving. Momentum as self-preservation. Franny doesn’t know the full story, but she’s heard enough. His father didn’t survive his softness. Lukas did—by killing that part in himself.

He doesn’t win because he plays the game better.

He wins because he is the fucking game.

And she wonders what it would feel like to hold even an ounce of what he holds. That ability to take all the worst things about yourself and forge something undeniable. That edge, that passion.

She wants it. No, she had it—

She thought she had it.

She walks over to the edge of the dock and sits down beside him. He’s still staring out at the water, breathing heavy.

“I found out who leaked the pregnancy,” he says. “I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but Ira was right.”

Wait, what? 

“The board has been conspiring with Karolina,” he says and turns to look at her. “Strategical rebrand. A warm and fuzzy exit strategy.”

“But why?”

He shrugs. “So I don’t nuke the board on my way out.”

“Your way out?”

“I’m selling.”

Selling?

For some reason it hits her like a brick to the chest. It’s been speculated; she’s even brought it up to Gia once or twice herself. But she never thought he actually would.

“What? Because of this?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I already decided on it.”

“Seriously? Does Gia know?”

He nods. “It’s cleaner this way.”

“Wow.” Franny doesn’t know what to say. And then, as always, she does. “And what’s the narrative going to be? Lukas Matsson sells GoJo, retires to Queens to be a girl dad?”

“Something like that,” he says.

She stares at him, trying to make sense of it. Selling is quitting—and he doesn’t quit. He doesn’t fail, and even when he does, he still somehow wins.

He looks at her and maybe reads her mind. She’s always been told her face gives away everything she’s thinking.

“I’m happy with this decision,” he says.

“Really?”

“Like an alcoholic pouring booze down the drain.”

“Right,” she mutters. She’s not sure what she expected to hear, but at least it’s honest.

“I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do ever since I met Gia.”

“Are you—” she begins and then, quieter, “Are you dying?”

He snorts a laugh. “No.”

It shouldn’t shake her this much, but it does.

And she’s happy. For Gia. He’ll be around more than he already is, more than he historically has been. But also—and she does kind of recognize that the thought might verge on crazy—why does he get to quit? 

When they go back inside, everyone is gathered around Gia’s throne. There’s something large on the floor in front of her. Gia spots them and immediately she smiles.

“Oh, my gosh. Lukas, you have to see this.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The crowd disperses a little, revealing a white crib with dainty little flowers painted on the sides.

“It was yours,” Mom says, holding onto Gia’s hand. “Your father built it. I painted it. It’s been in storage, but I wanted you to have it.”

Gia’s holding back tears already. Lukas kneels beside the crib as if to check that it fits modern baby safety standards.

People ooh and aah. Phones are discreetly lifted to capture the moment.

Franny crosses her arms. It’s sweet. Slightly invasive, because what if they wanted to pick out their own crib or have one custom made or—

No. Gia would never. She’s too nostalgic for that.

Dad walks over to Franny’s side. He folds his hands behind his back like he’s studying the scene, but Franny can tell—he’s watching her.

“Do you remember what I built for you?” he asks.

Franny shakes her head.

“It was a little push wagon. It was supposed to help you learn how to walk.”

Franny scrunches up her face. “I don’t remember. I was, like, a baby.”

“Mm. You never used it. You just—got up and started walking.”

She snorts under her breath. Sounds about right.

“And then you wobbled and fell down quite a bit,” he adds. “Still, you wouldn’t use it. Wouldn’t even hold my hand.”

And she looks over at him, a little taken aback by the way he says it. Not sad, exactly, just—certain. Like it was just a fact, like it still is.

“You’re going to be fine, Francesca.”

Then he turns back to look at Gia, at Lukas. He blinks, inhales sharply through his nose. Franny feels the words creep up her spine and fall into place, not like expectations but like a promise.

She’s never been one to cry much.

As the party winds down, and all that’s left are cake crumbs and piles of wrapping paper, people begin to leave. Mom goes back to coordinating. Clean up, leftovers. Cards and gifts. Dad leaves to go walk the dog.

Gia and Franny sit on the dock looking out at the water. It’s peaceful, nice.

Franny wants to ask what Gia and Mom talked about while they were outside, but she decides against it.

What’s the point? She already knows. They talked about her irresponsibility. They talked about how she should be in school. They talked about her past mistakes and how Mom is worried she’s going to repeat them. It’s obvious. There’s no point in asking, there’s no point in hearing Gia’s diplomatic take on the matter. And the thing is—Franny knows she messed up. She knows Mom is waiting for an apology, and the situation is not going to change until that happens. It doesn’t matter that she had legitimate reasons to be scared to say anything.

She is an adult.

Adults take responsibility for their actions. And that’s the thing. That’s what they said after the hospital thing.

And then—Gia moved with her and Franny never had to take responsibility for anything. Not really. Not until she moved into the penthouse and quickly realized that when Lukas said there would be no freeloading, he meant it.

But still.

“Thank you,” Franny says quietly.

Gia raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For everything you did for me.” Franny looks down at her hands. “I should’ve told you.”

“Yes, you should’ve.”

Gia’s tone isn’t unkind; it isn’t disappointed either. It’s just a fact.

“Lukas said he’d help me get a summer internship,” Franny says.

“Really?”

“If I go back to school.”

Gia laughs. “No free lunches.”

“I think I want to go back.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean you know? I’m not even sure I know.”

Gia shrugs. “You didn’t maintain a 4.0 just because you had someone breathing down your neck. Honestly, you never really had to try, did you?”

“I think that was kind of the problem,” Franny says. “It turns out being smart doesn’t mean being functional.”

“And look at you now.”

From anyone else, the words might sound passive aggressive. Look at you now, a minimum wage job and crashing at your brother-in-law’s place like a bum? Slay.

But from Gia? They sound heartfelt. Like she’s actually proud.

“Do you think Lukas knows I want to go back to school?” Franny asks. “Because I don’t want him to think I’m just doing it so he calls in a favor.”

“He knows,” Gia says, and then it hits Franny.

He knows. Of course he does.

He called it a choice, but it’s not. It’s just the illusion of one. Like asking a child if they’d rather eat strawberry-flavored bear-shaped gummy vitamins or swallow bitter vitamin pills.

“And honestly?” Gia continues. “Giving you a place to live and making you get a job? That’s, like, confirmation for me that he’s going to be a good dad.”

“He made me clean the place, too.”

“Good.”

“I kind of love him.”

Gia laughs. Laughs. 

Franny pouts. “What?”

“Nothing. You just said it like it’s supposed to be some great revelation.”

“I mean—”

She quiets down.

Maybe it’s obvious. Maybe it’s always been obvious.

“And you know, he knows everybody,” Gia says. “Like, literally. We went to some dinner in Milan, because Lukas wanted to ‘rebalance his long-term European holdings,’ so I go in, thinking it’s going to be some boring fintech networking thing, but nope. It was Dolce&Gabbana.”

”Shut. Up.” Franny’s sure her heart skips a beat. “Did you meet them?”

“Uh-huh. They were nice enough.”

Nice enough? Like they’re, what, a pair of flight attendants on a low budget commercial airline?

“Lukas talked to them about IPO strategy,” Gia continues. “I was mostly there for the ravioli. They had this exquisite sauce with—”

Franny holds her hand up. This is not the time to talk about sauce. “What did you wear?”

“This strapless velvet thing,” Gia says. “It had pearl buttons down the back. I could barely move my arms.”

She laughs, and then adds, softly as though the memory is playing in her head, “Lukas said I looked like someone’s mistress in a Fellini film.”

Franny’s eye is twitching. It’s like Gia has no idea how unhinged this sounds. Like, normal people have dinner. She attends cinematic tax-deductible power orgies with billionaires and fashion icons and thinks the headline is the ravioli.

“I kind of hate you right now,” Franny says.

“Oh, well. I’ll live.”

Gia’s phone buzzes with a notification of some sort. She turns the screen for Franny to see.

week 23: your baby is the size of a grapefruit

Franny smiles. Gia’s excitement is cute—much cuter than the hormone-induced meltdowns. She scrolls through the app and its articles, though Franny is sure she’s read them all a million times. It’s like emotional buffering, like she’s circling the drain of whatever she actually wants to say, because there’s clearly something she needs to spit out while they’re still in sharing mode.

“He’s decided to sell the company,” she says finally.

“I know,” Franny replies.

Gia looks up from the app. A hint of surprise lingers on her face, but she doesn’t ask. It’s almost like she’s happy to find out Lukas has shared something with someone—after sharing it with her first, obviously.

“I don’t know what to do with my shares,” she says.

“You’re asking me?”

She shrugs. “Lukas is not, like, Mom and Dad’s favorite person right now, so—you know. They were civil today for the most part, but I just don’t want to ask them.”

“And I’m guessing Ira isn’t an option? Because he’s, like, your one friend that reads Bloomberg, so—”

“Yeah, no. He’s not allowed to have opinions on my life right now.”

“I can’t believe you put Ira in a timeout,” Franny says, impressed. “You’re going to be such a good mom.”

Gia laughs, soft and bright. Quick.

“So, let’s say you sell. And then what?” Franny asks.

“Clean break. He won’t be connected to it in any way.” She hesitates. “He won’t be—”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m worried that if I hold onto this stock, he might eventually want to do something with it.”

“So you don’t trust him?” Franny asks and then immediately throws her hands up and adds, “No judgment.”

“I trust him. I just don’t know if he trusts himself enough, you know? Maybe it’ll be a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Right, right,” Franny says. She bites her upper lip. Then, hesitant, “But if you don’t sell, you’ll have power. Like, real power.”

“I don’t want power.”

“You’re the worst fucking billionaire.”

Their conversation is interrupted by a sound, a loud thunk. Gia and Franny both turn to look. Near the parking area, Lukas is resting his hip against the G-Wagon while Ira loads up the trunk with gifts.

Somehow the division of labor doesn’t surprise Franny.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” she asks.

Gia shrugs. “I don’t know. Who would win in a fight, Batman or, uhh—who’s the other one?”

Franny raises an eyebrow. “Superman?”

“Yeah. Maybe that.”

“Or maybe they’re talking about you.”

Gia doesn’t answer right away. She just stares out at the lake, expression unreadable.

What must it feel like to be loved like that? In the dramatic, obsessive, can’t live without you way; in the boring, forever kind of way. The way that makes grown men act stupid. One of them thinks love means throwing your life in a lake—the other one probably keeps a taser on hand just in case the first one steps out of line. 

“Maybe,” Gia says eventually.

“You really think he can do it? Like, yard work and school pick-ups? Playdates and lunchables?” Franny asks. Her voice is quieter, like she’s afraid of jinxing it if she speaks too loud.

Gia smiles. “I really do.”

And she’s so sure, so steady, like the idea of Lukas Matsson on diaper duty isn’t a joke but a prophecy. Like she can already see it.

Franny looks at her sister—hand resting on her stomach, her face glowing under the warmth of spring sunshine—and maybe she gets it.

Momentum as self-preservation.

Maybe he hasn’t stopped moving. Maybe he hasn’t lost.

Maybe he’s just changed direction.

Maybe—

Oh, god, no.

Maybe this is what winning looks like.