Chapter 314: You’ve Ruined Me, Mrs. Rochefort

The car pulled into the estate as the spring evening settled into its quietest hour.

The foyer lamp was on. The house was still. No small feet pattering down the stairs. No excited voices demanding to know how dinner was, what they ate, whether Uncle Franz was staying. The twins hadn’t waited up.

Arianne climbed the stairs first. She paused at the twins’ door, pushing it open a few inches. Lily was sprawled across her pillow, Petal tucked under her chin, her breathing slow and even. Leo was curled on his side, the Lion in the crook of his elbow.

"They didn’t wait up," she said quietly.

"They were exhausted. The fort took a lot out of them." Franz was behind her, his voice low. "So did the past two days."

She pulled the door closed. Turned to face him in the dim hallway.

He took her hand. Led her toward his room.

She stopped. "You don’t like my room?"

He turned back. The question had come out more directly than she’d intended, but she didn’t soften it. She wanted to know.

"I like your room." His voice was warm, sincere. "I like it very much. Waking up there this morning was—" He paused, searching for the word. "Something I’ve wanted for a long time."

"Then why—"

"Because it’s yours. Your private space. You offered it last night, and I’m grateful. But I don’t want to assume. I don’t want to impose." His thumb moved across her knuckles.

She understood. Her bedroom had been hers alone for over a year. The one place she retreated to when she needed solitude, when his bed felt too empty, when the weight of everything pressed too close. She’d invited him in. He was treating that invitation as something precious. Something he wouldn’t abuse.

Then his expression shifted. The sincerity gave way to something more playful.

"Also," he said, "you keep your voice too low in there. I want to hear you say my name."

Arianne frowned. "Since when did you become perverse?"

"I’m only like this with you." He stepped closer. His free hand came up to brush her jaw. "No other woman could entice me the way you do. You’ve ruined me, Mrs. Rochefort. Thoroughly. Completely."

"You’re exaggerating."

"I’m not." His voice dropped. "I spent sleepless nights in that hotel room thinking about you. Every night. What I wanted to do to you. What I wanted to hear you say. The sounds I wanted to draw out of you." He leaned closer, his lips near her ear. "You’re very quiet when you’re trying to be good. I like you better when you forget to be quiet."

She reached up. Her fingers brushed the ends of his hair, where it curled past his collar. She’d noticed it the night he returned. She’d noticed it at the restaurant. She hadn’t said anything until now.

"Your hair is longer," she said.

He touched his chin. The stubble there was more than stubble now — a few days past clean-shaven, dark along his jaw. "I haven’t cut it since I left. Haven’t shaved either."

"I noticed."

"Does it bother you?" His voice was light, but the question was real. "You said once you liked my beautiful face the most. I wouldn’t want to ruin your favorite feature."

Arianne looked at him. The longer hair. The unshaven jaw. Still her husband. Still the man she’d married a year ago. But different, too. Matured.

"No," she said. "You look mature. And charming. Like this."

Franz blinked. The compliment landed — she could see it register, the way her rare praise always registered with him. Surprise, then warmth.

"Mature and charming," he repeated. "I’ll take it."

"It wasn’t an invitation to be vain."

"I’m already vain. You just confirmed it."

She sighed. He grinned. Then his hand tightened on hers, and he led her the rest of the way down the hall.

His bedroom door closed behind them.

He pinned her against it immediately. His body pressed against hers, his hands on either side of her head, his mouth finding hers with a hunger he’d been holding back all evening.

She kissed him back. Her fingers found his hair — longer now, she’d been right — and pulled him closer.

"It’s been hard," he said against her mouth. "Keeping my hands off you. All night. All day. Watching you across the table."

"You were sitting next to me."

"Not close enough."

He kissed her again. Deeper. His hands moved from the door to her waist, her hips, the curve of her back. She arched into him.

"I want to hear you," he murmured. "Say my name. Don’t hold back."

She didn’t.

The night unfolded in increments.

The sounds of them filled the room — kissing, skin against skin, the soft rhythm of their bodies meeting. Arianne’s voice, rising and falling, his name breaking on her lips. Not quiet and restrained. The way he wanted.

He was insatiable. Weeks of absence stored up, released all at once, each touch a deposit against the next separation. She lost count of how many times he took her, how many ways he found to draw sounds from her she didn’t know she could make. She didn’t try to keep track. She let him.

By the time they were done, she was thoroughly kissed, thoroughly claimed, thoroughly exhausted. She lay against the pillows, her body loose and heavy, her breath still coming in shallow waves. She didn’t think she could move if the house caught fire.

He carried her to the washroom. His arms were steady under her, his touch gentle now, a stark contrast to the hunger of minutes before. He helped her clean up with the same thorough care he brought to everything — warm water, a soft cloth, his hands moving over her skin with nothing but tenderness. She let him. She was too tired to protest, and she didn’t want to anyway.

When they returned to the bed, she reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed. She opened an app he didn’t recognize — not their shared calendar, not her email, not any of the work tools she usually checked before sleep.

Dates and numbers. A small icon marking a recent period. A projected window highlighted in soft color, about two weeks away.

"What are you doing?" He slid into bed beside her, his shoulder warm against hers.

"Tracking my cycle." She didn’t look up from the screen. "Period and ovulation."

He was quiet for a moment. "Is today a good day?"

"Probably not. My period ended the day before you arrived." She scrolled. The app’s predictions shifted. "My next ovulation is around New Year."

New Year. Two weeks away. He’d be back — a short break from filming, a few days carved out of the schedule.

"I’m coming home before New Year," he said. "Short break. A few days."

"I know."

"Then we should do our best." His voice was serious now. Playful Franz from earlier was gone, replaced by the man who’d waited years for her, who’d promised their child would never feel unwanted. "To conceive. By then."

She looked at him. He was looking at the phone, at the highlighted window, at the future they’d been working toward.

"Okay," she said.

He met her eyes. "Okay."

"We’ll try."

"We’ve been trying."

"Then we’ll try harder."

She almost smiled. "That’s not how biology works."

"I’m an actor. I don’t know biology."

"You played a doctor."

"That was acting. Completely different. I had a script."

"You had a medical consultant."

"I ignored the medical consultant. He was very boring."

She didn’t laugh.

She set the phone aside. Turned to him in the dark. His arm wrapped around her, pulling her close.

His hand found her stomach. Rested there. Light. Warm. A promise he’d been making for months now, in every way except words.

She closed her eyes.

Outside, the night was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, the twins slept with their toys around them. The blanket fort still stood in the sitting room. The calendar on the refrigerator still counted days. And here, in his bed, her husband’s hand lay on her stomach, waiting for what would come.