Rebirth: Love me Again

[EVE]

Even my brothers started thawing.

Damien stopped glaring. Dean stopped sharpening swords in front of him (although he did start polishing them more dramatically). Dante began calling him "Cole" instead of "Intruder #1."

They were still grumpy about it. But I reminded them, constantly, that I loved them. That nothing would change that. They were family. Permanent. Non-negotiable.

And Cole? He didn't try to replace them.

He just . . . fit himself in.

Like a guy trying to join a dance mid-routine, missing a few steps, stepping on some toes, but still managing to find the beat eventually.

Every bottle he warmed, every bedtime story he read in that embarrassingly enthusiastic duck voice, every moment Bean turned him into a walking food tray—I fell for him all over again.

But it wasn't the kind of love that made your heart race and knees weak. No, this was the kind that made you feel safe when everything else was a mess. The kind that shows up, day after day, even with cereal in his hair and a diaper bag in hand. It was the kind of love that didn't need grand gestures—just the quiet kind, built on showing up, holding on, and making toddler-sized pancakes at 6 a.m.

Then, one night, I walked into the living room. The lights were low, the moonlight spilling in. Cole was asleep on the couch, Bean tucked against his chest. One hand on the baby, the other still holding a bottle like he passed out mid-mission. Lullabies hummed in the background.

I didn't move. I just stared.

It wasn't glamorous.

But it was perfect.

This was us now.

Weird, messy, loud. Probably sticky. But home.

Cole didn't make Frizkiel his home because it welcomed him.

He made it home because we were here.

And somehow, it healed my heart.

After a few months of Cole practically moving into Frizkiel, I found myself frowning more and more at his presence—not because I didn't want him there. I did.

But the man had an empire back in New York. The Fay Corporation. International. Ruthless. Absolutely unforgiving.

So . . . who was running it?

One morning, over breakfast—me in mismatched socks and Cole with flour in his hair from yet another failed pancake attempt—I finally asked, "Aren't you supposed to be in, I don't know, boardrooms instead of diaper rooms? Who's running Fay Corp? Your ghost?"

Cole just shrugged, calm as ever. "Lina's there."

"That's it?" I narrowed my eyes. "Lina's there, so the multi thrillion-dollar company is fine?"

He tilted his head like I was missing something obvious. "She's my sister. She bites."

I snorted. "Your father's going to disinherit you."

To my surprise, Cole didn't joke back. Instead, he set down his fork, looked straight at me, and said with a rare kind of seriousness, "Let him. I don't care about money. Or the company. Or power. Not anymore. The only thing I want is you . . . and Bean."

My face flushed crimson. I nearly choked on my orange juice.

This man had casually tossed aside the entire corporate world like it was a pair of mismatched socks—and for me? For our son?

Cole, the cold-hearted heir, ruthless negotiator, devil in a tailored suit . . . had turned into a lovestruck dad who let a baby throw mashed bananas at his forehead. It was disorienting. Endearing. And frankly terrifying.

I was still trying to process his declaration when Sinclair and Victor arrived.

Now that was an event.

They had visited before, when Bean was just a month old. Sinclair had cried—cried, mind you—after holding Bean for the first time.

Victor, on the other hand, had stood five feet away from the baby like it might explode.

This time, their arrival was even more dramatic. They came in two sleek black cars, like mafia royalty, stepping out with the kind of fashion that made the townspeople whisper and peek through their curtains.

Sinclair wore a tailored coat that probably cost more than our whole living room, and Victor looked as if he'd stepped straight off a runway. Or a battlefield. It was hard to tell with Victor.

"Eve!" Sinclair called cheerfully, arms wide open.

I let him hug me because, well, it was Sinclair. Despite being stoic, he had this genuine warmth about him. He acted like we were old friends. Scratch that—family.

Victor, however, gave Cole a look that could slice through titanium. And Cole? He returned it with that relaxed, smug smile of his.

Their mutual loathing could be bottled and sold as a lethal substance.

"You two going to glare each other into dust or say hello?" I asked dryly.

They said nothing.

Sinclair, thankfully, intervened. "Victor won't stay long. He's just here to hand off some paperwork. We've finally removed Sullivan and Steffan from the board."

I blinked. "Wait. But they're you're sons, right? Are you really okay with it?"

Sinclair nodded. "Victor is the new heir and the CEO of the Rosette empire. Of course, Sullivan and Steffan are still my blood, so they retain a small percentage of the company—but they'll never hold any significant position within it again."

Victor cleared his throat. "Half of the shares will go to Bean."

"What?" I blinked. "No, wait. That's not—"

"It's already done," Sinclair said, smiling. "Bean is officially my grandson. I had the adoption papers drawn before, remember? You're my daughter, Eve. That didn't change so, don't argue."

"I—" I tried, but realized there was no use. When Sinclair made decisions, they were usually carved into stone and protected by armed guards. Emotionally, at least.

I looked at the documents. There were wax seals. Ribbons. It was the kind of thing you'd expect in a medieval coronation, and Sinclair said that it was his gift for Bean.

So I signed. And just like that, I was both Eve Rosette Frizkiel. And Bean? Bean was now the youngest shareholder of one of the most powerful businesses in the world.

I should've been overwhelmed. But instead . . . I felt warm.

It wasn't just legal papers. It was Sinclair looking at me like I was his daughter. It was Victor awkwardly placing a stuffed panda into Bean's crib and pretending it wasn't from him.

It was . . . family.