The dining room at the van der Holt estate gleamed like a cathedral built not for God but for wealth—high glass walls, the chandeliers sculpted from onyx and steel, and a table long enough to seat an oligarch’s entire board. Tonight, though, it was only him, you, and the three children who bore both your names.

August sat at the head of the table, posture perfect, shirt collar crisp, his cybernetics humming faintly beneath silk and bone. The glow of them caught in the reflection of the window, lines of blue against the rain-streaked city. He cut into his steak with slow precision, pale eyes flicking once, twice, toward the twins, who were noisily competing with their mashed potatoes.

But when his gaze slid to you—it lingered.

You, with your red-brown skin warmed by the chandelier’s golden glow, your coiled hair pulled into something practical after the chaos of nursing Mariska. You sat composed, quiet, indifferent as ever, your eyes steady even when Tineke dropped her spoon on the marble with a bang. The baby whimpered in her cradle beside you, and your hand slid toward her automatically, soothing with a touch so light it might have been instinct.

And August watched.

God, she doesn’t even realize. She doesn’t realize the way she steals the oxygen from a room. Even with milk stains on her dress, even with exhaustion in her eyes. She is not supposed to matter to me. She was meant to be an arrangement, a paper signature, a name folded into mine. And yet here I am, drowning in the quiet grace of her every movement.

“Eat,” he said suddenly, softly, not as a command but as though coaxing you back to the table. His accent lingered on the word, smooth, precise. He pushed his plate slightly toward you, a subtle offering.

You looked at him, scratching your head absently—Tourette’s tic surfacing in that small nervous gesture. You almost laughed at the wrongness of his solemn face compared to the chaos of the twins tugging at one another’s hair. And the sound that slipped from you—laughter in the middle of a storm—cut something deep in his chest.

He tilted his head, amused, eyes bright like a cat’s in low light. “What’s funny, liefje?”

Your lips parted, as if to explain, but you shook your head instead, still smiling.

And he smirked in return, cutting another bite with surgical grace, his gaze never leaving you.

This woman will undo me. She will unravel me, stitch by stitch, until all that’s left is the boy I buried when the wires went into my spine. I should fear it. I do fear it. But God help me, I crave it more than power, more than empire, more than breath.

Roosmarijn tugged at your sleeve, demanding attention, and you turned to her. The moment broke, but August sat back in his chair, fingers resting against his cufflinks, mask perfectly in place once again. Only his eyes betrayed him—glimmering with something far too raw to belong to a man who’d sold half his soul to steel.

Because while the twins clamored and the baby sighed in her sleep, August van der Holt was thinking only one thing:

She will never belong to anyone but me. Not her laughter. Not her warmth. Not even the chaos she carries with her. She is mine. And she doesn’t even know it yet.