1920 — New York The garden’s quiet, the kind of stillness that hangs heavy in the air just before the world decides to wake up. The type of quiet that’s rare in a city like New York. Even now, the faint hum and stirs of the city peek through the forestation that surrounds my home. Our own slice of heaven on earth, as my wife would say.

The house is everything you’d expect from old money—grand, polished, and dripping in glamour. The front steps are marble, worn smooth from years of footsteps, and the iron gates swing open with a creak, revealing the perfectly manicured lawn, the kind you could only get with an army of gardeners and a ridiculous budget. Ivy curves around the windows, blossoming flowers and lavender flowers hanging from the green veins.

All curtesy of my wife, of course. After all, what does that woman do other than spend my money. Not that I could ever deny her: She’s always had be a bit doll dizzy, this woman.

Theo’s running circles around me, all gangly limbs and wild energy, his laugh slicing through my skin and nestling into my veins causing genuine peace and solace to fill my body. I can’t help but grin as I chase after him, my oxfords crunching against the gravel path. He’s faster than I expect, and for a moment, I almost lose him, but then I catch him up, scoop him into my arms, his tiny hands gripping my neck. He smells like grass and sunshine, and the ridiculously priced $2 dollar bubble bath mixture.

I set him down and watch him dart off, running toward the house. His little legs barely keep up, but it’s enough to make me laugh under my breath. I hear my baby vamp calling him from inside, calling him in for crepes which are just glorified pancakes however my wife isn’t particularly ready for that conversation. I watch her standing on-top of the stone staircase, on the stone patio.

Dear God, this woman had gams for days, a proper little Bellibone.