The villa in Lake Como looks like something designed by a man who wants to be forgiven for something.

Terraced gardens. Cypress trees like green exclamation points. A dock stretching into blue water so still it feels staged. Waystar has rented the entire property under the guise of “strategic reset,” which means Logan wanted sun and control in equal measure.

You’re eight and a half months pregnant and glowing in that infuriating way that makes strangers smile at you like you’re sacred. The Italian heat settles warm and indulgent against your bare shoulders. Your dress is linen, pale, floating. The baby shifts low and heavy.

Tom hovers without hovering. He’s gotten good at it.

Shiv stands at the edge of the infinity pool in a white suit that reads vengeance. Kendall is barefoot, pretending he doesn’t keep glancing at you like you’re a live grenade. Roman is on his second Aperol, delighted by everything.

Logan sits beneath an umbrella, cane resting between his knees, sunglasses on. Watching.

That’s the thing. He’s watching.

“You comfortable?” Tom murmurs, low enough that it’s private.

“I’m pregnant, not porcelain,” you say lightly.

Roman snorts. “Debatable. You’re carrying the next shareholder.”

Logan’s mouth twitches.

Shiv’s jaw tightens.

Because here’s the reality no one says out loud: she asked for the open marriage. She wanted air, wanted freedom, wanted to prove she could break the rules and still win.

Tom didn’t break.

He adapted.

And now you’re here. Round with consequence.

Lunch is laid out under a pergola: grilled branzino, tomatoes split open with salt and oil, cold white wine sweating in crystal. You’re handed sparkling water before you even ask. Greg appears like a haunted lamppost and places a cushion behind your back.

“Thank you, Greg,” you say warmly.

He beams. Tom notices.

Shiv notices more.

Logan lifts his glass. “So,” he says casually, voice cutting through cicadas. “When’s it due?”

“Six weeks,” Tom answers, pride threading through every syllable.

Logan turns his head slightly toward you. Even in sunglasses you feel the weight of it. Assessment. Amusement.

“You look steady,” he says.

It’s not a compliment. It’s an approval.

“I am,” you reply.

A beat.

Roman leans back. “Dad’s impressed. That’s basically a knighthood.”

“Shut up,” Shiv mutters.

But Logan is studying Tom now. Not dismissing. Not belittling. Studying.

“You’ve got nerve,” Logan says. “I’ll give you that.”

Tom doesn’t smile. Not wide. Not gloating. Just contained. “I learned from the best.”

Kendall chokes softly into his drink.

Shiv’s eyes flash. “It’s not audacity, Dad. It’s opportunism.”

Logan hums. “Everything’s opportunism.”

The baby kicks. Hard.

Your hand moves instinctively to your stomach. Tom’s follows a half-second later. The contact lingers. Intimate. Unapologetic.

And Logan sees it.

Sees the ease. The gravity. The fact that Tom isn’t scrambling anymore. He isn’t looking at Shiv for cues. He isn’t shrinking.

He looks anchored.

“Boy or girl?” Roman asks.

“We’re waiting,” you say.

“Smart,” Logan replies. “Less to plan against.”

That makes you laugh before you can stop yourself.

Shiv’s gaze slices toward you. “Enjoy the vacation,” she says thinly. “Lake Como’s lovely this time of year.”

“I am,” you answer, gentle but firm. “Thank you.”

There’s no venom in it. That’s what unsettles her.

Because you aren’t here to taunt.

You’re here because you were invited.

Because Logan, of all people, found the situation… interesting.

A boat hums past the dock. The light off the water flashes silver. Roman starts pitching the idea of buying a villa “for tax vibes.” Kendall spirals into a speech about European media expansion. Greg nods like a bobblehead.

Logan remains still.

Then, almost idly: “Kid’ll carry the Wambsgans name?”

Tom straightens. “Yes.”

Another beat.

Logan nods once.

“Good,” he says. “Strong name when it’s attached to something.”

Shiv goes pale.

You feel it—the shift. The quiet, seismic one.

Not acceptance exactly.

But acknowledgment.