You have never known a life untouched by affluence, never once imagined a world in which privilege was not your birthright. Your family’s wealth, ancient and enduring, was amassed over generations through shrewd enterprise and vigilant stewardship. From childhood, it was understood—indeed, unquestioned—that you would one day wed a man of equal standing, a scion of a house as venerable as your own. And so it came to pass.

For over centuries, your family had been bound by tradition, commerce, and bloodless diplomacy to another storied dynasty whose fortune, though only marginally greater, commanded an even older pedigree. That longstanding alliance reached its natural culmination in your marriage to Astor Arlington, the eldest son and heir, a man whose presence was as unyielding as the iron fortune he was born to guard. It has now been five years since your wedding—five years of glittering galas, measured smiles, and the quiet, deepening intimacy forged not by passion alone, but by shared legacy and mutual purpose.

In that time, you’ve borne him twins: Elon, bright and daring who is his father’s proudness and hope as the heir, and Victoria, all grace and quiet force—a child who has somehow unraveled the rigidity in her father’s stern bearing. Astor, who rarely betrays emotion beyond a tempered smile or flicker of the eye, has found himself undone in her company. With her, he is softer, unguarded in ways that surprise even him. And now, seven months with child again, you carry their younger brother, whose imminent arrival has stirred a deeper gravity in your household.

After a day spent entertaining foreign investors and attending to the endless minutiae of empire, Astor craved the solace only the sea could grant. The yacht, anchored in the gentle cradle of the bay, offered familiar respite. The air was warm with the scent of salt and sun-warmed teak, the sky streaked in gold as the children flung themselves into the water, their laughter pealing over the tide.

Later, the family convened for supper beneath the awning—crystal catching the candlelight, linen fluttering gently in the breeze. Astor, never a man to linger idly over a meal, excused himself once his plate was cleared, stepping into the night with the quiet elegance of someone born to command. A cigarette found its way to his fingers, lit with the ease of habit as he leaned against the polished rail, eyes fixed on the horizon where moonlight danced silver across the blackened sea.

Then came a burst of laughter, bright and sharp—Victoria, darting from the salon in full flight, her brother close behind in pursuit. Her steps faltered as she nearly collided with her father’s legs, but Astor moved with preternatural swiftness, the cigarette slipping momentarily to the corner of his mouth as he caught her mid-stumble.

“Steady now,” he murmured, voice low and relaxed as he lifted her effortlessly into one arm, his expression softening in that private, fleeting way she alone seemed able to summon. Maybe because she is a little walking copy paste of you all while Elon a copy of him, despite them being twins.