Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] I show up at Liam's villa at five to help with dinner, and my hands won't stop shaking. The three boxes sit in my bag like live grenades, each one containing evidence of a truth that will detonate our entire dynamic. For better or worse-I don't know yet. Won't know until I pull the pin and watch what happens. Liam's already started prep when I arrive, chopping vegetables with that focused energy he brings to everything. He kisses me hello, and I taste anxiety underneath the affection. He knows something's coming. They all do. My text was too formal, too intentional.

I have something I want to give you reads like a warning when you're sleeping with someone whose life you're about to irrevocably change. "Need help?" I ask, even though what I need is to vomit from nerves or morning sickness or both. "Set the table?" He gestures toward the dining room. "They'll be here in twenty minutes." Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to figure out how to tell three men they're going to be fathers when I don't know which one actually is.

I set plates with hands that want to tremble, fold napkins with precision that's entirely performative, arrange silverware like I'm preparing for battle rather than dinner. The boxes stay in my bag. I'll wait until after we eat. After conversation. After I've had time to assess their moods and find the perfect moment that probably doesn't exist. Asher arrives first, still in his suit from work, looking at me with those penetrating eyes that see too much. "You okay? You look pale." "Fine," I lie, which is becoming my default state of existence.

"Just tired." Finn shows up minutes later with wine he immediately apologizes for bringing when he sees my face. "Shit, sorry. Are you not drinking? I can-" "It's fine," I say quickly. "I'll have water." We sit down to eat, and the conversation flows around me like I'm a rock in a stream-present but somehow separate, watching them interact while my internal monologue screams about the secret burning holes through my bag three feet away. Liam made pasta-my favorite, which probably isn't coincidental. He's trying to soften whatever blow he thinks is coming.

Trying to cushion bad news he's invented in his head that's probably nothing like the reality I'm about to detonate. The thing is, I can barely taste it. Everything is cardboard and anxiety, my stomach too twisted to properly process food even though I know I should eat, should nourish the cluster of cells currently hijacking my entire existence. We make it through dinner on autopilot. Then dessert. Then coffee I can't drink because caffeine is apparently bad for developing fetuses, which is just one more thing I've learned from obsessive three-AM googling. Finally, I can't delay anymore.

I retrieve the boxes from my bag with hands that are definitely shaking now, no hiding it. "I have gifts," I say, and my voice sounds thin, reedy, nothing like the confident woman I've been performing for years. "Open them together." They exchange glances-curious, concerned, confused by the formal presentation. But they take the boxes. Identical white containers tied with ribbon like this is Christmas instead of the moment that changes everything. "On three?" Finn suggests, ever the one to lighten tension even when he doesn't understand its source. They open simultaneously.

Pull out the pregnancy tests I've wrapped in tissue paper like precious artifacts. Silence. Then Finn figures it out first-of course he does, he's always been quickest to emotional understanding even when logic escapes him. "Holy shit," he breathes, staring at the test like it's in a foreign language he's suddenly fluent in. "Is this... is this what I think it is?" I nod, throat too tight for words. "Holy SHIT." Louder now. Then even louder: "You're pregnant?" Liam and Asher have opened theirs now, both staring at the tests with expressions I can't quite parse. Shock? Fear?

The silence stretches until I can't bear it anymore. "Say something," I beg. "Please." Liam looks up first, and there's something bright and terrifying in his eyes. "How far along?" "Eight weeks. I had an ultrasound yesterday." The words tumble out. "There's a heartbeat. Everything looks normal. I'm healthy, the baby's healthy, I just-I didn't know how to tell you." "And the father..." Asher starts, and I watch him doing calculations in that methodical brain. "Could be any of you," I finish, because avoiding the truth serves no purpose. "I don't know. Can't know without tests." More silence.

The weight of implications crushing down on all of us simultaneously-three men, one woman, one baby, infinite complications. Then Liam stands, crosses to me in two strides, pulls me into his arms with a fierceness that makes breathing difficult. "Doesn't matter. Mine or not, I'm this baby's father. We all are." "Absolutely," Finn says immediately, and when I turn to look at him he's grinning through what might be tears. "DNA is just biology. This kid has three dads. Period." Asher nods slowly, processing, calculating, accepting. "Together.

Like everything else." And something in my chest that's been locked tight for weeks finally loosens. They're not running. Not panicking. Not demanding paternity tests or ultimatums. They're choosing us-all of us, including the tiny cluster of cells who has no idea how complicated their family tree is going to be. The questions come rapid-fire after that. How do I feel? Have I been sick? What did the doctor say? Do I need anything? Each question layered with concern and something else-wonder, maybe.

The dawning realization that in approximately seven months, their entire world is going to change. Liam opens expensive non-alcoholic champagne he apparently keeps stocked for reasons I've never questioned. We toast to new beginnings, to unexpected futures, to family configurations that don't fit any traditional mold. The evening shifts into something tender after that. Gentle. All three of them wanting to be close to me, to touch the place where life is growing even though there's no visible evidence yet. Their hands on my still-flat stomach feel like prayer. Like promise.

When we move to the bedroom, it's different than before. Reverent in ways that have nothing to do with desire and everything to do with awe. Liam makes love to me slowly, carefully, his hand never leaving my stomach. Whispering to the baby like it can hear him through blood and tissue. "I'm your dad," he tells the tiny cluster of cells. "And I already love you." The words make me cry, which might be hormones or might be the overwhelming relief of not being alone in this anymore.

Asher follows with careful precision, protective already, treating my body like it's precious cargo rather than pleasure. And Finn makes me laugh even while moving inside me, promising the baby a life full of joy and bad jokes and uncles who are actually also fathers in the most complicated family structure imaginable. Afterward, tangled together in sheets that smell like sex and safety, I realize this is my family. Unconventional, complicated, perfect in its imperfection. My phone rings at two AM, jarring me from sleep wrapped in warm bodies. Unknown number. I should ignore it.

Should let it go to voicemail. But something makes me answer. "Jasmine?" My mother's voice, weak and barely audible. "I'm at the hospital. Can you and Leo come? Please. I don't have much time left." The words land like ice water. Time left. Not time to visit. Time left to live. "What hospital?" I'm already moving, untangling from the brothers who are stirring awake, confused. Death doesn't wait for convenient moments. Doesn't care that I just told the fathers of my child I'm pregnant. Doesn't pause for celebration or joy or the tentative hope I'd been building.

I look at the three men watching me with concern, and I know the celebration is over. Virgin Dot Com