Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] Moving into Liam's villa happens gradually. A drawer of clothes becomes half a closet becomes all my shit packed into boxes while my apartment sits empty, lease expired. The villa is massive. Rooms that could swallow my entire former life. Liam gives me the master bedroom like it's obvious, like there was never a question. The brothers rotate through. Asher most weeknights, Finn on weekends, all of us tangled together in configurations that probably look insane from outside but make perfect sense to us. They convert the room next to the master into a nursery.

Two cribs because twins. Soft gray walls because we don't know the sexes yet. A rocking chair that Liam spent three hours researching. Shelves waiting for books these babies won't read for years but we're already stockpiling. Work continues mostly normal, which feels surreal when my body is actively creating humans. I sit at my desk reviewing contracts and coordinating recording sessions while my stomach grows in ways I can't hide anymore. The entire office knows. Nora makes inappropriate jokes.

The brothers treat me like I'm made of glass even though I'm the same person I was before, just carrying extra weight and peeing every forty-five minutes. My songs get recorded by artists whose names I've admired for years. Kai Rivers releases the first single to critical acclaim, and my name appears in the credits. Proof that I'm more than just the woman sleeping with the CEOs. That I've earned my place through talent. The morning sickness fades after the first trimester, replaced by exhaustion so profound I fall asleep mid-conversation. My body is reorganizing itself around new priorities.

At twenty weeks, we go for another ultrasound. All four of us again because that's how we do medical appointments now. The tech is different this time, more clinical, less chatty. She measures things with focused precision while we hold our breath. "Do you want to know the sexes?" she asks. "Yes," I say before the brothers can debate it. "I need to know something about these babies beyond the fact that they exist." She smiles. "Both girls. Congratulations." Girls. Daughters.

Two little humans with my DNA and infinite potential to be fucked up by the unconventional family they're being born into. "Girls," Liam breathes, and something in his voice cracks. "We're having daughters." That evening, it's just Liam and me at the villa. Asher is traveling for business, Finn is producing a session that's running late. The house feels bigger when it's only two of us. I find him in the nursery, standing in front of the cribs, staring at empty space. "Hey," I say softly.

He turns, and his face does that thing where all the optimism drains away and what's left underneath is raw fear. "I'm terrified," he admits. "Of fucking this up. Of being the father who tries so hard to be perfect that he breaks under the pressure. Of repeating my dad's mistakes." I cross to him, take his hands in mine. "You're not your father." "How do you know?" The question comes out desperate. "He wasn't always the drunk who let his kids raise themselves. He was probably confident too, before everything fell apart.

What if I'm just one tragedy away from becoming him?" The thing is, I understand the fear. Have carried my own version since the positive tests. What if I'm my mother? What if addiction is genetic, coded into the DNA I'm passing to these babies? What if I choose drugs over them the way she chose drugs over me? "Because you're aware of it," I tell him. "Because you're afraid of it. People who become their parents' mistakes are the ones who think they're immune to them." He pulls me against him carefully, conscious of the belly between us.

His hand finds the curve of it, palm warm through my shirt. "Can they hear me?" he asks. "I don't know. Maybe?" He kneels, which puts him at eye level with my stomach. This man who runs a company, who holds everything together with stubborn optimism, kneeling in front of the babies we've made together. "Hey," he says softly, talking to my stomach. "It's me. Your dad. One of them, anyway. I just want you to know I'm going to mess up. I'm going to make mistakes. But I promise I'll show up. I'll be here.

I'll love you so completely it'll probably be embarrassing when you're teenagers." I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the emotion radiating off him. Fear and love tangled together. "I'm going to read to you," he continues. "Teach you to ride bikes and make bad jokes and probably spoil you in ways your mother will hate. I'm going to be there for dance recitals and science fairs and whatever else you decide matters. And when you're older and you ask about how you were made, about why you have three dads, I'm going to tell you the truth.

That love looks like a thousand different shapes, and ours just happens to be complicated." When he looks up at me, his eyes are bright with unshed tears. "Come to bed," I say quietly. We move to the bedroom, and what follows is different from before. Slower. More careful. He undresses me like I'm something precious that might break, hands gentle on skin that's stretching to accommodate new life. Kisses my stomach with a reverence that makes me feel worshipped in ways I'm not sure I deserve.

When he enters me, it's with aching slowness, giving my changing body time to adjust, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. And when he moves, it's measured, controlled, designed to bring pleasure without demanding it. "You're beautiful," he murmurs against my neck. "You're carrying our daughters." I run my hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the restraint that costs him. "I'm right here," I remind him. "We're right here." The orgasm builds slowly, less intense than before pregnancy but deeper somehow. More thorough.

When I come, it's with his name on my lips and his hand still resting protectively on my stomach. Afterward, tangled in sheets that smell like sex and safety, he talks to my stomach again. Makes promises about the future he's building for daughters who don't exist yet except as potential. "I'm going to be the father you deserve," he tells them. "I'm going to try so hard it'll probably be annoying. But I promise I'll never leave. I'll never choose anything over you.

You're going to be so loved it'll be suffocating." And listening to him make vows to tiny humans who can't hear him yet, I believe him. We're going to be okay. Weird and complicated and unconventional, but okay. Two daughters. Three fathers. One mother trying to hold it all together. This is my family. And it's perfect in its imperfection. Virgin Dot Com