Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] The alarm screams at five AM, and I'm already awake. Liam's side of the bed is cold, the sheets undisturbed-crisp hospital corners I made yesterday morning still perfectly intact. He never came to bed. I find him in his office, face-down on the mahogany desk like some corporate martyr. Contract paperwork fans around his head, dense legal text bleeding into margins covered with his cramped handwriting. His shirt is wrinkled, tie loosened but still knotted at his throat. I touch his shoulder. Just my fingertips against expensive cotton.

He jerks awake, and there's a moment-brief, brutal-where he doesn't recognize me. Then his eyes focus, and something in my chest cracks open at the exhaustion carved into his face. "Shit. Jazz, I'm sorry-" "The merger?" My voice comes out flat. "It's eating me alive." He scrubs his hands over his face, and I catch the tremor in his fingers. "I meant to come to bed. I just... needed to review one more clause." "One more clause at two AM?" "Try four." He reaches for me, and I should step back. Should lecture him about boundaries and self-care and all the things we promised each other.

Instead, I let him pull me into his lap, let his arms band around my waist with something close to desperation. He buries his face in the curve of my neck. His breath is hot against my skin, and I feel the words vibrate through my collarbone. "I miss you." His voice cracks. "Even when we're in the same house, I miss you." My hands find his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. He's shaking. This man who commands boardrooms and negotiates eight-figure deals is shaking in my arms, and I don't have words for what that does to me. "You're here now," I whisper against his temple.

"Not enough." He pulls back just far enough to look at me, and the hunger in his eyes has nothing to do with sex. It's rawer than that. Deeper. "It's never enough." By seven AM, our bedroom is chaos. Chloe stands in front of her closet, hands on her hips like a miniature CEO evaluating quarterly reports. "The blue dress, Mama. With the sparkly shoes." No hesitation, no doubt. She's five years old and already more decisive than half the executives I know. Zoe sits on the bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it's the only thing anchoring her to reality.

Her bottom lip trembles when I try to coax her into getting dressed. When I finally get her into her yellow sundress-the one she picked out three weeks ago with such excitement-she wraps herself around my leg and refuses to let go. "What if nobody likes me?" Her voice is so small. I kneel down, frame her face with my hands. Her eyes-Liam's eyes, that impossible shade of gray-blue-are wet with unshed tears. "Then they're idiots, and we'll find you better friends." I keep my voice light, but my chest is tight. "Besides, Chloe will like you." "Chloe has to like me.

She's my sister." "Exactly." I smooth her hair back. "Built-in best friend." They all promise to be there for pickup. Liam texts at noon: Merger meeting running long. So sorry, baby. Finn calls at one: "Client emergency. I'll make it up to you." His voice is rough with genuine regret. Asher doesn't even bother with an excuse, just sends a single word: Stuck. So I stand alone in the pickup line at three PM, surrounded by traditional families. Matching polo-shirt dads and yoga-pants moms who probably spent the morning at Pure Barre before organizing their Pinterest-perfect pantries.

They cluster in groups, laughing about book club and soccer practice, and I'm an island in a sea of normalcy. A woman approaches-highlighted hair, designer athleisure, smile sharp as a knife. "You're Jasmine, right? Chloe and Zoe's mom?" "That's me." I keep my voice neutral. "Oh, you're the one with the..." She pauses, lets the silence stretch. "Unconventional situation." The judgment in her tone could strip paint. I smile, show teeth. "Guilty." I take the girls for ice cream because I need the sugar rush more than they do.

They chatter about their day-finger painting and circle time and a boy named Marcus who ate glue. Chloe's already planning to run for class president. We're halfway through our cones when Zoe asks, "Mama, why do Emma and Sophie only have one daddy?" My spoon freezes halfway to my mouth. Chocolate drips onto the table. "Everyone's family is different, sweet girl." The deflection tastes like ash. "Some families have one parent, some have two, some have more." "But three is weird?" Her voice is curious, not hurt. Not yet. "Different. Not weird.

Different." I'm saying the words, but I don't believe them. Not when that woman's judgment is still burning under my skin. Chloe watches me with eyes too knowing for five. "Emma's mom made a face when I said I have three daddies." Something cold slides down my spine. Dinner that night is supposed to be a celebration. All six of us at the table-a rare alignment of schedules and exhaustion. Liam made pasta, Finn brought wine, Asher keeps the girls entertained with terrible knock-knock jokes. Under the table, Finn's hand finds my knee.

His thumb traces small circles against my skin, and the pressure is steady, grounding. He doesn't look at me, keeps his attention on Zoe's story about finger painting, but his touch says I'm here. You're not alone in this. "Mama, why do we have three daddies?" Zoe asks again, and the table goes silent. Liam sets down his fork carefully. "Because we all love you so much, one dad wasn't enough." It's a good answer. A sweet answer. But Chloe's face scrunches up, suspicious. "But Emma's dad loves her a lot too. Like, a LOT.

He picks her up every day and brings her special snacks." She looks between the three men. "Why couldn't just one of you love us that much?" No one speaks. Finn's hand tightens on my knee. Liam stares at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe. Asher's jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. And all I can think is: we don't have an answer. We have love and good intentions and a family that works when we're inside these walls, but we don't have words that will satisfy a five-year-old's logic. We don't have words that will protect them from the Emma's moms of the world.

"Finish your pasta, baby," I finally say. But Chloe's watching us with those sharp, assessing eyes. And I know-bone-deep, terrifyingly certain-that this is just the beginning. Virgin Dot Com