Who's My Triplet's Alpha Daddy? Novel

Chapter 42 Dec 18, 2025 POV: Lysander The Pink Peacock is exactly as advertised-aggressively pink, unapologetically fabulous, the kind of place that makes my wolf want to retreat into a cave and never emerge. Every surface screams millennial aesthetic fever dream. Rose gold fixtures. Velvet chairs in seventeen shades of blush. A neon sign that says "BUT FIRST, COFFEE" in cursive that probably cost more than my car payment. I hate it immediately. Which means Caroline's taste is either impeccable or catastrophic and I genuinely can't tell which. She's already here.

Sitting in the corner booth with case files spread across the table like she's conducting a hostile takeover of the pastry district. Her blonde hair is up in one of those messy buns that definitely took forty minutes to achieve. Pink blazer over a white silk blouse. Louboutins visible under the table because of course they are. She looks up when I walk in. Smiles with her whole face. My wolf does this thing where it sits up and wags its metaphorical tail. I officially hate myself.

"You came!" She gestures to the seat across from her with genuine delight, like my showing up is surprising instead of inevitable. "I was fifty-fifty on whether you'd ghost me. Most men run when I mention I'm bringing work to a first coffee." "Is this a first coffee?" I slide into the booth, hyperaware of how my knee almost brushes hers under the table. "Or a business meeting disguised as social interaction?" "Both. Neither. I contain multitudes." She grins. "Also I wasn't kidding about never stopping.

I have a custody hearing at two and the dad's lawyer is a complete nightmare who keeps filing frivolous motions to delay." A barista appears before I can respond. Pink apron, nose ring, the kind of deadpan expression that says she's seen everything this café has to offer and is unimpressed by all of it. "What can I get you?" she asks with the enthusiasm of someone reading a eulogy. "Black coffee," I say. Caroline gasps. Actually gasps like I just admitted to war crimes. "Black coffee? In THIS establishment? Absolutely not." She turns to the barista.

"He'll have the honey lavender latte with oat milk. Extra foam. Trust me on this." "I don't-" "You'll love it. Everyone loves it. If you don't love it, I'll drink yours and you can have my vanilla rose." She's already turning back to her files. "Consider it a cultural exchange. You're in my territory now. Different rules apply." The barista looks at me with something approaching pity. "Honey lavender latte with oat milk?" I'm being steamrolled by a woman in pink cashmere and honestly? Kind of into it. "Sure. Why not." The barista leaves.

Caroline's already highlighting something in her files with a pen that's-I'm not making this up-shaped like a stiletto heel. "So." She looks up with those bright blue eyes that my wolf won't shut up about. "Tell me about yourself. Besides being mysteriously attractive and having adorable not-kids who gave me your number without permission." "Phoenix is a menace," I say. "I'm apologizing in advance for whatever chaos she's already planning." "She's delightful. Luna's going to be an empath or a therapist. Orion's going to cure cancer or build a death ray.

Possibly both." She sets down her stiletto pen. "But you're dodging. Classic deflection technique. I do it too when I don't want to talk about my family's disappointment that I'm not doing corporate law." Christ. She's sharp. Wrapping it in bubbly pink packaging but reading me like a brief she's already won. "What do you want to know?" I lean back, going for casual while my body's on high alert. "Professional history? Educational background?

Credit score?" "How about why you look like you're about to bolt despite voluntarily showing up?" She tilts her head, studying me with unnerving accuracy. "You've got this whole 'charming playboy' thing happening but underneath you're calculating seventeen exit strategies. It's actually impressive." My pulse kicks up. "Maybe I'm just caffeinated." "You haven't had coffee yet." She grins. "Nice try though. B-plus deflection. Would've worked on someone less observant." The barista returns with our drinks.

Mine is an Instagram nightmare-foam art, lavender buds floating on top, served in a cup that says "SLAY" in gold script. I pick it up with extreme reluctance. Caroline watches me take the first sip with anticipation that's borderline violent. It's... actually delicious. Floral without being perfume-y. Sweet but not cloying. I hate that I like it. "You like it," she says with smug satisfaction. "I can see it on your face. You're trying not to like it but you do." "It's adequate," I lie. "It's the best latte in Denver and you know it." She takes a sip of her vanilla rose monstrosity.

"Okay, your turn. Ask me something. Make it good. I hate small talk." Caroline's doing that thing where she seems scattered and bubbly but she's actually in complete control of this conversation. I recognize the technique because I invented half of it. "Why family law?" I ask. "You said your family wanted corporate. Why disappoint them spectacularly instead of just mildly?" Her smile shifts. Goes from performative to genuine. "Because corporate law is about money and contracts and things that don't matter.

Family law is about people at their absolute worst, fighting over the things that matter most." She pauses. "Helping a mom get custody of her kids when the dad's been abusive? Getting a fair settlement for someone who gave up their career for marriage? That's real. That matters." "Even when it's messy and emotional and pays significantly less?" "Especially then." She meets my eyes. "Money's great. But impact is better. I'd rather help one family than protect one corporation's profit margins." And there it is-the actual person underneath the pink packaging.

Smart, principled, using the Barbie aesthetic as camouflage while she does work that actually matters. My wolf is having opinions about this that I'm aggressively ignoring. "Your turn," I say before she can psychoanalyze me further. "Why did you move to Denver? You said you just started at your firm three months ago." "Fresh start." She stirs her latte, suddenly less bubbly. "Was in LA before. Bad breakup. Needed distance. Denver seemed far enough without being run-away-to-Alaska far." She looks up.

"Plus the mountains are pretty and the legal market's good and I really wanted to stop running into my ex at Whole Foods." "Understandable reason to relocate." "Right? Nothing kills your vibe like seeing your ex-boyfriend buying organic kale while you're stress-eating Ben & Jerry's in your pajamas at two PM on a Tuesday." She grins but there's something underneath. Hurt she's covering with humor. I know that technique too. Use it constantly. "How long ago?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Six months." She takes another sip. "Hence the aggressive friend-making.

I know literally five people in this city and three of them are my coworkers who I'm pretty sure hate me because I wore a pink suit to court and won anyway." "The suit or the legal strategy?" "Both. I contain multitudes, remember?" Her smile is back to full wattage. "Okay, real question: what's the deal with you and whoever you're clearly still hung up on?" My coffee catches in my throat. "What?" "Come on." She waves her stiletto pen at me. "You've got the whole 'emotionally unavailable but really good at hiding it' thing down to an art form. There's someone. Probably recent.

Possibly ongoing." Her eyes narrow. "Are you dating someone right now?" This is the moment. Where I should admit Claire exists, that I'm technically in a relationship, that showing up here is morally questionable at best. "It's complicated," I hear myself say instead. "That's man-code for yes." She doesn't look angry, just resigned. "Let me guess-you're 'figuring things out' and she's 'being patient' and you're here because something about me made you reconsider whatever comfortable situation you've built?" The accuracy is a surgical strike.

"How do you do that?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I'm a divorce lawyer." She shrugs. "I've seen every variation of relationship dysfunction humanity has to offer. You're textbook." She pauses. "But also... so am I. Hence the six-month-old breakup I'm definitely over and not at all using work to avoid processing." We stare at each other across pink velvet and case files. Two disasters recognizing mutual wreckage. "This is a terrible idea," I say. "Absolutely catastrophic," she agrees. "I'm a rebound waiting to happen and you're emotionally unavailable.

We should definitely not do this." "Definitely not." "So." She takes another sip of her latte. "Second coffee? I know this place that makes incredible matcha. Very green. Very zen. You'll hate it too." My wolf is already agreeing before my brain catches up. "When?" "Wednesday? Same time?" She's gathering her files, checking her watch. "I have to get to court and eviscerate this dad's lawyer for filing his sixth continuance motion." "Good luck with that." "Don't need luck. I have facts and a really good closing argument." She stands, slings her designer bag over her shoulder. Pauses.

"Hey, Lysander?" "Yeah?" "Whatever complicated situation you're in? Figure it out before Wednesday. I don't do affairs or love triangles or whatever emotional unavailability looks like when it's actively fucking up someone else's life." Her voice is gentle but firm. "I like you. But I like me more. And I've spent too much time being someone's maybe to do it again." She leaves in a cloud of expensive perfume and moral clarity I don't possess. I sit there with my honey lavender latte and the complete destruction of whatever ethical boundaries I thought I had. Archer