Two weeks had passed since New Year’s Eve, and the chalet no longer felt like a borrowed space.
It had become theirs—lived-in, marked, claimed.
Fukky’s toothbrush stood beside three others in the master bathroom cup.
Her silk robe hung on the back of the bedroom door next to Rafael’s black cashmere coat, Augustine’s white linen shirt, and Gabriel’s dark sweater.
The kitchen drawers now held her favorite loose-leaf tea beside their coffee beans.
The living-room sectional bore permanent indentations from five bodies curling around one every night.
Even the air smelled different—cinnamon from Dirk’s baking, cedar from the fire, and the faint, intimate musk that clung to every blanket after they loved her.
But something had shifted inside Fukky’s body.
Her breasts ached constantly—full
