Chapter 221: Need To Work Hard
Franz pushed through the front door at half past ten, tie loosened, collar unbuttoned, the weight of a twelve-hour day still pressed into his shoulders. Rochefort Group’s operations review had run long. Lucas had stayed late with him. The driver had waited.
He heard laughter before he saw the sitting room.
Not polite laughter. The kind that came from somewhere lower than the chest.
Franz stopped in the doorway.
Aunt Estella was in the armchair, tea in hand, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. Leo was on the floor surrounded by wooden blocks. A tower was rising. Unstable. Magnificent.
Lily was on the couch. Arms crossed. Expression thunderous.
And Arianne sat beside her, not fixing anything, just present. One hand resting on the cushion between them. Her hair was down. She wasn’t wearing work clothes.
Franz stayed in the doorway. Watching.
"—not fair," Lily was saying, her voice climbing toward a whine. "I’m the only girl. Leo has Kyle. Who do I have?"
"You have me," Arianne said.
"You’re a grown-up. That doesn’t count."
"It counts."
"It doesn’t." Lily kicked her heels against the couch cushions. "I want someone my size. A girl. With hair I can braid."
Aunt Estella laughed again. "Child, you can’t order a friend like takeout."
"Watch me."
Franz shifted his weight. Arianne’s eyes found him first. Held for a moment. Then she looked back at Lily.
Lily turned. Saw him. Sat up straighter.
"Uncle Franz. You’re late."
"I’m late," he agreed.
"You missed dinner."
"I know."
Aunt Estella wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "There’s food in the kitchen. Kept warm."
Franz nodded. Didn’t move from the doorway.
Lily was studying him now. The way she studied everything—like she was taking notes for later.
"Uncle Franz."
"Lily."
"When are you and Aunt Aria going to have a baby?"
The room went quiet.
Not silent. The block tower wobbled. Leo caught it with one hand. Aunt Estella’s teacup clinked against its saucer.
But the air changed.
Franz felt his chest tighten. His face didn’t move.
Lily continued, undeterred: "Leo and I need a cousin. A little one. A girl, preferably. So I’m not the only one."
Leo looked up from his blocks. Nodded once. Returned to building.
Aunt Estella set down her tea. Her laugh was warm this time—not the unrestrained one from before, but something softer.
"Child," she said, "parents can decide when to have a baby. But they can’t decide about the gender."
Arianne’s mouth curved. Barely.
"I read somewhere," she said, voice mild, "that the gender of the baby depends on the father."
She didn’t look at Franz. She knew he was there.
Lily turned to him. Blinked. "Is that true?"
Franz opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know how to answer that.
Leo picked up his tablet. Typed with both thumbs. Turned the screen toward the doorway.
NEED TO WORK HARD
Aunt Estella lost it. Laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the armchair. The teacup rattled.
Lily looked between Leo’s tablet and Franz’s face. "Work hard at what?"
"Nothing," Aunt Estella said, waving a hand. "Never mind. Finish your blocks."
Leo was already building again. But he was smiling. Small. Satisfied.
Franz looked at Arianne. She was looking at the tablet.
Then she stood.
"Bedtime," she said. "Both of you. You’re past your sleeping time."
Lily’s face crumpled toward objection. "But we’re not even—"
Leo yawned.
It was enormous. Uncontrollable. His whole face scrunched. His eyes watered. He started rubbing them with the back of his hand.
Lily looked at him. Deflated.
"Fine," she muttered. "But only because Leo’s being a baby about it."
Leo flipped her off with one sleepy hand. No malice. Just accuracy.
Aunt Estella choked on air.
The twins’ bedroom was at the end of the east wing. Warm. Cluttered. Stuffed animals on every surface.
Arianne walked in first. Franz followed.
Leo climbed into bed immediately—no fuss, just done. Lily arranged her animals with precision: bear on the left, rabbit on the right, the worn lion keychain on the pillow beside her.
Arianne pulled the blanket up to Leo’s chin. He grabbed her sleeve. Held for one second. Let go.
Franz approached. Hesitated.
"You’re bad at this," Lily said.
"I know."
She grabbed his wrist. Placed his hand on the blanket herself.
"You’ll get better."
"I know."
Leo was already asleep. Lily’s eyes were closing, her grip on his wrist loosening.
Franz pulled the blanket up to her chin. She didn’t open her eyes.
"Goodnight, Uncle Franz."
"Goodnight, Lily."
In the hallway, Franz eased the door halfway closed. Arianne leaned against the wall opposite, not quite looking at him. The silence between them held the echo of Lily’s question, of Leo’s tablet, of Aunt Estella’s knowing laugh. Not pressure. Permission, perhaps.
Franz’s voice was low. "Need to work hard."
Arianne’s mouth curved, faint. "Leo has a way with words."
"He gets it from his aunt."
She met his eyes then. The shift was there—subtle, but real. The sitting-room conversation still lingered, warm between them.
Arianne pushed off the wall. "You said you wouldn’t rush."
"I also said I wouldn’t stand in a place without assurance."
She walked past him, then stopped. Quiet: "Your room or mine?"
Franz didn’t hesitate. "Mine."
They moved to the west wing. His room—precise desk, shoes lined like soldiers, the faint scent of cedar and starch. He opened the door and stepped aside, letting her enter first. She had been here before, months ago, but never like this.
Arianne turned to face him. "You’re nervous."
"Yes."
"Don’t be."
"That’s not how it works." He let out a nervous laugh.
She stepped closer. Reached up. Loosened his tie with slow, deliberate fingers. "I’m not pretending. I’m not calculating. I’m choosing."
Her voice was flat, certain, the same tone she used for contracts. Final.
Franz’s hand covered hers, stilling her. "If we do this—"
"We’re already married."
"That’s not what I mean."
She waited.
"If we do this, there’s no version where I go back to standing on the other side of the hallway."
"I know."
"You said you stopped calculating."
"I did."
"Then don’t start again tomorrow."
She answered without words. She kissed him—slow at first, then deeper, hands sliding up to frame his face.
It started slow. Controlled. His hand on the back of her neck. Their mouths fit together like they’d been practicing—which they had, in Montreux, in the suite, in the hallway, on the couch.
But this was different.
There were no twins asleep nearby. No movie playing. No excuse.
Franz walked her backward. One step. Two. His hand found the wall behind her. Her back hit the doorframe of his bathroom—not the bed, not yet.
She pulled at his shirt. Untucked it. Her palms pressed flat against his stomach.
He made a sound. Low. Not a word.
"Arianne."
She shook her head.
He stopped. "What?"
"Don’t."
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t call me that. Not now."
He watched her face. Understood.
"Aria."
She kissed him again. Harder.
The restraint that had defined him for twenty years finally bent, then released—but never broke into chaos. It remained controlled, every movement measured even as hunger sharpened his breath. His hands mapped her with patient reverence, learning the places that drew soft sounds from her throat.
When her fingers brushed the scar on his shoulder—the old injury from the on-set accident—he didn’t flinch. She noted it, the trust implicit in that stillness.
Clothes fell away in unhurried layers. Skin met skin. He moved over her with the same steady presence he had always offered—except now there was no distance left to maintain.
His hands knew what they were doing. Steady. No tremor. He touched her like he’d imagined it—which he had, for years, in ways he’d never admitted.
She was not imagining. She was feeling.
The way his thumb circled. The way he watched her face for reaction. The way he slowed down when she got close to something.
"Don’t," she said.
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t be careful."
"I’m not being careful. I’m being thorough."
Arianne laughed. It turned into something else halfway through.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear. Pulled. She lifted her hips.
And then there was nothing between them.
He looked at her. Not her body—her face.
"Still no regret?"
"Ask me after."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one you’re getting."
He lowered himself over her. His weight was good. Heavy but not crushing. She could feel his heartbeat against her chest.
His hand slid between her legs. She gasped—not loud, just there, just real. He watched her face.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
"Tell me if—"
"Franz. I will. Now stop asking."
When he entered her, it was slow. Deliberate. He watched her the whole time—her eyes, her mouth, the way her hands gripped his shoulders.
She was not thinking about anyone else. Not thinking about the past. Not thinking about the five years or the betrayal or any of it.
She felt him press inside her, and though it wasn’t her first time, the sensation overwhelmed: impossibly full, every nerve alight and hypersensitive in a way she had never experienced.
Franz filled her completely, thick and hard, stretching her with a slow, relentless pressure that made her gasp against his mouth. Every inch of him was solid muscle and heat; every thrust drew new waves of sensitivity from her body until she clung to his shoulders, breathing ragged.
He whispered her name against her neck.
Their rhythm built in quiet intensity—his restraint giving way to deeper strokes, her hips rising to meet him, hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, his back, the flex of muscle as he held himself in careful check even while letting go. Lights remained on, casting warm shadows across tangled sheets. Breathing synchronized, then fractured.
When release came, it rolled through them in shared, shuddering waves—his forehead pressed to hers, her fingers tightening in his hair.
Later, they lay tangled, lights still burning. Arianne on her back, staring at the ceiling. Franz on his side, watching her with that same quiet intensity.
"Any regret?" he asked, voice rough.
"No."
"Lily asked when."
"She’s four."
"She’s perceptive."
Arianne turned her head, meeting his gaze. "Are you asking me something?"
"Not tonight."
Her hand found his wrist, thumb resting against the steady thrum of his pulse. "Good."
She pulled him back to her.
The second round began slower, lazier—exploratory kisses along collarbones, hands tracing the marks they had already left on each other. His mouth mapped every inch of her skin with thorough patience, drawing shivers and quiet moans until she arched beneath him again, sensitive and wanting. He took his time, hard length sliding deep once more, building heat until they moved together in unhurried waves, her legs wrapped around him, his name on her lips in the same intimate register he had used for hers.
Morning light filtered through the curtains. Arianne woke first, still in his bed, his arm heavy and possessive across her waist. Soreness bloomed pleasantly between her legs—a tangible reminder. Every inch of her body carried the memory of his mouth, his hands. She felt the evidence of it in the tender ache that made her shift experimentally.
She didn’t move away. Just watched him sleep, the lines of his face relaxed in a way she rarely saw.
He stirred. Eyes opening, finding her already there. Voice rough with sleep: "You’re still here."
"I said I would be."
He pulled her closer, not urgent, simply present. His hand splayed across her back, warm and sure.
Somewhere downstairs, Lily’s voice carried up—demanding breakfast with characteristic imperiousness.
They didn’t move immediately.
Later, in the kitchen, Aunt Estella stood at the counter making coffee. Arianne entered, hair slightly tousled in a way that spoke volumes to anyone paying attention, a faint mark visible just above the collar of her shirt before she adjusted it. Aunt Estella said nothing. Simply slid the cup toward her with a small, knowing smile.
Leo pushed his tablet across the counter.
DID HE WORK HARD?
Arianne took a slow sip of coffee. "Ask him yourself."
Franz walked in behind her, reading the screen over her shoulder. He met Leo’s expectant gaze.
"Yes."
Leo nodded once, satisfied, and returned to his breakfast.
Lily narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Work hard at what?"
"Eat your toast, child," Aunt Estella said, voice warm with suppressed laughter.
The morning continued—ordinary on the surface, irrevocably shifted underneath. Arianne felt the new reality settle into her bones alongside the lingering soreness: she had chosen. And for the first time, the choice felt like home rather than another system to manage.
Yet the calendar on the counter already showed her departure looming. The consummation had not erased the larger shadows. It had only made the stakes sharper.