Sweet Love 2x: Miss Ruthless CEO for our Superstar Uncle

Nate’s bar was warm in the way only old wood and low light could make it. The private room in the back was empty except for them—Gilbert at the bar, Julian slumped in a leather chair, Nate moving bottles around behind the counter like he needed something to do with his hands. The kind of restless energy that came from waiting for news that hadn’t arrived yet.

Franz held the door for Arianne. She walked in first.

Gilbert raised his glass. "Finally. Thought you two got lost."

"Traffic," Franz said.

"At this hour?"

"People drive badly at all hours."

Julian looked up from his hands. Didn’t say anything. His eyes had the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix—the dark circles underneath spoke of nights interrupted by a three-year-old who didn’t understand why his father wasn’t around before. He looked older than the last time Franz had seen him. Not in years. In weight.

Nate nodded at Franz, then at Arianne. "The usual?"

They took the two seats next to Gilbert. Franz on the outside, Arianne between him and Gilbert.

Nate set down a whiskey for Franz without asking. Two fingers, no ice. The way he’d been drinking it for years. Then he reached for the wine bottle—Arianne’s usual, since before Franz married her.

"Not tonight," Arianne said. "Something non-alcoholic."

Nate’s hand paused. The bottle was half out of the rack. He let it slide back into place. His eyes moved to her face, scanning the way he only did when something didn’t add up.

"Since when do you not drink before a trip?" he asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence sit. Long enough for Gilbert to look up from his glass. Long enough for Julian to lift his head from his hands.

"You’re not sick, are you?" Nate asked. His voice had changed. The bartender ease was gone.

"I’m not sick," Arianne said.

Then: "We’re trying to have a child."

The room went quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just surprised. The kind of silence that followed a statement everyone needed a moment to process.

Nate recovered first. He pulled his hand back from the wine bottle, reached for a sparkling water instead. Poured it over ice. Sliced a lime with more care than the drink required. Slid it to her.

"Congratulations," he said. Then looked at Franz. "To you too."

Franz nodded. "There’s no child yet."

"Yet," Gilbert repeated. He was smiling. Not teasing. Something else.

Arianne took a sip of the sparkling water. Her hand was steady.

Gilbert set down his whiskey. Turned to face them more fully. The leather of his stool creaked under his weight.

"He’s not congratulating you for the child," he said.

Franz looked at him.

"He’s congratulating you for making her change her mind."

Nate laughed. Low and warm, the kind of laugh that came from knowing someone too long to pretend otherwise. "She was terrible with children when we were younger."

Arianne didn’t rise to it. "I wasn’t terrible."

"You looked annoyed every time a kid cried in public. Every single time. I could set my watch by it."

"That’s called being normal. No one enjoys listening to a stranger’s child scream in a restaurant."

"You called them ’crotch goblins.’"

Arianne’s expression didn’t change. "I never said that."

"You’re right." Nate picked up a glass, started wiping it even though it was already clean. The motion was automatic, something to do with his hands while he talked. "It was ’hellspawn.’ I remember now. We were at that café on Grand. The one with the outdoor seating. A kid was running between the tables, and you looked at me and said, ’I don’t understand why anyone would voluntarily create hellspawn.’"

Julian’s mouth twitched. First sign of life all night.

"I was in my twenties," Arianne said.

"You were twenty-eight."

"People change."

Nate looked at Franz. Raised his glass. "Apparently they do."

Franz didn’t smile. But something in his face softened. His hand rested on the bar beside Arianne’s. Not touching. Close enough.

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Julian leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. He ran a hand through his hair—messy, unwashed, the kind of hair that meant he’d been running his hands through it all day.

"You won’t have to adjust much," he said.

Franz turned toward him.

"You’ve been raising Alex’s children for months," Julian said. "Adding one won’t change anything."

He paused. His hand dropped to his knee. He was wearing a sweater with a stain on the sleeve—something dark, probably coffee. The old Julian would have changed before leaving the house. The new Julian had other priorities.

"Kyle is three." Julian’s voice was flatter now. Not tired. Just honest. The kind of honesty that came from being too exhausted to perform. "He speaks. Not like Lily—Lily never stops. Kyle picks his moments. He’ll tell you exactly what he wants—’more juice,’ ’no bath,’ ’Daddy go’—and then ignore everything else you say."

"That sounds normal," Gilbert said.

"It’s not the talking. It’s the... everything else." Julian gestured vaguely with both hands. "He runs. He throws things. He sits on the floor and refuses to move when I need him to move. Last week, I was trying to get him into his car seat, and he went completely limp. Like a dead weight. I couldn’t lift him without feeling like I was going to break something."

"Kids do that," Franz said.

"Ellie says I’m too impatient with him. She says I treat him like a miniature adult who should know better." Julian paused. "She’s right. I know she’s right. But I don’t know how to stop."

Arianne set down her sparkling water. "What does Kyle do when you’re patient?"

"He runs away faster."

Franz almost smiled. "So he’s three."

Julian looked at him.

"That’s what three-year-olds do," Franz said. "They run. They throw. They refuse. The ones who don’t are either sick or lying. Leo was like that when he first came to me. Not the running—he didn’t have the energy for that—but the refusing. He would just sit there. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t look at me."

Julian’s expression changed. "What changed?"

Franz glanced at Arianne. Just a glance. "Someone showed up."

Julian followed his gaze. His mouth moved like he wanted to say something. Then he didn’t.

"He threw a block at my face last week," Julian said instead.

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Then he’s normal." Franz picked up his whiskey. Didn’t drink. Just held it. "Three-year-olds test boundaries. They throw things. They hit. They scream. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means he’s comfortable enough with you to be terrible."

Julian stared at him. "That’s a very generous interpretation."

"It’s the truth. Kids are terrible to the people they trust."

Nate set down the glass he’d been pretending to clean. "That’s dark."

"It’s also accurate."

Julian rubbed his face with both hands. His palms scraped against his stubble. "I don’t know how to be his father."

Nate’s voice was quieter now. "You’re showing up. That’s most of it."

"Ellie says I need to get on his level. Physically. Sit on the floor. Stop towering over him."

"That sounds like reasonable advice," Gilbert said.

"I know. That’s why I’m annoyed."

Arianne took another sip of her water. The ice clinked against the glass. "Have you tried sitting on the floor?"

Julian was quiet for a moment. The silence stretched long enough for the question to settle in.

"...no."

"Then try that before you decide it doesn’t work."

He exhaled. Something in his shoulders loosened—not completely, but enough to notice. The tension he’d been carrying since they walked in started to drain.

"Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll sit on the floor."

"With him," Arianne added.

"With him," Julian agreed.

Nate poured himself a drink. Didn’t offer anyone else. The bottle went back on the shelf with a soft clink. "Parenting sounds terrible."

"It is," Arianne said.

"And you’re trying to do it anyway."

"Apparently."

Nate raised his glass. No toast. Just acknowledgment. The kind of wordless gesture that meant more than speech.

Franz set his glass down. The whiskey was half gone. He turned it in his hand, watching the light catch the amber and split into something softer.

"My contract expires in a year and a half."

The room turned toward him. Gilbert set down his glass. Julian leaned forward. Even Nate stopped moving behind the bar.

"I’m taking a long break after. Focus on child rearing. Help Arianne at Rochefort Group."

Nate leaned against the back counter. His arms crossed over his chest. "You’re leaving acting?"

"Not leaving. Pausing."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Same thing."

"No." Franz’s voice was even. The kind of even that came from having thought about something for a long time before saying it out loud. "Leaving means I don’t come back. Pausing means I choose when."

Julian was watching him now. Really watching. "Does Noah Hart agree with that?"

Franz met his gaze. "Noah Hart doesn’t get a vote."

The room was quiet again. Different from before. Heavier.

Arianne didn’t look at him. But her hand moved. Just a little. Her fingers rested on the bar beside his. Not touching. Close enough that he could feel the warmth.

Nate noticed. Didn’t say anything.

Gilbert set down his empty glass. The clink was louder than he probably intended. The sound cut through the silence.

"We need to talk about the other thing."

Franz nodded.

"We sent the emails," Arianne said.

"I know. I saw them."

Julian leaned forward again. The tired look was back—not the exhaustion from before, but something sharper. Alert. "The notebook and the tablet."

"Images. Notes. Dates. Everything Alex and Layla left behind." Arianne’s voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm she used when she didn’t want anyone to know she was listening to her own heartbeat.

Gilbert turned his glass in his hand. It was empty, but he kept turning it anyway. "I’ve informed the family P.I. He’ll investigate discreetly."

Franz’s eyes narrowed. "Discreetly how?"

"No names. No connections to Rochefort Group or any of you. Just dates and images. See what matches."

"And if something matches?"

Gilbert didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced the rim of the glass.

"Then we decide what to do with it."

Nate set down his drink. The sound was deliberate. "I found something too."

Everyone looked at him.

"Alex was meeting investors outside Montclair. Before he died." Nate’s voice was quieter now. The bartender ease was gone, replaced by something harder. "People I didn’t recognize at first."

Arianne’s hand stilled on the bar. Her fingers, which had been resting loosely, went flat against the wood. "What kind of investors?"

"The kind with indirect connections to Blackwood Corporation."

The room went cold.

Franz felt it in his chest—a tightening, a stillness. He didn’t look at Arianne. He kept his eyes on Nate.

"How indirect?"

"Hard to trace. Different shell companies. Different cities." Nate picked up a bottle, set it back down without pouring. The glass clinked against the wood. "But if you follow the money far enough, it keeps circling back to the same places."

Gilbert’s voice was low. "Dominic."

"I’m not saying that." Nate met his gaze. His eyes were steady. "I’m saying Alex was looking into something. And whatever it was, it had layers."

Arianne was very motionless. Her breathing hadn’t changed. Her hand hadn’t moved from the bar. But something behind her eyes had gone sharp—the same sharpness she brought to board meetings, to negotiations, to moments when someone had miscalculated.

Franz looked at Nate. "What else did you find?"

"Nothing yet. But I’m still looking."

Julian’s voice cut through. "Be careful."

"I’m always careful."

"No, you’re not." Julian was sitting up straighter now. The exhaustion was still there, but it had been pushed aside by something else. "You’re reckless when you’re curious. You always have been."

Nate didn’t argue.

Arianne reached for her water. Took a slow sip. The ice had melted. The glass was sweating. "We’ll know more in a few weeks. Until then, we wait."

Julian’s jaw moved. His teeth pressed together. "I’m tired of waiting."

"Then stop waiting and sit on the floor with Kyle."

He looked at her. His mouth opened. Closed. Then he exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to take the rest of the fight with it.

"Fine. Tomorrow. Floor sitting."

"With him," Arianne said again.

Nate picked up his glass. "I want pictures."

"You’re not getting pictures."

"Then at least a report. Written. Detailed. Include his reaction."

Julian almost smiled. "I’ll think about it."

The drive home was quiet.

Not heavy. Just tired. The kind of tired that came from talking about things that mattered and things that couldn’t be solved in one night. Franz kept one hand on the wheel. The other rested on the console between them. Arianne’s hand was there. Their fingers were intertwined.

They didn’t talk about the investigation. Didn’t talk about the trip. Didn’t talk about the baby.

She was looking out the window. The city slid past in streaks of orange and white. At some point her thumb had started moving against his knuckles—slow, absent, the way it did when she was thinking about something she wasn’t going to say yet.

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

The city lights faded behind them. The road darkened. The only illumination came from the headlights and the occasional streetlamp, casting long shadows across the empty streets.

The estate was dark when they arrived. Aunt Estella had gone to bed hours ago. The twins were asleep. The hallway was empty, the only light coming from the moon through the windows at the end—pale silver, pooling on the hardwood.

Franz unlocked the front door. The lock clicked softly. Arianne walked in ahead of him.

She paused in the hallway. The east wing went to her room. The west wing went to his.

She turned toward the west wing.

Franz watched her. She didn’t look back. She just kept walking. Her footsteps were soft on the wood—bare feet, she’d kicked off her shoes at the door—but he could hear every one of them.

He followed.

They hadn’t done this enough times for it to be routine. Only a week since she started staying. Every night still felt like a choice—her hand on the doorframe, her hesitation at the threshold, the way she didn’t assume she belonged there even though she did.

She didn’t hesitate tonight.

The bedroom was dark. He didn’t turn on the light. She didn’t ask him to. The curtains were open—just a crack—and the moon pushed through, casting pale shapes across the floor.

Her hands found his chest. His hands found her waist. They moved like they were still learning—because they were. The familiarity wasn’t there yet. But the intention was.

He didn’t rush. She didn’t tell him to.

The night stretched. The room was warm. When she fell asleep, her head was on his chest, her hand curled against his ribs. Her breathing slowed. Her body relaxed against his. His arms came around her, one hand stroking her bare back in long, soothing lines.

He stayed awake for a while. Listening to her breathe. Thinking about a year and a half. About a long break. About helping her at Rochefort Group. About a child.

If it’s with you, she had said.

Not if we have one. Not maybe someday.

If it’s with you.

He closed his eyes.

She was still there when he woke.