Chapter 59: Headlines and Heatwaves

Selene

The next morning, I wake to quiet.

Not the uneasy, brittle kind that follows a fight or a long night of doubt—but the soft, settled hush of a place where everything feels… right. For a moment, I stay still, curled in warm sheets that still smell like last night and like them, listening to the distant hum of the city far below John’s penthouse.

The bed beside me is empty.

I smile to myself, already guessing where they are.

I slip out from under the covers and pull on one of their T-shirts—Adrian’s, I think, judging by how it hangs a little longer on me and smells faintly of his cologne. The fabric brushes my thighs as I pad down the hallway, following the low murmur of voices and the clink of dishes.

The kitchen is flooded with morning light.

John is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly put together for someone who was very much not sleeping alone last night. Adrian stands near the stove, focused, serious, flipping something in a pan like it’s a strategic operation instead of breakfast.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning against the doorway.

They both look up at once.

John’s expression softens immediately. Adrian’s mouth curves into that lazy, dangerous smile that still makes my stomach flip.

“There she is,” Adrian says. “We were wondering how long you’d sleep in.”

“I could ask the same,” I reply, walking over and stealing a piece of fruit from the counter.

John slides a plate toward me. “Sit. You’re not lifting a finger today.”

I don’t argue.

We sit together at the table, sunlight warming my skin, the city stretching endlessly beyond the windows. The conversation is easy—about the flight, about Santorini, about how long we’re staying and what we’re absolutely not bringing with us: Bianca, lawyers, headlines, or drama.

For a little while, it almost feels like none of that exists.

After breakfast, we shower, get ready, and pack. The guys insist on carrying the luggage, even though I point out that I’m perfectly capable. They ignore me, of course, moving around me with that quiet, protective coordination they’ve somehow developed without ever discussing it.

By the time the elevator doors glide open, the three of us look like we stepped out of a magazine spread—sunglasses, sleek luggage, effortless calm.

We are confident and collected.

We are completely unprepared for what’s waiting outside.

The moment the revolving doors come into view, I hear it—shouting, the rapid-fire click of cameras, the unmistakable buzz of a crowd that smells like trouble.

“Shit,” Adrian mutters as we freeze.

The doors spin, and suddenly it’s chaos.

Reporters swarm the entrance like they’ve been waiting for hours—which, apparently, they have. Cameras flash so fast it’s disorienting. Voices overlap, questions firing from every direction.

Someone leaked our plans. Or guessed. Or just got lucky.

John’s hand comes to the small of my back, grounding, steady. “Just keep walking,” he murmurs.

I nod and fix my expression into something neutral, something practiced, as we step outside into heat and noise and a storm of attention.

“John! Adrian! Are you both dating her?”

“Is this a love triangle or a throuple?”

“Selene, are you pregnant?”

That one lands like a slap.

My steps falter—just for a second—but it’s enough.

A young reporter with sharp eyes and chipped red nail polish gasps into her mic. “Wait… she is, isn’t she?”

Every camera swings toward me.

I’d chosen a flowing ivory jumpsuit, light and comfortable, with a soft trench over it. It isn’t meant to hide anything—but the faint curve of my stomach is there if you’re looking.

And now everyone is.

“Selene! Who’s the father?”

“Is it true Bianca drugged Adrian?”

“Are you all living together?”

Adrian steps closer, his hand finding mine, firm and protective. John adjusts his sunglasses and fixes the crowd with a look that could cut glass.

“We have no comment at this time,” John says coolly, guiding me toward the SUV waiting at the curb.

But something in me snaps—not in anger, not in fear. In resolve.

I stop.

Just for a second.

I turn back, lower my sunglasses, and meet the eyes of the reporter who asked first.

“Congratulations,” I say calmly. “You just got your scoop.”

Then I turn and slide into the car before anyone can even breathe.

Inside the SUV, the door shuts and the noise drops away like someone turned down the volume on the world.

Adrian looks at me, one brow lifting. “Was that wise?”

“I don’t care,” I say honestly. “They were going to find out eventually. I can’t hide this forever. Might as well give them something to chew on while we fly across the ocean.”

John laughs quietly. “You really are becoming one of us.”

I rest a hand over my stomach and smile faintly. “No. I’m becoming all of me.”

Adrian’s phone buzzes.

He checks it, his expression tightening, and passes it to John.

“What is it?” I ask.

John’s jaw hardens as he reads. “Bianca’s lawyer. Again.”

Adrian exhales slowly. “They’re pushing harder. She’s panicking. New terms—less money, just silence.”

I shake my head. “She’s not getting a cent. And she doesn’t get to make demands like she has any right to. Don’t answer for now. Let them stew. None of us have done anything wrong. Let her sit with what she started.”

John slips the phone into his pocket. “Then next stop: Santorini.”

And if Bianca wants a war, she can have it. But not today.

Today, we’re leaving.

The flight is long, but peaceful. Somewhere over the ocean, the world starts to feel very far away. By the time we land, the air is warm and bright and smells like salt and sun.

Santorini is everything it promises to be.

White walls, blue horizons, light that makes everything look softer and more beautiful than it has any right to be.

We go straight to our private villa by the beach, and the moment we step inside, something in me finally relaxes all the way.

The next few days are… unreal.

We lounge by the pool, swim in water so clear it feels like glass, disappear into each other’s company like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. We go out for dinner in the evenings, wander through little shops, let the days stretch long and unstructured.

They hover—both of them—without smothering. Always there. Always watching. Always making sure I’m comfortable, fed, rested, smiling.

It’s not just attention.

It’s care.

For now, Bianca and her drama fade into the background, like static from a different life. For now, it’s just the three of us—learning each other in quieter ways, laughing more, talking more, building something that feels less like chaos and more like intention.

I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.