Her green eyes fluttered, the candlelight above her blurring into a soft haze. The sharp sounds of the world—the midwife’s frantic orders, Ivonne’s whispered prayers—began to fade. Even the pain, melted into nothingness. She felt herself drifting, the edges of her consciousness fraying like threads unraveling from a tapestry.

Then, a sound.

A high, piercing cry cut through the fog, followed by another, and then another. Baby’s cries. Her babies. Her heart stirred, a flicker of awareness breaking through the haze. She wanted to see them. She wanted to hold them. But no matter how hard she tried; her body would not move. Everything around her turned dark, and the cries grew muffled, swallowed by the silence.

Then, warmth.

A gentle breeze brushed against her skin, carrying the familiar scent of roses, and freshly cut grass. Nicolette stirred, her lashes fluttering open, confusion settling in as she found herself resting against something firm and warm. Pierre. She lifted her head, realizing she was no longer in her bedchamber. They were outside, seated on a stone bench beneath the towering trees of their manor’s garden. The late afternoon sun cast golden light across Pierre’s face, his golden hair glowing in its warmth.

She blinked, still dazed, her mind struggling to catch up with reality. Then she saw them.

Pierre was seating beside her, cradling two tiny bundles in his arms. One baby had a head full of soft blonde curls and green eyes that mirrored hers. The other, smaller, and just as delicate, had a head of fiery red hair, the same shade as her own, but his eyes—his sky-blue eyes—were unmistakably Pierre’s.

She looked down at her own arms and gasped softly. A third baby lay nestled against her chest—a boy, just as tiny and perfect, his blonde hair glowing under the sunlight. Slowly, he blinked open his bright blue eyes, gazing up at her with quiet curiosity.

Tears welled in Nicolette’s eyes, her heart swelling with an emotion so intense it nearly took her breath away. She looked up at Pierre, her lips parting, but words failed her.

Pierre, his own eyes damp with emotion, smiled softly. “Aren’t they so small and chubby, mon amour?” he murmured, his voice thick with awe. “All three of them.”

Nicolette’s gaze shifted between the babies, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the tiny hand of the child in her arms. The warmth of his skin, the delicate curl of his fingers around hers, brought a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. She looked back at Pierre, her heart overflowing with a love she had never known before.

“They’re perfect,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Our children… they’re perfect.”

Pierre leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “Just like their mother,” he said softly, his breath warm against her skin.

The garden around them seemed to hold its breath, the world fading into the background as they sat there, their family complete at last. The golden light of the setting sunbathed them in its glow, wrapping them in a moment of pure, unspoken joy.

Nicolette blinked down at the tiny baby in her arms, an overwhelming sense of certainty settling deep in her chest. Paul. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. The moment she looked into his wide, curious blue eyes, the name settled over her heart like it had always belonged to him. Her little Paul.

Tears blurred her vision as she traced a gentle finger over his soft, round cheek. He yawned, his tiny lips parting, his fist curled against her finger. She let out a breathless laugh, pressing a trembling kiss to his forehead.

Then she turned to Pierre, who sat beside her, holding the other two babies as if they were the most precious treasures in the world. He looked down at them, his blue eyes alight with something deeper than joy.

“Pierrine,” Nicolette whispered, her gaze falling on the delicate blonde-haired girl tucked in the crook of Pierre’s right arm. Her tiny fingers twitched, curling around the lace of Pierre’s cuff as she slept peacefully against his chest. Her golden lashes fluttered slightly, but she didn’t stir. Her daughter. Their daughter. Pierrine.

“And Nicolas,” Nicolette murmured, her voice cracking as he glanced at the smallest of the three, the red-haired baby cradled protectively against Pierre’s chest. The boy, unlike his sister, wasn’t sleeping. His sky-blue eyes blinked up at him, round and full of wonder, his tiny mouth forming a soft ‘O’ as if taking in the world for the first time.

“We have a daughter,” Nicolette said, her voice thick with emotion. “And two sons.”

Nicolette smiled through her own tears, shifting closer so her head rested against Pierre’s shoulder. The three babies nestled between them, wrapped in warmth, love, and the quiet hum of the garden around them.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. There was no need.

The world had changed. Everything had changed.

 But although everything had changed, Nicolette knew deep in her heart that this was the last change she would ever experience. From now on, she would sit frozen in time. It was an unspoken truth—one she couldn’t yet fully grasp but felt as surely as the warmth of her little Paul resting in her arms. The weight of it settled over her, heavy and inevitable, as she sat on the stone bench, the garden around her bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.

Pierre slowly stood from the bench, cradling Pierrine and Nicolas against his chest. He adjusted their weight carefully, his movements gentle and deliberate, before casting her a soft smile. “Let’s go inside,” he said, his voice warm and inviting.

But Nicolette didn’t move.

She remained seated, her fingers tightening around Paul’s small body, feeling the fragile rhythm of his breathing against her palms. Pierre took a few steps toward the manor, his boots crunching over the gravel path, but when he glanced back, his smile faded.

“Nicolette?” he called, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

She didn’t answer. She simply sat there, watching him walk further away. Nicolette was trying hard not to speak, fearing her voice would break. She hoped the soft rustling of leaves would fill the silence, just as the scent of roses lingered in the air.

Pierre hesitated, shifting on his heels as if waiting for her to follow. But when she didn’t move, his brows furrowed in concern. He started to turn back toward her.

Nicolette’s breath hitched. She clutched Paul closer, pressing her lips to his tiny forehead. She knew—she *knew*—that if Pierre came back to her now, if he touched her, if he spoke, she wouldn’t be able to leave. But she had to. She couldn’t leave baby Paul alone. Who would take care of him if not her?

Her throat tightened.

“Go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her composure hanging by a thread.

Pierre paused, as if sensing something was wrong. But then, after a lingering moment, he gave her one last searching look before turning away and continuing toward the manor.

“We’ll be waiting inside, then,” Pierre said, his voice carrying a note of reassurance, though his steps were slower now, as if part of him still hesitated.

The moment Pierre turned toward the mansion; Nicolette’s composure shattered.

Tears spilled over her cheeks, silent at first, slipping down her skin like raindrops on glass. Her chest heaved as she tried to suppress the sob threatening to break free, but the weight of it crushed her, forcing its way out in a trembling gasp. Her shoulders shook, her breath uneven as she pressed her forehead against Paul’s tiny head, his warmth grounding her even as her world crumbled around her.

She clutched him tighter, as if holding on to him could stop the unbearable ache spreading through her chest.

Pierre didn’t look back.

She was leaving.

She was leaving him.

And Pierre… he didn’t even know.

A deep ache settled in her chest; heavier than any pain she had felt before. She lowered her gaze to Paul, stroking the fine wisps of blonde hair on his head.

She had to take care of him.

She had to go.