Chapter 94 : Lines Redrawn – What Openness Allows
New York, Queens – Alex's POV
I close Gwen's door softly behind me.
The hallway feels quieter than it should, like the air itself is recalibrating after everything that was said inside. I take a few steps, cross the short distance to my own apartment, but I don't go in right away.
I need a minute.
The conversation didn't end with certainty. But it did end with direction.
Some choices were made. Others were deliberately postponed. That, too, was a choice.
May was the first one to reach clarity.
She's decided to keep the baby.
Not impulsively. Not emotionally. But with that quiet, grounded resolve she slips into when she's finally done arguing with herself. She doesn't see the pregnancy itself as something she needs to dramatize. If she needs help—medical appointments, bad days, logistics—she'll ask. From me. From the harem. From whoever is available.
But she believes she can handle most of it on her own.
As for the questions that come with being visibly pregnant—she's chosen vagueness.
At work, she won't offer explanations. No names. No details. Just boundaries. She doesn't owe her colleagues a narrative.
With Peter, it'll be different.
When the time comes, she'll tell him the baby is from her boyfriend. Someone she cares about. Someone she'll introduce eventually. There's no rush. The pregnancy isn't even visible yet, and by the time it is, she'll have had space to shape the words in a way that doesn't crush him—or herself.
What happens after the birth is still undecided.
She doesn't want to lock herself into a plan she hasn't lived yet. That part remains open, intentionally so.
MJ, on the other hand, surprised me in a different way.
She's also keeping the baby. That part didn't change—but the way she holds the decision did. There's more steadiness now. Less apology in her posture.
She doesn't want to hide the pregnancy, but she doesn't want it to become a spectacle either. No announcements. No public framing. Just reality, handled quietly.
She plans to continue her classes as long as she can without drawing attention.
And when it stops being discreet—when bodies make decisions visible whether you want them to or not—she'll step out of the academic spotlight and into something more contained. An internship. Possibly at my company.
Not as a favor. As a shield.
It gives her structure, legitimacy, and distance from campus gossip. It lets her stay productive without becoming a story other people feel entitled to dissect.
With her parents, she'll tell the truth.
Or at least a version of it.
They'll know she's pregnant. They'll know who the father is. They won't know about the harem. That line stays firm. She's not ready to fight that battle, and she shouldn't have to.
After the birth, she knows one thing for sure: she wants to continue her studies.
How that will work—childcare, scheduling, support—is still unresolved. Not ignored. Just not decided yet. The intent is there. The method will follow.
Darcy's situation remains theoretical.
Too early. Too uncertain. Plenty of time before that conversation becomes unavoidable.
And me?
I unlock my door and step inside.
What we did this afternoon wasn't solving the future. It was narrowing the chaos into something manageable. Identifying fixed points. Marking the variables.
No one was rushed. No one was cornered.
And no one walked away alone.
The apartment is dim, quiet in that familiar, lived-in way. The TV is on low volume, something forgettable playing in the background. Wendy is sprawled on the couch, legs tucked under her. Mom is nearby, half-focused on a book, half-listening to whatever Wendy is pretending not to watch.
I don't say anything. I just drop onto the other end of the couch and let my head fall back.
For a few seconds, I just breathe.
The weight doesn't vanish—but it settles. Enough to keep me upright.
Wendy notices first. She always does.
Her eyes narrow as she studies me like I'm a math problem that isn't adding up. "Wow," she says. "You look like you just ran an emotional marathon and forgot to stretch."
She tilts her head, a grin creeping in. "What, did you and Gwen have a massive fight? Let me guess—dramatic silence, meaningful looks, and then she dumped you?"
"Wendy," Mom says immediately, sharp but not angry.
"What?" Wendy protests. "I'm just asking. He looks wrecked."
Mom is already standing. She comes closer, kneeling slightly in front of me so she can look at my face properly. Her expression shifts—less amused, more concerned.
"Alex," she says gently, "are you okay?"
I meet her eyes and shake my head once.
"Nothing's wrong," I say. My voice is steady, even if I don't feel particularly rested yet. "Nothing bad happened."
Wendy squints. "That is absolutely not reassuring."
I let out a slow breath and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "I just need a few minutes," I say. "To sit. To reset."
They both listen now.
"There's… stuff we need to talk about," I continue. "Serious stuff. But not right this second." I glance between them. "Give me a little time. Then we'll sit down—just the three of us—and I'll explain everything."
Mom studies me for a moment longer, then nods. She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Alright," she says softly. "Take the time you need."
Wendy huffs but doesn't push it. "Fine," she mutters, picking her phone back up. "But for the record, this better not be a 'surprise pet' conversation. I'm not ready for that level of responsibility."
Despite everything, a corner of my mouth lifts.
I sink back into the couch, eyes closing for just a moment.
A few minutes.
That's all I'm asking for—before the next conversation changes everything again.
New York, Queens – 3rd's POV
The late afternoon sun slanted through the living room window, painting warm stripes across the floor. Alex shifted on the sofa, feeling the comfortable weight of Wendy's head on his shoulder. In the armchair opposite, his mother Rosalie sat with a book in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in a while. The air was thick with the lazy quiet of a shared, unspoken comfort.
But Alex felt none of it.
He took a slow, silent breath. Here we go.
He let his gaze drift from the dust motes dancing in the light to the two women in his life. A flicker of focus, a subtle push of will that felt like leaning against a mental door. Not a shove. A nudge. The sensation was barely there, like the ghost of a thought he'd had himself.
'I must be honest with my feelings.'
'I must keep an open mind.'
He let the words settle, feather-light, into the quiet hum of the room. Wendy's playful expression, usually so sharp, softened just a fraction at the edges, the constant simmer of her teasing dialing down to a low hum. Rosalie's pale gray eyes, watching him over her reading glasses, lost a hint of their usual maternal scrutiny, replaced by a calm, waiting neutrality. The stage, he felt, was as set as it would ever be.
"Alright," Alex said, his voice calm, cutting through the silence. "I need to talk to you both about something important. Something… big."
Wendy lifted her head from his shoulder, her pigtails brushing his cheek. "Bigger than your ego? That's a tall order."
He ignored the jab, meeting her large, expressive eyes. "Let's move to the table. This needs… a bit more formality than the couch."
Rosalie marked her page with a slender finger and stood, smoothing down her blouse. "Of course, dear." Her voice was even, welcoming. Too welcoming? Or was that just the suggestion taking root?
They settled around the wooden dining table, the atmosphere shifting from casual to council. Alex sat at the head, Wendy to his right, Rosalie to his left. He could feel the subtle energy of the mind whisper humming between them, an invisible thread of compliance.
"I'm going to speak plainly," Alex began, folding his hands on the table. "And I need you to hear me out completely before you react."
"Dramatic," Wendy muttered, but she leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Her gaze was fixed on him, intense and unblinking.
Alex exhaled softly, letting his gaze sweep between them. "I have a harem. This is consensual. Everyone involved understands it, and everyone's happy. That includes Gwen, of course, but also a few others."
Rosalie's eyebrows rose, a tiny, controlled motion. Her lips parted, then closed. She said nothing.
Wendy's smirk was immediate, a shield snapping into place. "A harem? Seriously? What is this, a historical drama? Did you find a magic lamp?" Her laugh was short, brittle. "Nice try. You almost had me."
"It's not a joke, Wendy." Alex kept his tone measured, a steady rock against her churning sarcasm. "The women involved are Gwen, MJ, May, and Darcy."
Silence. Real, heavy silence this time. Wendy's smirk faltered, her eyes darting over his face as if searching for the punchline. Rosalie's hand went to her throat, fingers tracing the neckline of her blouse. The mind whisper's gentle pressure held them there, forcing them to listen, to process rather than reject outright.
"And," Alex continued, the next part feeling like stepping off a cliff, "two of them are pregnant. MJ and May."
Wendy's face went blank. Then a short, sharp bark of laughter escaped her. "No. Nope. You're messing with us." She looked at Rosalie for backup, but her mother was staring at Alex, her pale gray eyes wide, processing.
"You're… certain?" Rosalie asked, her voice surprisingly steady.
"Yes. Very."
Wendy pushed back from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. "This is insane. You're telling us you've got a… a collection of women, and two are having your…" She couldn't say it. The word babies seemed to catch in her throat. Her chest felt tight, a hollow ache blooming beneath her ribs. Abandoned. He's made a whole other family and left me here. But beneath that hurt, something else squirmed, dark and fascinated. A harem. He could have so many… What if… She shoved the thought down, horrified at herself.
Rosalie, meanwhile, was lost in a sudden, vivid internal comparison. May. Sweet May. She's early forties, just like me. Her mind, traitorously, flashed to an image of herself at that age—pregnant, round with child, a secret thrill of possession and creation. The similarity was jarring, a mirror held up at a strange angle. A flush of warmth, utterly inappropriate, touched her cheeks before she could stop it. Stop it. That's your son. That's May. It's not you. It can't be. She folded her hands in her lap, pressing her nails into her palms. The mind whisper's suggestion—keep an open mind—felt less like a nudge and more like permission to entertain a thought she would have otherwise locked away.
"The rules are clear," Alex went on, his voice a low, reassuring drone. "Everyone knows where they stand. There's happiness there, Mom. Real contentment. And the pregnancies… it wasn't planned, but they are welcome. Celebrated. It's biology, yes, but it's also choice."
Wendy listened, her sarcasm melting under the weight of his sincerity. Her love for him, the deep, hidden river that ran beneath every tease and joke, surged up, threatening to drown her in a confusing mix of jealousy and a desperate, clawing curiosity. He's built a world where love isn't limited. Where one man can belong to many women. Where does that leave a sister? The question hung in her mind, terrifying and tantalizing.
Rosalie nodded slowly, the intellectual part of her engaging. "It's… unconventional. But if everyone is a consenting adult, and you're providing, and they're happy…" She trailed off, her thoughts circling back to May. To the swell of a belly, the secret glow. What must that feel like for her now, in that arrangement? To be so… chosen in that way. The fascination was a quiet hum in her blood. She cleared her throat. "It's a lot to take in, Alex. But you seem… certain. Calm."
"I am," he said. "This is my life. And I wanted you both to know because you're my family. You deserve the truth."
The conversation lulled then, sinking into a thick soup of unspoken thoughts. Sunlight crawled across the table. Wendy studied the grain of the wood, her mind a riot. The initial shock was hardening into a colder, sharper reality. He hadn't just gotten a girlfriend. He'd built a kingdom, and she was outside the walls. The old, impossible dream of being the one he came home to, twisted into a new, sharper shape: could there be a place inside those walls?The idea was electric, forbidden, making her skin prickle. For Wendy, the question wasn't whether there was a place for her, but how to get her place. Her thoughts raced, a mix of jealousy, curiosity, and a dark, clawing fascination. She couldn't deny the pull of it, the tantalizing possibility of stepping inside that world Alex had created. Her heart pounded with a mix of fear and desire, the unspoken love for him complicating everything. How could she carve out a space in his harem? What would it take to belong there, to be chosen in that way? The questions burned in her mind, urgent and unrelenting.
The pause stretched, heavy with unspoken tension. Rosalie's gaze flicked between them, her maternal instincts battling with a flicker of something darker, more intrigued. Wendy's thoughts spiraled, the idea of her place in Alex's world becoming an obsession. It wasn't just about being included—it was about how. How to prove herself, how to earn a spot in that inner circle. The challenge was thrilling and terrifying all at once.
Rosalie sat very still, the composed matron. But inside, a door had been cracked open. Alex's calm explanation, the sheer normality he ascribed to this extraordinary situation, made the forbidden seem… plausible. Not for her, never for her—she was his mother, for God's sake—but the structure of it. The belonging. The explicit, acknowledged sharing. Her own hidden, shameful fantasies, usually so vague and quickly dismissed, suddenly had a framework, a vocabulary. It was deeply unsettling. And, in a secret corner of her soul she refused to fully acknowledge, it was interesting.
Alex watched them both, reading the silence. The mind whisper had done its work. There was no outrage, no screaming rejection. Just the turbulent sea of their private thoughts, swirling beneath a surface of strained acceptance.
"I think…" Rosalie said finally, her voice soft. "I think I need some tea." It was a retreat, a maternal cliché, but her eyes held his with a new, complex understanding.
Wendy stood up abruptly, her chair wobbling. "Yeah. Tea." She couldn't look at him. Her feelings were too raw, too exposed. The ache of being left out warred with the terrifying, thrilling glimpse of a door she'd never dared imagine. She turned toward the kitchen, then paused, her back to him. "A harem," she said, the word no longer a joke but a heavy, loaded thing. "You really don't do anything by halves, do you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. The click of her soles on the hardwood floor was the only sound as she walked away, leaving Alex and Rosalie in the sun-drenched silence, the air between them now charged with everything that had been said, and everything that had only been thought.
Alex remained seated, hands still folded on the table.
The silence she left behind felt different from before — heavier, sharper.
He had wanted honesty. He had wanted openness.
And he had them now.
But as the echo of Wendy's footsteps faded, a quiet realization settled in his chest:
telling the truth hadn't only brought relief.
It had changed the shape of things.