Victor arrived at the cabin just after dusk, tyres spitting gravel like accusations. Headlights cut through the pines and pinned the porch in white glare. I saw him from the upstairs window, Lila pressed against my back, both of us naked and slick from an hour of slow, desperate fucking on the bearskin rug. Isabella stood at the kitchen counter below, robe open, belly softly rounded under the single lamp, slicing apples with a knife that caught the light like a warning.
He did not knock. The front door exploded inward under his shoulder, wood splintering. Victor filled the frame, face purple with rage and bourbon, gun in his right hand glinting dull nickel.
"Where is my wife?" His voice cracked across the room like a whip.
Isabella did not flinch. She set the knife down slowly, blade pointing toward him. "Your wife is exactly where she wants to be, Victor. Put the gun away before you embarrass yourself."
He stepped inside, boots crunching glass. Eyes swept the room: overturned chairs, rope burns on the table legs, my come still drying on the floorboards where I had taken Isabella bent over the couch an hour earlier. The air smelled of sex, pine smoke, and fear.
Lila's hand tightened on my shoulder. "He'll kill us all."
I kissed her once, hard, tasting salt and terror. "Stay upstairs. Lock the bedroom. Do not come down unless I call."
She obeyed, bare feet silent on the stairs.
Victor's gaze climbed to the landing. "Is that the whore carrying my bastard?"
Isabella laughed, low and dangerous. "Careful, darling. Words like that get men buried in shallow graves."
He raised the gun. "I asked you a question."
I stepped into the light at the top of the stairs, naked, cock half-hard from adrenaline and the sight of Isabella's nipples peaking against the cold. "The child is mine, Victor. Lower the weapon."
He swung the barrel toward me. "You ungrateful little shit. I gave you everything."
Isabella moved faster than a woman six months pregnant should. She crossed the room in three strides, grabbed the gun wrist, twisted. Bone cracked. The pistol clattered across the floorboards. Victor roared, backhanded her hard. She spun, blood blooming at her lip, but stayed on her feet.
I vaulted the railing. Landed between them. Fists flew. He connected with my ribs, air exploding from my lungs. Mine cracked his cheekbone. We crashed into the table, apples scattering, knife skittering. Isabella scooped the gun, racked the slide.
"Enough!" Her voice cut through the room like ice.
We froze, breathing ragged.
She pointed the barrel at Victor's forehead. "Sit."
He sat, blood dripping from his nose onto his shirt.
Isabella kept the gun steady. "You will sign the divorce tomorrow. Full asset split. I keep the company, the houses, the children. You get the yacht and whatever pride you have left. Refuse, and the tapes go public tonight. Every board member sees you chained in the warehouse, begging while J fucks me in front of you."
Victor's eyes flicked to me, hatred pure. "You'd let her do this?"
I wiped blood from my lip. "I already did."
Silence stretched, thick as smoke.
He laughed then, wet and broken. "Fine. Papers at dawn. But know this." His gaze slid to Isabella's belly. "That child will hate you both."
He stood slowly, hands raised. Walked backwards to the door. "Enjoy your little fairy tale. It ends in blood."
The door slammed. Tires screamed away.
Isabella lowered the gun, hands shaking for the first time in years. I took it from her, set it on the counter, and pulled her against me. She buried her face in my neck, tears hot on my skin.
Upstairs, Lila waited in the bedroom doorway, sheet clutched to her chest, eyes wide. "Is it over?"
I crossed the room, kissed her forehead, then Isabella's swollen lip. "It's just beginning."
We did not sleep.
I carried Isabella to the bed, laid her beside Lila. Two bellies, two futures. I knelt between them, mouth worshipping first one, then the other. Tongues and fingers and whispered promises until they came together, backs arching, hands linked across my shoulders.
I entered Isabella slowly, eyes locked on hers. "Marry me. When it's legal."
She nodded, tears falling sideways into her hair. "Yes."
Lila watched, fingers circling her clit, then reached for me. I pulled out, slick with Isabella, and slid into Lila deep. She gasped, legs wrapping my waist. Isabella kissed her then, soft and filthy, tasting herself on Lila's tongue.
We moved like a tide. I took them both, alternating, slow then brutal, until the bedframe groaned and the windows rattled. Came first inside Lila, flooding her, then pulled out and finished across Isabella's belly, painting our child in white.
After, we lay tangled, sweat cooling, hearts slowing.
Dawn crept grey through the curtains. Victor's lawyer arrived with papers. Isabella signed without reading, pen steady. Victor never showed. The yacht left the harbour by noon, destination unknown.
We drove back to the city in silence, windows down, pine air whipping through the car. Isabella's hand rested on her belly. Lila's on mine.
The penthouse felt different. Larger. Ours.
That night, dungeon. I chained them side by side, wrists high, bellies presented like offerings. Crop first on Isabella, gentle over the curve. Then Lila, harder, welts rising pink. I ate them both, tongues alternating, fingers curled inside until they squirted in tandem, fluids mixing on the floor.
I took Isabella first, slow and reverent, whispering marriage vows against her skin. Then Lila, rough and claiming, hand on her throat. Came inside each, sealing promises.
Weeks later, the divorce was finalised. Victor vanished into rumours: overdose in Monaco, shark food off Bimini, alive in Patagonia under a new name. None of it mattered.
We married in the warehouse, altar rebuilt. Isabella in white lace that barely contained her breasts, belly proud at seven months. Lila as maid of honour, eight months, red dress straining. The children are none yet, but promised.
Vows exchanged over the spot Victor once bled. Rings forged from the bullet he never fired.
Wedding night: the three of us on the circular bed, rotating slowly under red lights. I bred them both again, come dripping, bellies slick. Lila came screaming my name. Isabella whispered "husband" like a prayer.
Months passed. Isabella birthed our son in the penthouse, water birth in the tub, Lila holding one leg, me the other. Dark hair, grey eyes. Named him Victor, spite and reclamation.
Lila delivered a daughter two weeks later, with red hair and green eyes. Named her Ruby.
The family grew.
The tapes stayed locked. Insurance against ghosts.
Victor's empire is ours. The board bowed. Money infinite.
Sex nightly. Dungeon rituals. Threesomes evolving to family as children came, but that was later.
For now, the siege ended. The safe house victory.
Two wives. Two children. One empire.
And the red light, for once, blinked off.