The nursery took shape on the penthouse's top floor, once Victor's private gym, now transformed into soft blues and creams, blackout curtains thick enough to swallow screams. Two cribs side by side, hand-carved mahogany, mobiles of crystal whales spinning slowly above. Monitors glowed soft green, heartbeats syncing in perfect rhythm. Victor Jr. slept on the left, tiny fists curled like he already gripped the world. Ruby on the right, red fuzz on her head catching the night-light, mouth rooting for a breast that wasn't there.
Isabella recovered fast, body snapping back with the ruthless efficiency of money and discipline. Three weeks postpartum and her waist narrowed again, breasts heavy with milk, nipples dark and leaking at the slightest brush. Lila lingered softer, curves lush, stretch marks silver lightning across her hips. They nursed tandem on the wide rocking chair, gowns open, legs entwined, milk dripping down bellies still loose from birth. I watched from the doorway, cock aching, until Isabella crooked a finger.
"Come taste what you made."
I knelt between them, mouth alternating. Sweet from Isabella, richer from Lila. They moaned softly, hands in my hair, guiding. Ruby latched harder when I sucked Lila, jealous little tug. Victor Jr. stirred, grey eyes opening, staring straight at me with unsettling focus.
Nights blurred into ritual. Babies are down by nine. Monitors on. Dungeon by ten.
We installed soundproofing as thick as vault doors. The room expanded: St. Andrew's cross rebuilt stronger, breeding bench padded in black leather, swing reinforced for three. Toys lined walls like instruments: crops, plugs, straps, canes, a new violet wand that crackled purple across skin.
Isabella took charge first. She chained me spread-eagled to the cross, wrists and ankles locked. Lila circled with the wand, sparks dancing over my nipples, cock, and balls. I jerked, precome beading. Isabella knelt, mouth hot, taking me deep while Lila shocked the base of my spine. Came down Isabella's throat with a roar muffled by the gag.
They switched. Lila on the bench, legs in stirrups, pussy swollen from birth but dripping. I ate her slowly, tongue gentle on stitches that had healed silver. Isabella pegged me from behind, thick strap slick, thrusting in time with my licks. Lila came squirting across my face, milk spraying from untended breasts. I followed untouched, spilling on the floor while Isabella ground deep.
We collapsed tangled, sweat cooling, whispering plans. Board takeover complete. Victor's old allies bought or buried. Shares consolidated under Hale-Voss Holdings, hyphen deliberate. Lila's name on the masthead now, red hair in every headline.
Mornings: nannies took the babies for walks in Central Park while we worked from bed, laptops open, bodies joined. Isabella riding slow, contracts spread across my chest. Lila on my face, emails pinged with every grind. Came inside Isabella while closing a nine-figure deal, her walls clenching like a signature.
Afternoons: gym rebuilt as playroom. Treadmill sessions with Lila bent over, running while I fucked her from behind. Weights with Isabella spotting, mouth on my cock between sets. Showers for three, glass fogged, bodies sliding soap-slick.
Evenings: family dinner at the long table, high chairs at each end. Victor Jr. is smearing peas, and Ruby is gnawing on steak strips. We fed them by hand, then fed each other under the table, fingers in pussies, stroking cock, quiet gasps hidden behind crystal and candlelight.
Bedtime stories from the dungeon archives, edited soft. "Once upon a time, a king lost his crown to a queen and her knight…" Babies drifted off to the sound of chains we no longer hid.
The empire stabilised. Stock soared. Tabloids called us the new American dynasty: billionaire throuple raising perfect heirs. Interviews carefully staged, Lila laughing about "modern love," Isabella cool beside her, my hand on both thighs under the table.
Sex evolved into worship. Full-moon rituals in the warehouse, now our private cathedral. Altar bathed in red. Isabella and Lila bound side by side, bellies presented though no longer swollen. I bred them slowly, alternating, coming dripping from one to the other. They licked each other clean while I watched, stroking.
Months turned to years.
Victor Jr. walked at ten months, straight to the playroom door, tiny hand on the keypad he shouldn't know. Ruby spoke her first word at eleven months: "watch," pointing at the nanny cam we thought was disabled.
We laughed it off. Children mimic.
But the monitors began recording on their own.
First clip: 3:17 a.m. Both babies are awake, standing in cribs, staring at the same corner. Nothing there. Victor Jr. waved. Ruby giggled.
Second clip: Isabella nursing in the rocker, milk dripping. The camera zoomed slowly on her face mid-moan as she fingered herself quietly. We never set up Zoom.
Third clip: me fucking Lila against the nursery window, city lights behind, her pregnant again with number three. The lens fogged as if breathing.
We swept for devices. Found nothing new.
Isabella scheduled a cleanse. Exorcist-level tech sweep. A shaman from Peru is burning sage. Nothing changed.
The children grew beautiful and strange. Victor Jr. hacked the building elevator at age three, trapping the super inside for fun. Ruby seduced the nanny at four, tiny fingers under skirts. We fired the nanny, promoted her silence.
Sex deepened. Dungeon sessions filmed for our private collection. Isabella on the swing, legs wide, Lila and I taking turns, mouths and cocks and straps. Came across her belly, rubbed it in like oil.
Lila birthed number three in the penthouse tub again, a girl with green eyes. Named Emerald.
Isabella followed months later, another boy, grey-eyed like his father. Named Steel.
The family portrait updated: five adults on the couch, four children at our feet. The photographer caught Victor Jr. staring straight at the lens with an adult knowing look.
That night, the feed went live on a private server. Title: Hale Nursery Nights. Subscribers: one. IP traced to Victor's old yacht, drifting somewhere in the Aegean.
He watched.
We let him.
Power tasted better shared.
The nursery remembered everything.
And the red light, faint but steady, blinked from the smoke detector once more.
For now, the family. The empire. The love twisted tight with control.
Two wives. Four children. One husband.
And the ghost in the wires, waiting patiently.