The hustle of Fashion Week buzzed beyond the velvet curtains, but backstage had quieted to a hum of celebration and cleanup. Becky was helping Bianca gather their things, carefully folding a couture piece that still smelled of triumph and adrenaline.
"Can you believe it's over?" Becky beamed, glancing at Bianca. "You just made history out there."
Bianca nodded, her heart still a mess of tangled emotions. "It doesn't feel real yet."
Behind them, Adrian and Isabel were tugging on their tiny designer coats, fidgeting with excitement.
"Becky," Adrian whispered, pulling at her sleeve. "Can we get some air? Just a little?"
"Just stay where I can see you," Becky replied, distracted.
But of course, they didn't.
By the time Bianca turned around, the twins were gone.
"Adrian? Isabel?" she called, eyes darting.
Panic clutched her chest until she spotted them—two tiny figures breaking away from the velvet shadows and heading straight toward the tall man by the stage exit.
Ian.
Her breath caught as her children—their children—walked toward him with wide, curious eyes and none of the hesitation she carried like armor.
Ian had been about to leave. His shoulders were drawn tight, hands clenched, as though walking away from Bianca had taken everything he had left.
But when he saw them—those two bright-eyed beings with his jawline and Bianca's fire—he stopped dead.
Isabel reached him first.
"Bonjour," she said politely, the way her grandmother taught her. "Are you our papa?"
Ian dropped to his knees as if the weight of the question buckled him.
He couldn't speak. His voice just… caught.
Adrian stepped forward beside his sister. "You look like us," he said softly. "Where were you?"
Ian swallowed hard, eyes glassy. "I— I didn't know. Not really. I was far away. But if I'd known, I would've come sooner. I promise."
Isabel tilted her head. "Are you sad?"
Ian gave a broken smile. "Very. But happy now. Because I'm meeting you."
Adrian reached out first—small fingers brushing Ian's cheek.
"I forgive you," he said solemnly, the way children offer grace without understanding its full weight.
That was it.
Ian pulled them both into his arms, clutching them like they were breath itself. The three of them stayed there—him kneeling, them holding tight—fitting together like puzzle pieces the world had tried so hard to scatter.
And then—
"Adrian! Isabel!"
Bianca's voice cracked through the moment, sharp and trembling. She burst onto the scene, breathless, panic swirling in her eyes until she saw them—safe, unharmed, wrapped in his arms.
She faltered.
Ian looked up at her, heart in his eyes. "They came to me," he said. "I didn't call them. I swear."
Bianca didn't answer immediately. She was too busy drinking in the sight she never thought she'd see—her children, holding their father like they'd known him all along.
She walked forward, each step slow, deliberate. "Adrian, Isabel. Come."
They looked up, torn.
"Can he come too?" Isabel asked.
Bianca's throat tightened. "Not today, chérie."
They didn't argue. Just let go of Ian and returned to her side with one last lingering look over their shoulders.
Bianca took their hands and walked away, never glancing back.
But later, when they returned to the townhouse where her mother and sisters waited—eager and glowing from the triumph of the runway—the children chattered about Ian nonstop.
"Il est très grand!" Isabel giggled, mimicking how Ian had crouched to speak to her.
"He said he was sorry," Adrian added, swinging his legs from the edge of the couch. "I think he meant it."
Bianca's mother, elegant and eternally unbothered, looked at her daughter over a glass of celebratory wine. "So. He's seen them now."
Bianca exhaled. "Yes."
Her mother's eyes softened as she looked at her grandchildren. "And what will you do next, ma fille?"
"I don't know," Bianca admitted. "But for now, I want them to be happy. To have peace."
Her twin sisters were already sitting cross-legged on the floor with the kids, letting Isabel try on fabric swatches and teaching Adrian how to braid a ribbon.
There was laughter. Light. Healing.
And for the first time in years, Bianca allowed herself to sit down and simply be. No scandals. No expectations. Just a mother. A sister. A daughter. A woman who had fought through the storm and come out in velvet and steel.
Outside, New York glittered like it always did—loud and relentless.
But inside, in this little pocket of found family, Bianca Rosewood finally rested.
The Next Day
I knew it was a risk.
Letting Ian take Adrian and Isabel out the day after our emotional reunion wasn't just about them getting to know their father. It was about trust. About testing the waters of a future I wasn't sure I was ready for. But when I saw them together—three peas in a very genetically blessed pod—my heart cracked in ways I hadn't felt since France. Since the day I held my babies and whispered promises into their tiny ears that I'd never let them get hurt.
I forgot the world had claws.
The media didn't just pounce—they tore in with a frenzy that made wolves look polite. Headlines exploded like landmines:"Billionaire Ian Stone's Secret Twins?""Fashion Mogul Rosewood's Hidden Family – Are They His?""Vivian Stone's Fury: Cheating Husband Caught Embracing Illegitimate Children?"
The worst part? The pictures.Ian crouched to Adrian's level, one hand tenderly brushing hair out of his face. Isabel laughing, her arms around his neck, completely unaware that the moment would be plastered on every New York screen by dawn.
I was sipping coffee in the kitchen when Becky burst in, phone shaking in her hand.
"Don't freak out," she said, which was code for: I'm about to show you something that'll definitely make you freak out.
My heart dropped. "What happened?"
She turned the screen. And there they were—my babies, my world—on Page Six.
I sank into a chair.
"Vivian," I muttered. "She sent someone, didn't she?"
Becky nodded grimly. "Caught wind through Naomi's cousin. Apparently, Vivian's been keeping tabs ever since Fashion Week."
I let my head fall into my hands. "I should've seen this coming."
But how could I have? After four years building a peaceful life, I'd dared to hope that maybe—just maybe—New York had forgotten who I was. I'd forgotten how fast scandal travels in this city.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing.PR disasters. Tabloids requesting comment. Online trolls crawling from under every digital rock. But worst of all, Adrian came into the room clutching my tablet, his brows furrowed.
"Mama," he said, "why are they calling us bad names on the 'net?"
I froze.
Becky whisked it out of his hands, shooting me an apologetic look. "I thought the parental filter was on—"
"It is," I snapped, before softening. "Thank you."
I pulled both my children into my lap, kissing the tops of their heads.
"Listen, babies," I said softly, "sometimes people say mean things because they don't understand. But none of it matters. You are smart, beautiful, and loved. Do you hear me?"
They nodded solemnly. Isabel rested her cheek against my shoulder.
Then, another blow landed.
Becky walked over, eyes wide. "James."
I blinked. "What?"
"He's on his way to New York."
My stomach clenched.
"What the hell does he want?"
Becky shrugged, lips pursed. "He's been watching from the sidelines, apparently. Saw the Fashion Week coverage, the media frenzy... He sees the Rosewood name rising again, and now he wants to be a part of it."
Of course he does.
That man didn't love me. Never did. I was a merger to him—a way to climb another rung in his family's political ladder. My refusal had dented his ego. But now that I'd become someone again, now that the world was whispering my name with awe instead of disdain, he was crawling back.
"Does he know about the twins?"
"Probably not," Becky said, arms crossed. "But he will soon. And I don't think he's coming with flowers."
I sat back in my chair, dread curdling in my gut. My mind flicked back to that last conversation with my father—cold, disappointed, furious. I'd defied everything he wanted for me. And yet, I'd built an empire without him. Without James. Without the name.
But that empire had cracks now. Small ones. Rumors, whispers, paparazzi at my gates.
The children didn't deserve this.
I picked up my phone and called Ian.
"Hello?" His voice was husky—half hopeful, half tense.
"Ian," I exhaled. "I just wanted you to know... this media thing—it's getting out of hand."
"I know," he said. "I've already spoken to my legal team. I'll make a public statement if you want—deny the rumors, protect the kids—"
"No," I interrupted. "Let's not feed the fire."
He paused. "Then why'd you call?"
I hesitated.
"I need you to be around them... more."
Silence.
"Bianca—"
"I've decided to move RosePetal Couture's main office to New York permanently. They deserve to know their father. But only if you can handle being one. Not the CEO, not the billionaire—just... their dad."
I could hear his breath hitch.
"You have no idea how much I want that," he said quietly.
"I hope so. Because the next wave is coming," I added. "And this time... James is in it."
He swore under his breath. "Then we face it together."
I didn't say anything.
Not yet.
But for the first time in years, I wasn't running.
I was building.
And if the storm was coming, well—I'd already survived a hurricane.