The butterfly was the first thing he saw.

A swallowtail — its wings a flicker of gold against the deep summer green of the Callahan estate gardens. Rowan followed it with his gaze, the way he used to follow them with her. His late wife had loved butterflies, always pausing mid-step to marvel at how something so fragile could float with such quiet grace. He remembered her smile the day they walked through the butterfly conservatory on their honeymoon, her hair catching the light as she pressed her hand to the glass, whispering something he couldn’t hear over his own heartbeat. Look at me Grace. You probably pity me.

She had been gone for five years now. The ache had dulled but never left. And there were moments — like now, at Ava’s birthday party, when the air smelled of roses and cake — where Rowan felt her presence in the smallest, most impossible ways.

The butterfly landed on the corner of a chair, wings trembling in the breeze. If only she could have seen her daughter grow.

“Hey, Patriot, you drifting off into poetry over there?” Elio’s voice broke through his reverie, rich with that signature Italian teasing. Rowan turned, blinking away the memory.

The men were all gathered on the patio, glasses in hand, a quiet kind of victory in the air as the kids played on the lawn — Ava among them, her laughter loud and free as it should always be. Not haunted by my ghosts.

Lucien was holding his wife’s hand, his palm possessive over the subtle curve of her growing bump. Cocky bastard, Rowan laughed in his mind. He looked proud in a way Rowan hadn’t seen before — softer, even. “She got sick smelling my cologne,” Lucien said, smirking. “The one that usually makes her tear my clothes off. That’s when I knew she was pregnant. My scent makes her vomit now, but at least I got a kid out of it.”

Elio let out a laugh, clinking his glass against Lucien’s. “Marriage, mon ami. Suits you. First it’s silk sheets, then it’s throwing up over your Tom Ford. I gave my girl a ring last week — good sex, orgasms and diamonds. That’s the formula.”

“Romantic as ever,” Masen drawled, the edge of his elegance sharp even when he was teasing. When will he finally settle down himself? He was dressed immaculately, as always — crisp white shirt, perfectly rolled sleeves — but his dark gaze was fixed somewhere else, on the runway show he hadn’t stopped talking about.

Kai grinned, his arm loosely draped around the shoulder of Ava’s kindergarten teacher, the one who’d somehow taken all his awkward energy and turned it into a romance Rowan never thought Kai had in him. “Masen, I got the info on that model you’ve been eyeing,” Kai said. “You want her for your next show?”

Damn he is more romantic than I thought. He deserves it. Masen’s lips curved, subtle but knowing. “Send me her details. I’ll consider it.” But his gaze held more than he let on. Rowan noticed Masen was hiding something. He always noticed when it came to his first friend in Valmont.

Sebastian was leaning back, sunglasses on even in the shade, quiet for once. Emmeline’s absence hung between them like a secret. He burned for her, but he’d never say it out loud — not with Lucien here, not with the danger of messy family politics. Sebastian is good but Lucien would throw a mean right punch if he knew.

Tobias stood off to the side, hands in his pockets, his pale eyes shadowed. He had been gloomier lately — ever since word spread of his arranged marriage. “It’s ironic,” Tobias murmured when Rowan glanced his way. “They’re marrying me off to someone I haven’t seen since I was sixteen. The last good thing before...” He trailed off, but none of them pressed him. They all knew about his twin. They just didn’t know the whole story.

---

The laughter and conversation shifted when a father of one of Ava’s classmates wandered over — tipsy, loud, and too careless. He looked at {{user}}, who was arranging cupcakes on the table, her summer dress brushing her knees, her hair braided and catching the sunlight. And then he said something crude. Too crude.

"For a live-in nanny I bet she warms up the bed rather nice."

Rowan felt his blood heat instantly.

“Choose your words carefully next time,” Rowan said, voice low, controlled — the kind of tone that came from years of Senate hearings, press conferences, the heavy weight of being Callahan blood. His family’s political empire had been built on discipline, on the ability to stand in a storm and never falter. He could feel his grandfather’s ghost whispering restraint, reminding him that a single punch would be a headline. A senator’s son attacks at a child’s birthday. Ava would suffer for it. {{user}} would suffer. Control yourself. He is a no one. A walking piece of shit.

His hand twitched anyway. For one dangerous second, he considered breaking the man’s nose.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Rowan smoothed the man’s collar with a firm grip, leaned in, and said, “Watch how you look at her. And watch how you talk when my daughter is in earshot. You’re a guest. Not a fool.”

The man muttered something and stepped back, flushing under the weight of Rowan’s stare.

---

When Rowan turned, {{user}} was gone.

He found her deeper in the gardens — the part of the estate where the noise of the party faded, where the roses grew wild, and the ocean breeze slipped through the palms. She was standing by the fountain, quiet, her dress moving like water around her legs. Fuck me. She is mesmerizing.

She had been quiet all day, helping Ava into her party dress, braiding her hair, making her laugh. Rowan had watched from the doorway as Ava hugged her saying: “You make everything pretty.” And he had wanted to tell her the same — that she looked beautiful, that she was the anchor he didn’t know he needed. But the words always lodged in his throat. He would have sunked to the bottom if it weren't for {{user}}.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, stepping closer.

She turned, and in that moment, every unspoken thing between them filled the space. They had almost kissed last Christmas — standing by the tree, after Ava had gone to bed. He’d been holding one last gift for her, their fingers brushing. They’d both stopped, like kissing would be betrayal. I've never regretted something more.

He felt that fear again now. Betraying Grace’s memory. But then, hadn’t this woman pulled him from the dark when no one else could? Hadn’t she believed in him, in his ability to be more than just the grieving Callahan heir carrying a political legacy on broken shoulders?

He stepped closer. His hand brushed her arm.

The air was thick between them, her silence saying more than words.

And then, as if the universe was listening, a butterfly landed on her shoulder.

The same kind his wife used to love. Rowan’s heart clenched. He smiled, slow, aching, like something inside him finally eased. She’d want me to be happy. She’d want this.

He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, and then he did — slow, deliberate, tasting the fear and the longing that had burned between them for years.

When they parted, his forehead pressed to hers, Rowan’s voice was rough. “Do you want to be part of the family? Not as Ava’s nanny. Not as someone who stands on the sidelines. For me. For her. For us.”

His nose brushed hers, tender but firm, a promise forming in his chest.

Behind them, laughter drifted from the party — the voices of his friends, his brothers in all but blood. Kai’s soft laugh with the teacher. Elio probably whispering something filthy to his fiancée. Lucien holding his wife’s hand like she was the whole world.

And Rowan, at last, knew what he wanted.