After the Wedding
For all its calculated beginnings, the marriage of Nicholia Brown and Apollo Augustine did not unfold like a lifeless contract. The night of their union was a storm neither had anticipated.
Apollo, who had spent his youth indulging in fleeting pleasures, had never thought he'd lose himself to a woman like her. Nicholia wasn't soft, wasn't timid—she was fire, and her body was a battlefield. Each thrust was not surrender, but war. Yet in the war, there was hunger. In the hunger, there was satisfaction.
When Apollo finally spilled himself deep inside her, it wasn't just to fulfill an obligation—it was with the greed of a man who suddenly wondered what legacy his seed might carve. His mind, reckless and wandering even in lust, caught on a thought: If it's a daughter, and she looks like Nicholia… she will rule the world with her eyes alone.
Nicholia lay beside him, sweat-drenched but smirking, her sharpness intact even in exhaustion. "Don't look at me like that, Augustine," she murmured, her voice hoarse but mocking.
Apollo chuckled, brushing damp strands of hair from her cheek. "My, my… first I deal with your boardroom temper, and now I must endure the little queen's attitude in bed as well?"
Nicholia shoved his chest, though the faintest smile betrayed her. "Shut up."
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Three months passed in their fiery rhythm. Nicholia's sharp steps softened into slower strides, her appetite doubled, and beneath her commanding suits, the faint swell of life began to show.
One month into her pregnancy, Apollo caught himself staring—sometimes at her, sometimes at her womb—as if trying to see the future in the curve of her belly. A child. His child. The thought startled him each time.
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Eight months later, their son arrived. A healthy boy, with Apollo's sharp features but Nicholia's Russian steel in his gaze, even as a newborn. The mansion's halls filled with celebration, the empire's board toasted, and for once, Nicholia allowed herself to bask in the warmth of a future that wasn't just hers.
One year later, at her son's grand birthday celebration, Nicholia rose before the family, before the board, before everyone who point their finger at her.
Her voice cut through the banquet hall like a blade. "From this day forward, Sage Brown is the sole heir to the Brown legacy. He will be raised to lead, to inherit, to rule."
And Nicholia was told to not bear another child. Her body has given the empire its heir—and the doctors have warned her. To conceive again would be a gamble to her life.
Claps rippled, but Apollo only nodded, a wine glass in his hand, his smile sly and unreadable. He had what he wanted—an heir, a seat in the empire, and perhaps, in his own strange way, a woman who could match him stride for stride.
And so, the legacy continued—on the small, fragile shoulders of a boy named Sage.
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The nursery was dim, the only light a golden spill from the chandelier above. In the cradle, Sage slept soundly, his tiny chest rising and falling, lashes resting against his pale cheeks. For once, the Brown mansion was quiet—no board meetings, no arguments, no obligations. Just them.
Apollo leaned against the edge of the cradle, his sharp eyes softened by the rhythm of Sage's breath. "I think he'll grow up to be like you," he said with a smirk, but his tone carried a trace of something uncharacteristically wistful.
Nicholia, seated in the armchair with a glass of red wine in her hand, arched an eyebrow. "Don't jinx him, Augustine."
Apollo's gaze flicked up to her, his smirk widening. "I'm not an Augustine now, my lady. I'm a Brown." His voice lingered on the last word, almost tasting it, savoring the power it carried.
"And I'm not." Apollo chuckled under his breath, gaze fixed on the boy. "Madness is good. Good for leading. Good for killing. Good for surviving. If he inherits your madness, Lia, he'll survive anything. Even me. "
Nicholia only rolled her eyes and took a slow sip from her glass, refusing to dignify the comment with a reply. Yet her hand, almost unconsciously, rested over the edge of the cradle, fingers lightly brushing the blanket over Sage's tiny form.
Apollo caught the gesture, and a sly smile curved his lips. "Even your cold heart is warming. Careful, my dear, people might mistake you for human."
Nicholia shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but the faintest ghost of a smile lingered on her lips.
And Sage, unaware of the weight placed upon his little shoulders, slept on.
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A week later, Eros joined as Nicholia's personal bodyguard—a dashing man whose presence drew eyes without effort. Nicholia, ever vigilant, noticed him immediately during her daily sniper practice from 3 to 5 PM, and so did Apollo. How could one ignore a man so… precise, so controlled, yet radiating a wild magnetism? Eros, of course, noticed both of them, and knew their interest.
One afternoon, as Nicholia lined up her shots, she pranked him.
Nicholia: "You're always staring at me. I thought looking from afar would strain your eyes. Why not stand in front of me? Look directly into mine."
Eros swallowed hard. The woman before him was a predator disguised as perfection. Every curve was lethal, but it was the thought of her carving a man open that truly froze him.
Apollo, observing, raised a brow. "You sure about this?"
Nicholia smirked, eyes cold fire. "Always sure."
Eros stepped forward, standing in front of the shooting board, defenseless. Nicholia raised her sniper, took careful aim.
The entire room, even Apollo, held their breath. Eros' life was literally in her hands, and if he died, their combined workload would double.
Shot. Shot. Shot. Shot.
Four rounds in total: one narrowly over his head, one between his thighs—thankfully he had a small gap—and two inches from his eyes. But Nicholia wasn't done. She leveled the next round directly at his heart—until a sudden whine interrupted her. Little Sage's cry saved Eros' life.
He exhaled, relief flooding him.
Apollo: "My son saved your ass today."
Eros: "Thank you, sir."
Apollo: "He saved your life… now you save his."
Nicholia's glare shot at Apollo, sharp enough to draw blood, as Eros was reassigned—Little Sage's personal protector.
Apollo leaned closer, whispering low, a wicked smirk playing on his lips: "I saved you again. How do you intend to repay that?"
Eros' eyes flicked to Nicholia. Desire flared, though he tried to suppress it.
Apollo: "You're looking at a married woman, with a child, with those lustful eyes. Really? You wanna sleep with her that badly?"
Eros, flushing crimson, stammered: "No… no… sir… never… she's my master… how dare I even dream of that."
Apollo chuckled, smug as ever: "Oh, come on. Everyone knows our marriage isn't… conventional. Feelings are allowed. I understand."
Nicholia's sharp voice cut through the room: "Shut your trap, or you'll find yourself in the gutter behind the mansion." She stalked away, leaving Eros torn between fear, devotion, and burning desire.
Apollo leaned back, grin unrepentant: "See? Fire. You'll need my help if you truly desire her… or maybe… we try a threesome? Even better."
Eros' restraint wavered, tempted, flustered, yet utterly captivated. Nicholia was a storm, Apollo a dangerous tide, and Eros caught in between—his heart, his loyalty, and his unspoken desires a volatile mix.