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Chapter Text

It was another breakfast on the terrace.

Mrs. Pugh had lain out more than they could ever eat, and she looked at the spread with the same mixture of guilt and gratitude that she did every time she sat down to eat.

Annie, of course, had only amplified that–-a tiny, Titian reminder of what the world was outside the gates of Oliver Warbucks’ estate. 

It was the first thing she asked, as she sat down. “Did Annie eat already?”

He chuckled, a sound that was both beautiful and bewildering. The way that their lives, the way that her life had changed in the past several weeks was nothing short of stunning, and she was ready to dance with the absolute joy that filled her. 

“Yes,” he said, and smiled. “Ate a whole stack of pancakes, and is now with her tutor.”  

She nodded and reached for the coffee pot. “Good.” 

He stopped her with a quick wave of his hand, and then reached over her. “No,” he insisted, picking the pot up. “Let me.” 

He poured like someone familiar with the process, and she was reminded that he’d been a porter in a past life. “Cream, no sugar?” he asked in confirmation. 

“That’s right.” She looked up at him with absolute wonder. He’d been paying attention all these years. 

He pushed the cup across the table to her. “Grace . . .” He met her eyes with an expression of immense warmth that melted her from the inside out. 

“Oliver,” she answered, finding herself absolutely uninterested in the coffee any more. She licked her lips, the taste of him and the kiss they’d shared after she awoke in his bed earlier this morning still lingering. 

“You’ve got a full agenda today,” she forced herself to switch to a professional mindset, even as her mind’s eye could only flash back to the night before–the way the hard planes of his body felt against her, the way his fingers kneaded her flesh, the way his lips covered every square inch of her skin. 

He nodded. “I'm going to need you to fit something else in.” 

“Oh?” Her curiosity was immediately piqued. 

He nodded, his eyes piercing hers, and she felt her anticipation rise. “I need you to start looking for your replacement.” 

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir; is there a problem with the job I’m doing?” 

“No!” he exclaimed, aghast. “Not at all,” he added a little more quietly and then reached into the inside pocket of his blazer to retrieve a small box. “It’s just . . .” He opened the box to present to her. “I thought maybe you’d be interested in another role.” 

She took the box, marveling at it. The ring inside was almost obscenely large–a sapphire flanked by two diamonds–all in what she could only presume was a platinum setting. “Oliver?” 

“You and Annie are the two most important things to me,” he said with a sincerity that nearly melted her. “I have her, and I want you, too.” 

The ring glistened in the box, and she lifted it out, studying it carefully. It was so much, the weight of it nearly overwhelming, even as the meaning behind it left her ready to take flight. 

She continued to hold it as she met his eyes. “You have me.” 

“Do I, now?” he asked, rising from the table to come around to her side. He lifted her hand to take the ring from her and then slid it on to her other hand. “Then, Grace,” he said, “please be my wife.” 

She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted this until he asked it, but there was no question. She never took this job expecting to fall in love, but when she did, she did so wholly. 

“Yes,” she affirmed on a whisper before adding his name. “Oliver . . .” 

“Grace,” he replied in kind, standing , reaching down to cup her face in his strong hand. His thumb brushed over her lower lip as he did so. “Any chance you could clear my calendar for the day?” 

She shivered at his touch, struggling to find the way to form words, but finally managed. “Of course,” she answered. It was an easy promise to make, there’s no one that wouldn’t be willing to make accommodations for the world’s richest man. “Just give me some time to make a few phone calls.” 

He leaned in and kissed her, his teeth scraping against her lower lip. “Don’t take too long. I’ll be in my suite.” 

She shivered, knowing exactly what he had in mind. “I won’t.” It was a promise. She reached for his hand using it as leverage to rise from her chair, and then let herself be pulled tight against him, resting almost her entire body against him. “Oliver . . .” 

“If you don’t leave now,” he said, making no effort to step away. 

“Right . . .” she agreed on a breath 

It took everything she had to take a step back from him. “I’ll just go . . . make some calls.” She murmured, stepping away before she lost her resolve. Staying would be so easy. Leaving, however, was what she had to do. Going meant opening the door to her future. 

End part 1. 

Chapter Text

The mirror in his dressing room was hardly adequate for redoing her hair, nevermind that he didn’t have a comb or hairbrush. Still, she did the best she could, finger-combing her locks and rearranging the pins. 

“You look perfect.” Oliver came up behind her to kiss the nape of her neck. 

She shivered, still completely overwhelmed by the impact of his touch on her, and then leaned into him. 

She looked up again at the mirror–his hard planes against her curves; his solidness against her softness. There was a depth and darkness in his eyes and he seemed to see the same thing she did, because he wrapped his arms around her from behind, settling in around her waist while his fingers grazed her hips. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, nibbling again at the nape of her neck. 

“Yeah . . .” she nodded, knowing that the moment they exited his suite they were crossing the Rubicon. She was no longer going to be Miss Farrell, but the future Mrs. Warbucks. “I love you,” she added before turning in his embrace to face him, needing to meet his eyes directly rather than via the reflection in the mirror, needing to really see him. 

His hands slid down to cup her rear and pull her a little bit closer. “We should set a date,” he whispered, nibbling along the line of her jaw. 

She sighed and reached up to place her palm against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat even through the layers of his bespoke oxford and waistcoat. “We should,” she agreed, “and after last night and this morning, sooner rather than later.” 

“Oh?” he asked, open and curious. 

“Oh . . .” he repeated this time slower, and lower, as comprehension dawned over his face like a rising sunset. 

“Oh!” he said it a third time, with an increased level of understanding and excitement. “Are you . . .” 

She laughed, rich and husky. “It’s far too early to know.” 

“Hmmm . . .” he seemed to be weighing her answer with the same deliberateness he would give to a stock trade. “I’ll just have to give Chief Justice Hughes a call,” he said with a decisiveness that she’d previously found daunting but now found delightful. “He owes me a few favors, and should be able to clear his weekend.” 

“This weekend,” she repeated, marveling at how easy it was for him to be certain that everything would be done, and yet having no doubt that it would all fall perfectly and beautifully into place. 

They stood in momentary silence. She struggled to hold back tears as she realized everything she’d never even let herself dream of was suddenly coming to bear. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, needing to be sure, needing the added reassurance. “Just because . . .” she swallowed, suddenly feeling modest, “doesn’t mean you . . .” 

“Imogene Grace Farrell!” His use of her full name made her take a step back and look at him with wide-eyed wonder. She wasn’t even aware that he’d known it. She’d been ‘Grace’ for so long; she’d almost forgotten her own first name. Yet, he used it as though it was second nature. 

What did he know about her? 

How long had he studied her? 

Of her look, he continued, “When, my love, have I ever done anything that I don’t want to do?” He lifted her hand to his lips, placing a kiss where he’d placed the ring earlier that morning. 

“I want you,” he continued. “As my wife as my . . .” he paused and then restarted. “As my . . . equal .” The idea was new, humbling, and yet it was clear he meant it. 

My love . That was even more stunning than the use of her full name had been. She licked her lips again. “I never dared imagine . . .” 

“Neither did I,” he reached for her, taking her face in his hand and running a hand along her cheekbone.

She knew who he was, knew his power, knew his wealth. He could have any woman in the world, and he chose her. He loved her. 

She reached up to trace the hard planes of his chest again. “Wait,” she whispered and reached up to adjust his tie. “There,” she murmured, once again taking the opportunity to trace the planes of his chest with her fingers. “Now you’re perfect.” 

“No,” he countered, “ you’re perfect.”

End Part 2

Chapter Text

He liked to watch her hands. 

Deft and yet graceful. 

Graceful. 

The irony wasn’t lost on him. She personified her chosen name. 

Normally those beautiful hands were holding a pencil and taking shorthand in one of her omnipresent notebooks. Or they were moving over typewriter keys with a facility that made him wonder what else they could do. 

Of course, he now had the answer to that question. His hands on his body were beyond his imaginings; she touched him in a way that was both curious and capable. Even now the memory made his breath hitch. 

Tonight, though, he watched her hands for a different reason. He couldn’t not appreciate how his ring looked on her finger, the way it glistened every time she brought her fork to her mouth.

Annie had grinned through the entire meal, nearly vibrating with excitement at the news that she’d be gaining a mommy in addition to the daddy she’d just gained. 

There'd been no end of questions, and as I'm grateful as be to already was for Have

Grace, the artful way she'd handled the interrogation from his daughter–from their daughter. 

Yes, she would be a part of the wedding. 

Yes, Grace would–of course–become her mother. 

Would she have a brother or a sister? Well–Grace paused there to meet his eyes meaningfully–they couldn’t make any promises, but she sure was happy to know that Annie was looking forward to having one. 

“Grace,” he said, deliberately changing the subject to spare her. “Saunders said the piano tuner was here today.” His eyes drifted back down to her hands. “Would you be willing to test it out?” 

“I’d love to,” she said, smiling at him like he’d just hung the moon. At one point, his life’s work had been earning money, but he was quickly resolving that his life’s work was going to be finding ways to continue to earn that smile. 

She rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt back down over her hips. He watched the movement raptly, knowing exactly what it felt like to run his hands over her curves. He rested an arm at her waist, lightly possessive. “To the conservatory, then.” 

She smoothed her skirt again before taking a seat at the bench and cautiously playing a few notes. Then, she smoothly transitioned to an opening chord, and he recognized Clair de Lune . 

Annie took a seat next to her, watching Grace’s hands with absolute fascination. “That’s so pretty,” Annie murmured with awe. “Do you think I could ever play like that?” 

“If you want to take lessons, I’m sure we can set that up,” Grace smiled warmly and then turned to look up at him. “Do you think we could get Madam Samaroff?” 

He squeezed Grace’s shoulder. “She’s been after me to help with the campaign to get Julliard a dorm. I’ll make a donation.” 

Then he brushed his hand through Annie’s curls. “Do you mind if I take your place?” 

“Sure, Dad.” She stood and went to lean against the baby grand, while he slid in next to Grace, deliberately letting his thigh rest against hers. She reached down to squeeze his knee with a casual flirtatiousness. 

He then began to play a deliberate bass line: Boom-de-yada, boom-de-yada, boom-de-yada. 

Her eyes lit up as she picked up on the tune, and added the melody line to it. The song had been all over the radio for the past year. 

“Heart and soul ,” he sang, “I fell in love with you.”  

“Heart and soul,” she then answered in the next line “ The way a fool would do .” 

“Madly . . .” they sang together, joining their voices just as beautifully as their bodies had joined. 

End Part 3

Chapter Text

His team of accountants wasn’t happy. 

He couldn’t care less. 

Sure, he’d spent almost $30,000 more this month than last. 

That was to be expected.

He had a little girl. 

He had a wife. 

This money wasn't expenses; it was an investment. 

In his future. 

In his family. 

And in his happiness. 

“Is something wrong?” She looked up from the side table where she was reviewing resumes for her replacement. 

“No–” He stood and walked over to plant a kiss on the top of her hair from behind. “Everything’s right.” 

He moved a little closer, unable to avoid touching her. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. “My love,” he whispered. “How is the search going?” 

She reached up and lay her hand atop his. “About that . . .” 

He moved to sit next to her, letting his hand run down his arm as he did so. Breaking any contact with her was–he was discovering–even harder than some of the mergers he’d negotiated. 

He also couldn’t help but think back to the last time she’d begun a sentence with that preposition. “ About Annie . . .” she’d said just a few months ago, and turned his life upside down–in the best possible way. 

“Yes?” he asked rapt with curiosity. He came around  to sit next to her, resting a hand on her knee. It had become automatic, intuitive, the need to always touch her. His love for her had grown exponentially, exceeding what he thought was capacity on a daily basis. And his need for her had grown at almost the same rate. It was like an ache when he couldn’t be with her. 

“What if I just kept working?” It came out in a rush, and she looked both relieved and anxious. With that dam broken, she continued. “None of these candidates are good enough,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. 

He fought back a smirk. “None of them are you, you mean.” 

“I mean I wouldn’t trust any of them with you,” she countered. “Sure, anyone could take dictation, and there’s no end of Katherine Gibbs graduates that would be willing to work all hours of the day for the salary that you’d pay, but would she know how to call ahead and get your hotel room set, would she ensure that your pens were always full, would she be able to manage the household.” She paused to take a breath. “I need to know you’re being taken care of. . .” 

He’d never thought about it from her perspective. But, in retrospect, it made sense–everything she’d done for him, all the attention to detail, all the deference–it wasn’t just a professional calling; it was love.

“Grace,” he whispered, and took her hand in his, running his thumb over her ring finger, affirming his claim on her. “We’ll work it out then.” 

Her eyes glistened, and she bit her lip briefly, before looking back up at him to meet his eyes. “I never dreamed. . .  every morning I wake up next to you, and it’s all I can do not to cry from happiness.” 

He stood to rest his forehead against hers. “I know,” he whispered, brushing a number of feather-light kisses against her eyelids, her temple, her earlobes, and then moved down to her lips. She tasted like the Prosecco they’d shared over dinner. She tasted like the strawberries they’d had with dessert. She tasted uniquely like her , and she tasted just a little bit like him. 

What he didn’t say, what he wasn’t ready to tell her, was that in the wee morning hours, as the sun was just peeking through his blinds, he would lay in bed thinking the same thing. That he was beyond lucky, that she was more than he ever deserved, that there was no way he would ever live without her, and that she felt the same way was beyond his wildest imaginings. 

End Chapter 4

Chapter Text

He came up behind her as she smoothed her dress down over her hips, and looked at the way they paired up in the mirror. 

She was young–lithe and lucious–and he was anything but. He hadn't realized his brow was furrowed until she reached backward for his hand. “What is it?” 

“When I was 30,” he began, “You would’ve only been 15.” 

She turned to face him, unbuttoning his carefully buttoned shirt to plant kisses along the plane of his chest. 

“Good thing you’re not 30,” she said. “And I’m certainly not 15. And . . .” She pulled him forward by his lapels, punctuating the sentiment with a deep, deliberate kiss. “You hardly acted your age last night.” 

And then it was her turn to purse her lips and pull away a bit, suddenly full of regrets. Her compliment had revealed more about herself than she’d intended.  

Neither of them had discussed their pasts, preferring to leave it just there–in the past. She knew enough about his non-romantic past, nevermind how expertly his hands had brushed over her body, how his lips had so deliberately and possessively claimed hers, the way he’d brought her to the brink and then pulled back only to then find just what it took to send her over the edge and into oblivion. She doubted she was his first, or even his second. Boys who grew up in Hell’s Kitchen rarely left it naïfs. 

She also knew enough to know that in the time that she’d known him he’d been celibate as a monk. She wondered whether it had been that way before she started. Was it her or was it a distrust of any women that might show interest in him, given the position he occupied in the world. 

And she wondered what he knew, or even what he intuited, about her. It had to be obvious that she wasn’t a virgin, but what did he know about the man that had coerced it from her–in her first position out of Katie Gibbs–and the CEO asked her to stay late one night to help with a merger. 

The next thing she knew his hand was on her breast and his tongue was in her mouth, and when he’d finished mauling her, he told her what a magnificent future she was going to have with the company. And then he shoved her skirt up, and her underwear down, and all she could do was go limp. 

He did the same, shortly thereafter, rolling off her fat, flaccid, and fulfilled. It was all she could do to hold back tears while signing the paperwork granting her a promotion from “secretary” to “executive secretary.” 

A week later, when he again began to handle her breast the way a chef would if he were tenderizing a piece of beef, she could only gasp and again accept it, knowing she couldn’t overpower him, unwilling to risk her position. 

Instead she fought back in the only way she knew how. Within a few more weeks she’d gathered enough information about insider trading, money laundering, and even evidence of a potential Ponzi Scheme. 

She managed to transcribe all of it, to file everything with a system that only she understood. 

She mailed everything in a manila envelope addressed to Joseph P. Kennedy. Within a week, both SEC regulators and FBI agents were raiding the office. 

And she was–with pleasure–looking for another job. 

The first thing that stood out when she interviewed with Oliver Warbucks was that he called her “Ms. Farrell,” no immediate familiarity, no condescension, just an open and honest curiosity for what she could bring to the position. She felt safe with him, and it was a safety that hadn't changed even as she now happily took his name and shared his bed. If anything she felt even safer. 

“Darling . . .” He cupped her face in his strong, capable hand, running a thumb over her lower lip. “Grace, where are you? Talk to me?” 

She leaned into his touch momentarily before looking up to meet his eyes. What she saw in them gave her pause but also courage. He loved her–unconditionally. She was safe. 

“I . . .” she began, searching for the words to put to the untamed, untempered, and untethered emotions that were currently a maelstrom in her mind. “Sometimes . . .” she tried again, “Sometimes, I hate . . . I just wish . . .” 

Oliver had somehow managed to temper his normal impatience to let her take all the time she needed. He reached for her hand running his thumb soothingly over her knuckles. 

Her chain of thoughts just switched as abruptly as the railway switches where he was born. “What were you like as a little boy?” 

“You know that,” he said drawing her out of the dressing room to sit on the edge of his–of their–bed. “My little brother died of pneumonia, because my parents were too poor to afford medical care.”

TBC in Chapter 6

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“And that was when you decided to be rich . . .” she finished his story for him. 

He nodded. “Exactly.”

She shifted her weight slightly before turning to face him. “So . . .” she said simply, “Love has been your motivation all along.” 

He looked at her as though she were speaking a foreign language. “I beg your pardon?!” 

She laughed, as though she had almost expected that reaction. And then checked herself–as much as she loved him, as much as her effervescent joy threatened to pop the cork of her carefully-contained and conscientiously-cultivated character. This was a serious discussion. 

“Your brother died because your family couldn’t afford medical care,” she recounted his history, in the same tone she’d use to explain an elementary concept to Annie. “You chose to be rich because you wanted to never be in the position of being unable to help those you love.” She closed her eyes before speaking again. “It might be part of why I feel so safe with you, why I fell in love with you.”  

She saw his breath catch in his throat, and he exhaled–deeply, completely–before he spoke, and even then, it was to say nothing. “Grace . . .” he murmured, “darling . . . I hardly know what to say.” 

She could see his hands moving restlessly, as though he wanted to touch her, but knew better in the moment. So, she reached for him instead, pulling his hand to her mouth and brushing her mouth over his knuckles. “You don’t have to say anything,” she assured him, her voice barely a whisper. “Just be with me, just love me.” 

He cocked his head, looking at her with concern. “What aren’t you telling me?” 

She sighed. “My first job . . .” she began, cautiously, fighting her emotions. “The Dreyfuss Firm . . . I . . . I slept with him.” 

He stiffened and took a deep breath before asking. “Did you want to?” 

“No . . .” The admission cost her almost everything; she didn’t want to hurt him, but she couldn’t lie either. 

She saw him deflate and then stiffen. “Dreyfuss,” he whispered harshly. 

“Yes,” she confirmed. 

He again sagged. “I should’ve known . . .” 

“I didn’t tell you,” the shame she already felt was compounded. 

“He all but admitted it,” Oliver said. His hands were balled into fists, fully ready to go pugilistic. “Every week at the club he was bragging about the newest secretary he’d bagged. I saw your resume; I knew where you worked; I should’ve known. I’m sorry.” 

Before she could say anything, a slow smile spread over his face. “It was you . . .” He laughed as the realization rolled through him. “You’re the one that turned him in to Joe Kennedy.” 

“Yeah . . .” she admitted quietly. “It was the only way I could think to fight back.” 

He shook his head, more in wonder than in disbelief. “Remind me never to cross you.” He smirked with slow delight. “I always take it for granted how very smart you are. There’s nothing you can’t do.” He traced her lower lip with his thumb. “You could probably run Warbucks, Inc. better than I do.” 

Now it was her turn to smile, his flattery warming her from the inside out and setting her at ease. “Taking care of you, of Annie, and the house is enough. I don’t need Warbucks, Inc.” She angled to lean her head against his. “I just need you . . . our family.” 

“Love . . .” he murmured quietly, before planting a kiss first on her brow and then her temple and finally the very tip of her nose. “Love . . .” he repeated. “You were right,” he said, “all of this was for love. I didn’t even know it at the time, but this was all for you, for Annie, and,” as he said it, his hand drifted down to push the strap of her chemise off her shoulder, “anyone else that may come our way.” 

He punctuated the sentiment with a kiss on her collarbone. “I will spend the rest of my life making you happy,” he promised. “I will spend every single penny of my fortune on whatever you want or need.” 

“Then you can remain a billionaire,” she told him, and began to unbutton his shirt, “because I already have everything I want and need.”

“Someone should tell my secretary that I’m going to be late,” he murmured, “I need to take my wife back to bed.” 

“Hmmmm,” she teased, “that might be a problem. I hear she’s a stickler for punctuality.” She shivered as he slid the other strap of her slip off, trailing his finger lightly over her upper arm. 

“She is,” he agreed, “but I’m hoping she might forgive me.” 

She leaned into him. “In 1929 . . .” she started slowly, “After my dad killed himself and after I started working with Dreyfuss . . .” She sighed as the emotions washed over her. “I thought I’d never be happy again. I never thought I’d feel safe again. I never thought I’d . . . “ She paused, looking at him directly. “I never thought I’d ever fall in love, and then . . .” She reached out to stroke his face with something akin to reverence. “You . . .” she finished. 

“You . . .” he echoed with the same degree of wonder. “Mrs. Warbucks.” 

End Chapter 6

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“What ever happened to the portrait?” She was putting the last pin in her hair as she emerged from his–from their–bathroom. 

“What portrait?” he asked, struggling with his cufflinks. 

She moved to help him, and the frustration immediately evaporated. “The Mona Lisa,” she clarified, “the portrait from the Louvre that arrived the same day as Annie. You said you were going to hang her in your bathroom.” Her tone made it come across somewhere between a question and an explanation, but she was smiling when she asked it, and he thought–not for the first time–that while ‘Grace’ was such an appropriate name for her, ‘Joy’ would have been just as perfect. She was the personification of nearly every virtue. Courage. Integrity. Insight. 

“Oh,” he laughed, “THAT!” He nodded “I had her moved to my salon, figure I can show it off when I'm entertaining. There’s someone else I’d rather look at who’s smile is a lot more interesting to me.” He paused, but his contemplation of her never ceased. “I should have you painted,” he said. “Something more lasting than a photograph. Something that shows your soul.”  

She immediately recoiled. “Oh, goodness, no!” She fought against her urge to hyperventilate. “Please, no,” she paused remembering that this was her husband now, and not her employer. “Oliver . . .” she added, using his name deliberately, “really, that’s not necessary.” 

“I disagree,” he announced it the same way he would in a business negotiation. “If Shah Jahan can build a whole forty acre complex for his beloved, I can have your portrait painted!” He cocked his head, studying her as though he hadn’t already committed every single feature to memory. “I’m thinking that Hopper fellow,” he murmured, “he’s good at capturing likenesses. Or . . .” He reached out to trace the lines and curves of her features with the same deliberateness that a blind man would trace a Braille novel. “Maybe that younger Wyeth boy; I like the way he draws women as they are. I want you forever captured as you are.” 

“A moment,” she pushed back. “We have forever.” 

He licked his lips. This was all so new to him. He couldn’t negotiate with her the way he did any other business rival, nor should he. She was his wife, his lover, the mother of their daughter–an ally, not an adversary. He had to be prepared to give of himself. 

“Yes,” he affirmed, “we do.” He swallowed, suddenly feeling even more vulnerable than he had felt when he’d asked her to marry him.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat. “Grace . . .” he began, awkwardly, and she looked at him with such absolute open acceptance, that he almost lost his resolve. How had he ever earned the love of a woman such as her? 

He took another breath, holding it far longer than necessary before exhaling. “What do you remember about the day Annie came to live with us?” 

“Everything!” she answered without hesitation. Then after a moment, she expanded on her answer. “She brought so much life to the house, so much depth.” 

“Starting with you,” he added, pointedly. It was Annie that gave Grace the courage to finally exhibit her spine. It was Annie that made him realize he’d been blind for far too long–that Grace wasn’t just the world’s most capable assistant–that she was a woman, and an exceptionally beautiful, extraordinarily compassionate, and extremely brilliant one at that. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“Stop.” It wasn’t a request, but a demand, and her willingness to make it of him, was more proof of how deep their connection had grown. It wasn’t employer and employee anymore; in truth they might never have been such–she’d always had a hold on him, an ability to work with him, to direct him toward what he didn’t even realize he needed. 

“If you haven’t figured out by this point that we belong together . . .” She shook her head. “Then maybe you don’t deserve me.” She smiled wanly, but I’m pretty sure you know. I’m pretty sure you’ve seen it.” 

“You’re right.” He traced the well-defined line between her quadriceps and hamstring. “You’re right,” he repeated it, unable to find any other words. In truth, he wanted to continue to argue with her, to confess every wrong-doing–a Liverpudlian, he was–of course–an Anglican, but she made him feel Catholic, wanting to confess, wanting to atone, wanting to take Communion. 

He swallowed again. “I don’t ever want to forget this,” he found the strength to admit it. “I don’t ever want to forget the moment I finally realized just what you were, just how much you–and Annie–meant. Do you understand?” he asked, “Do you see, why I want you forever set down on canvas?” 

She leaned in, kissing him, first feather-light and then deepening it. “Okay,” she agreed on a whisper as they broke apart. He could still sense her reluctance; she’d never been vain, never sought attention or scrutiny–she was doing this solely for him, solely for love. 

“Besides,” she added, grasping his hand and placing it over her abdomen pointedly, “things are going to change pretty soon.” 

“Are you . . ?” he asked, his eyes widening in wonder and surprise.

She grinned and nodded. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you.” 

His joy quickly turned to concern. “And you’re okay? Are you sure you shouldn’t be resting? Have you been to the doctor?” 

“Never better,” she replied. “And no, I’m fine; and I haven’t seen the doctor yet, but . . . I know ,” she added with certainty. 

He thought of his mother’s multiple pregnancies, the fear on her face, the burden. He saw none of that on Grace, just pure joy. She was radiant, glowing, and he knew without a doubt that she was right. 

And he was terrified. He’d watched his mother get sicker and sicker with every baby until–with the last one he watched her die–he couldn’t let that happen to Grace. “You need to see a doctor. I’m taking you to The Sloane Maternity Hospital myself.” He paused for a moment, before saying, “Actually, I’m going to arrange a housecall. Surely the new wing I bought them last year earned us that privilege.” 

She stepped into him, resting her forehead against his, as though sensing his fear. “I’m going to be okay, Oliver. Women do this every day.” 

He kissed her on the temple. “But you’re not just any woman.” 

“I love you, too,” she said, again, and pulled his hand back down to rest against her abdomen. “And I couldn’t be happier . . . or healthier.” 

TBC in Chapter 7

Chapter Text

“Is it going to be a brother or a sister??!” Annie was simply vibrating in her seat. She hadn’t stopped smiling since they’d delivered the news. 

“We don’t know yet,” Grace curled her arm around Annie and pulled her close. “We’ll find out when it’s born.” 

She nodded in understanding. “But I’m gonna have a brother or a sister?” The look of eager anticipation on her face was something that warmed Grace from the inside out. 

They’d been worried about how and when to tell Annie, weren't sure whether she’d be jealous, or worried that she’d no longer matter as much–or being replaced in some way. 

Grace wrapped her in a tight embrace. “You sure are!” 

“When will it be here?” Annie had no end of follow-up questions. “What’re you gonna name it? Can it sleep in my room? Can I help take care of it? Sandy, too; he’d be such a good watchdog for the baby!”   

Grace laughed. “Slow down, baby,” she whispered, ruffling the girl’s curls, as Oliver grinned down at both of them from behind the sofa, just taking in the moment. “I can’t answer all your questions right now, but what I do know is that you’re going to be the best big sister ever, and I cannot wait for you to meet each other.” 

“Me either,” she agreed with a grin so warm and brilliant it could’ve melted glass, like one of the lasers Oliver currently was paying scientists to research. 

“I think your tutor’s going to be here soon,” Oliver changed the subject. Do you want to go get ready?” 

Annie shrugged and sighed. “I guess so.” It was clear she was going to do what was expected of her–obey no matter whatever else she wanted to do, and what she wanted was to continue to stay with them. 

Grace patted the settee next to her, inviting Oliver to take the spot so recently vacated by their daughter. He sat immediately, and reached for her, bringing her hand to his lips. He was still so cautious around her changing body, and she had to remind him on nearly every occasion that neither she nor the baby could be hurt by him simply loving her. 

She was torn between being heartbroken and heartwarmed at his reaction, knowing that it stemmed both from trauma and from love. 

“What??” he asked, watching her watch him. 

“Sometimes,” she said, “I can’t believe how lucky I am.” She took a breath, “And sometimes,” she added, “It kills me that there’s so much history that we didn’t get a chance to share. For example. . .” she reached up to trace lazy patterns on his scalp. “What color was your hair?” 

He paused with a smile and then reached out to touch her hair, letting strands run over his fingers. “Lighter than this,” he said, continuing to finger her tresses, with just the lightest of touches. “Wavy,” he added, “and a bit of a red tint to it.” 

“Like Annie!” Grace grinned. 

“Hah!” Oliver laughed in surprise at the comparison that had never before occurred to him. “Maybe a little.” 

She moved closer, leaning her head comfortably against his shoulder. “Why’d you shave it all off?” She asked, lazily tracing patterns on his thigh. The intimacy between them had been so sudden, so natural, and so complete, that she found herself adrift at times when he wasn’t with her. 

He paused, and she knew he was trying to decide just how vulnerable, how open, to be. “I needed to look older,” he finally said, “If I were going to get my competitors to take me seriously.” 

She smirked. “It’s hard to imagine anyone not taking you seriously.” 

“Just you.” He smiled in response and leaned his head against hers. 

She angled her head for a kiss, and he gave it–willingly, deeply, possessively.

As they broke apart, he asked, “And what was young Grace Farrell of New Haven like?” he asked. “Were you always this beautiful or did you have an ugly duckling phase?” 

She laughed. “It was more than a phase. Until I was about 18 or so, my grandfather used to say I was nothing but ‘arms, legs, and ribcage.’ I didn’t really blossom until I started at Mount Holyoke . . .” She let the thought go unfinished. He knew the rest of her history. 

“Maman got me into dance; she’d been a prima ballerina until she met my father. She’d initially thought he was another over-eager fan and kept him at arm’s length, but he broke down her walls . . .” The irony wasn’t lost on her–the parallels to their own relationship were unmistakable. “Summers in Paris, we’d go to the Opéra National and see where she used to dance; it opened up so many dreams for me . . .” 

“And yet here you are,” he said with another kiss to her temple. 

She laced her fingers with his. “And yet here I am.” She inhaled deeply, savoring the cognac, cigar, and cedar scent of him. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” 

“Me either,” he said and pulled her in for another kiss. He ran his hand over the slight swell of her abdomen. “How are you feeling?” 

“Never better.” She reached up to cup his chin in her hand. “Never happier.” She pulled her feet up onto the settee, to curl into him more closely. “Never gonna let you go . . .” 

“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?” he asked, still holding her close, his breath brushing like a warm breeze through her hair. 

“A week from tomorrow,” she answered, feeling simultaneously relaxed and regretful; a quick glance at the clock over the mantel informed her that this moment was going to be over too soon. 

“Have my secretary clear my schedule for the day,” he whispered and then began nibbling at the ear. “I need to spend it with my wife and future daughter.” 

“Daughter?” she asked with an arched eyebrow and a grin, “really?!” 

“Daughter,” he said, “with your eyes and my hair, with your smile and my nose, with my wit and your charm.” He took another nip at her earlobe. “What do you think?”

She rotated a bit, again caressing his face. “I was thinking a boy,” she said quietly. “With your drive and my patience, with your passion and my compassion, with your brains and my athleticism, and a match for Annie in enthusiasm and mischief.” She stilled, resting her head against the broad, solid planes of his chest and listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. 

“I never thanked you . . .” His normally boisterous baritone was low and intense as she felt the vibrations of his voice as much as she heard them. 

“Thanked me?” she murmured in confusion. “What on earth for?”  He shook his head, aghast. “Grace, my love . . . everything .” He sighed. “You’ve given me Annie; you’ve given me yourself; you’ve given me . . . a family . You’ve given me . . .” he paused. “You’ve given me a life. ”

TBC

Chapter Text

It was his library that convinced her to take the job. 

She’d finished the interview, and Warbucks had offered her the job on the spot. 

“Thank you . . . sir . . .” she’d said, still a bit overwhelmed by the unorthodox interview. “If you wouldn’t mind . . . I’d like . . . that is: May I have a few days to think it over?” 

“Oh . . .” he murmured. “Of course!” He regarded her carefully with narrowed eyes. “It’s always important to be prudent in matters of business.” He paused then, looking at a spot seemingly just over her shoulder. “Though, decisiveness is also important,” he added, slowly, cautiously. “It’s good to find the right balance.” He waved his hand as though dismissing everything he’d just said. “I’m gonna have Drake show you around. Let you get a full idea of what the place is like.” 

Place. 

As though it was a fishing cabin by the shore and not a Rococo Fifth Avenue mansion. Her father had been old money, old money that invested poorly. Still, none of what she’d seen in her upbringing–the debutante balls, the cotillions, the galas–could’ve prepared her for the sheer scale of Warbucks’ opulence. 

“And this is the library. . .” Drake threw the door open, and Grace stood, on the threshold, trying to contain her reaction. 

“Mr. Warbucks takes great pride in his collection,” Drake continued either oblivious to, or politely overlooking, her reaction. “You will–of course–have access to anything in it. If . . .” he continued, “you choose to accept the position.” 

She stepped forward, as cautiously as she would into a sacred space, and lightly ran her fingertips over the spines of the nearest books with absolute reverence. “The most valuable editions are in the annex,” he added. “You’d have to read them there, but if you’re interested.” He looked at her sidelong before adding, “He’s got Shakespeare’s first folio.” 

She took a quick breath and licked her lips, wondering whether Drake was trying to woo her for himself or his employer, or whether he was like this with everyone. “Tell me, Mr. Drake . . .” she began, and he interrupted her. 

“Just ‘Drake,’ ma’am.” 

She nodded in acknowledgment. “Okay . . .” she paused, “Drake . . . do you know how many other people have interviewed for this position.” 

“Just you, ma’am,” he answered without hesitation, and she stepped back, bracing herself against the expensive mahogany bookshelves. 

“Just . . . me,” she repeated with a sense of surprise. 

Drake nodded curtly. “Mr. Warbucks is a good judge of character.” 

“I see . . .” She added this to the list of data points that she was trying to sort and categorize, attempting to figure her potential employer out with the same deliberateness that she balanced her checking account. 

“If you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am,” Drake interrupted her musing. 

“No . . .” she said openly, “please, go ahead.” 

He nodded and continued. “I think you’d be good for him.” 

“Mr. . .” She paused and then restarted, “ Drake . . .” she stressed, correcting herself and calling him by his preferred name. “Do you like working for him?”

He raised his chin just a little higher. “I’ve been here for more than twelve years, ma’am.” He answered her question without answering it. 

She nodded silently in acknowledgment. I understand , she said without saying it. 

* * * * *

And now, three years later, she was pursuing her personal collection instead of her husband’s. 

“There you are!” He walked into her office and came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the eclectic assortment of books. 

“You know you could put these down in my library,” he whispered, brushing his fingers over her lower back and then letting them drift even further down. “In fact, I’d prefer it if our things were together .” 

She shook her head. “Oliver, really, my books don’t even compare to yours. They’re just . . . books . For reading, not for collecting.” 

She reached out to grip the spine of one volume in particular. “And this one . . .” she added, “Is for Annie.” 

He studied the cover. “L.M. Montgomery . . . I don’t think I’ve heard of this author.” 

“Trust me,” Grace replied. “She’s going to love it.” 

He nibbled on the edge of her ear. “Of course I trust you,” he murmured, “But I still want you to put your books in our library.” 

She set the book down to lean back against him, reveling in the safety, stability, and sanctuary she found in the solidness of his embrace. “Okay,” she agreed, without hesitation. She was his, and he was hers. 

“Good,” his breath ruffled her hair and brushed across his ear. “Good,” he repeated. One hand slipped down from around her ribcage to cradle her ever-growing abdomen. “My beautiful Grace . . .” he murmured and then changed the subject. 

“So what is this book about anyway?” He asked, lifting it from the table to flip through the pages. 

She grinned. “Another red-headed orphan, actually–and her name is Anne. Set in Canada,” she continued, “but I loved it when I was her age, and think she’ll really be able to relate to it. Might find the British spellings a bit hard to adapt to.” 

“How is she doing with her tutor?” Oliver asked, changing the subject slightly and setting the book back down on Grace’s desk. 

Grace came around to face him. “I think she’ll be ready for school come fall. She’s so bright.” She reached up to stroke his face. “A lot like her father that way.” 

He leaned in to kiss her, feather-light across her lips, and then more deeply, pulling her tight against him, his hands cupping her rear end. “Should we read it to her tonight?” he asked after finally coming up for breath. 

“Read it with her,” Grace clarified. “Let’s have her read a few paragraphs–build her confidence–and then you and I can trade off on the rest.”

“Perfect,” he agreed. “Just perfect,” he repeated and traced her lower lip with his thumb. 

She shivered. “And while we’re doing that, I’ll have Drake arrange to have the rest of my books moved.” 

Oliver grinned. “You know if you’re the one that asks him, he’s going to do it himself.” 

“Probably,” Grace acknowledged with a soft smile. “But I also know you don’t want me lifting them.” 

“No,” he agreed and cradled her abdomen with near reverence. He stepped back in surprise, his eyes then widening, “What was that?” 

She laughed. “That was the baby! It’s been kicking up a storm the last few days. Sometimes I think I’m gonna give birth to an octopus the way it’s been kicking and punching, all directions at once! But I know it’s healthy; just look at how big I am already!” 

“You’re perfect,” he whispered and again nibbled at the curve of her ear, while pulling her closer. “And the baby will be, too.” He lifted her oversized flowing blouse out of the way and bent to press a deep kiss against the swell of her belly. 

“Oliver . . .” she breathed his name, her heart swelling. He’d relaxed over the past few weeks, recognizing that she–and the baby–really were okay. He was now reveling in the role of expectant father, converting one of his many spare bedrooms into a nursery and insisting on only the best in bassinettes, bibs, and bottles.

“We need to . . .” she forced herself to concentrate on the present even as everything in her just ached to move to the floor and let him have his way with her. “Annie’s probably waiting for us to tuck her in.” 

He placed one more kiss on her bare skin before standing back up. “Yes, let’s go,” he agreed. “I want to see what this book’s all about.” He paused, “but then I’m taking you to bed too.” 

End Chapter 9

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?” Oliver found her in the sitting room reattaching a button to his shirt. 

She shook her head with a wry twist of her mouth, clearly indicating that the answer should be self-evident. “Sewing the button back on your shirt.” 

Now it was his turn to shake his head. “Cecile can do that,” he said, and then came to stand behind her. “Or I could always buy another one . . .” 

She nodded in acknowledgment of the truth of his words, but followed it up with a slow shake of her head. “I like doing it,” she blushed as she said it. “I like knowing that you’re wearing a tiny part of me . . . beyond your ring.” She paused, her blush deepening. “And anyway, it’s my fault you lost the button.” 

He reached down to pluck the shirt from her lap. 

All the buttons were sewn on with two parallel lines; the replacement was sewn on with a careful X.  

“How long . . ?” he asked with a bit of wonder. 

She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “How long what ?” 

“How long . . .” he emphasized each word, “ have you been sewing my buttons back on ?” 

It wasn’t something most people would notice–the parallel lines as compared to the X . Most people’s eyes were drawn to his bow tie, or the fifteen carat diamond stickpin within that shirt. But he’d noticed, hadn’t gotten where he was without attention to the smallest detail, and wondered when Cecile had started slipping–wondered whether he’d have to talk to Grace about replacing her. 

And now, he realized the truth in Annie having said that he never noticed anything. It wasn’t that Cecile was slipping, it was that it wasn’t Cecile. 

“S . . . Oliver,” she caught herself. Even seven months married, there was still a level of habit that was hard to break. 

“How long?” he repeated the question with a tone that was bordering on stern. 

She took the shirt back–french cotton and linen in a beautifully tight weave. She knew its contours as intimately as she did the man who wore it. She’d learned his planes and lines from tracing the seams of his couture before she’d ever traced the contours of the man that wore it. 

“I love you,” she said, studying the beautifully-even stitching along the shirt’s hem. 

“How long?” he asked it a third time. There was no way he was going to let her evade the question. 

She ran her thumb over the straight row of stitches at the cuff. “Maybe a year and a half now,” she finally admitted. 

“A year and a half?” he repeated half and wonder and half in indignation. “ Why ?” 

He felt like an idiot the moment the question left his lips. She’d already told him why I like knowing that you’re wearing a tiny part of me . . . 

Had she really been in love with him for the past eighteen months? 

Had he really been that blind ? 

Had he really squandered that much time? 

Before she could answer him, he plucked the shirt from her grasp again studying the carefully sewn X on the button. “ Why ?” he repeated but this time directing the question at himself. 

Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? 

Why had he been so singularly-focused? 

Why ? 

“Oliver?” The confusion was written on her face as clearly as the stock numbers on his ticker tape. 

“Shhhhh . . .” he murmured and set the shirt carefully on the side table next to her. The handiwork was more precious to him than any of his baubles or antiques. “Come here,” he added, gently tugging her hand until she was upright and folded into his arms. 

Her head fit so neatly under his chin that he wanted to stay there forever. It was as though she’d been made for him. Why , he wondered again, had it taken so long to realize it ? 

“Oliver?” she said again, leaning her head back to look up at him, and then reached out to cup his face. “What’s wrong?” 

He angled his face enough to kiss her palm. “Absolutely nothing,” he answered. “Everything is perfect.” And at that, he froze again, sudden panic threatening to overtake him. With trepidation, he reached down to rest his hand on the swell of her abdomen. “Everything is okay?” 

She laced her fingers through his and moved his hand a few inches over. “Feel for yourself,.” 

His eyes widened and a slow smile spread over his face. “Was that a kick?” 

She grinned back. “It sure was!” 

“And you’re okay?” he asked again. 

She leaned in to kiss him. “What was it you said . . . everything’s perfect.” She paused. And looked downward, “Though I’m beginning to think I’m going to need a separate room for my belly. The doctor’s even been trying to get me to admit that maybe I was wrong on the conception date.” 

He traced the swell of her abdomen. Pregnant women had always been just a little weird and scary until Grace. 

But this–this was his wife, and this–this was his child. His wife. His child. 

HIS . 

The responsibility–of Grace, of Annie, of the child he had yet to meet–was both a burden and a blessing. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be worthy of them, but he would try. 

“Are you okay?” he finally asked, as he ran his fingers from her abdomen to tickle the underside of her ribs. “What can I do to make this easier for you?” 

She looked up at him and smiled. “Oh, darling,” she sighed and pulled his hand up to her mouth to run her lips lightly over his knuckles. “ You are all I need. When are you going to finally get that through your thick head?” She kissed his knuckles again. “Just . . . you , Oliver.” She repeated. “ YOU. ” 

TBC in Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“Your bosses will be some of the most powerful men in the city. They'll be arrogant, abrasive autocrats. You're sometimes going to dread the demands made on you, and regret what you signed up for, but I'm here to tell you that all of them were little boys once. On the worst days, I need you to shove all of that away and picture them in their knickers, picture them playing stickball, and picture them crying for their mommies. Because that's all any of them want, even if they claim to want a secretary.” 

Powerful . Grace wrote in her notebook. Arrogant, she added with an underline, abrasive . 

Stickball . 

It was nothing but a collection of words. 

With a sigh, she capped her pen and closed her notebook. As good as her shorthand was, it wasn’t enough to keep up with the rapid-fire lecture. 

And it wasn’t as though she didn’t already know. She’d seen secretaries come and go from her father’s firm. The more meticulous they were, the greater their ability to compartmentalize, the more likely they were to last. 

She could do that. She was–after all–a Farrell. Edgar Farrell hadn’t had a son, and she’d instead enjoyed the privilege of learning at his knee. 

Until October 28, 1929. 

She fought back a wave of nausea. The memory of the police showing up at their door, of learning that her father had thrown himself from the roof of his office building rather than face the near total loss of his fortune. 

She pushed the memory back down. There was no point in dwelling in the past, not when she had an incredible future to look forward to. 

She sat down in Oliver’s chair, needing a break from being on her feet, but still unable to keep herself from straightening his desk.

As she’d been taught in Katie Gibbs she set his blotter exactly three inches from the edge of his desk. She didn’t even need to pull her ruler out anymore; she knew exactly what lines on the woodgrain the bottom of the blotter aligned with. 

On the blotter she aligned a fresh fountain pen, a bottle of ink, and a scratch pad. 

She opened the side drawer and carefully realigned the notepads, paperclips, and extra pen nibs within. 

“What are you doing?” 

She hadn’t even noticed he was watching her until he spoke. 

“Just getting everything ready for you for . . .” She paused as her belly spasmed, trying to disguise it with a cough. 

Still she saw the line between his brows deepen. “Are you okay?” 

“Perfect,” she responded. “And making sure everything in here is . . .” she had to take another breath. “Just a little . . . bit of . . . false labor.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” 

She took another breath. “Yes,” she replied and stood. 

He pursed his lips. “You should be in bed.” 

“I’m pregnant, Oliver, not infirm.” She continued straightening his office, ensuring that everything was in place and how he liked it. 

She was checking the level of the paper in his ticker tape machine when another cramp overtook her, and she felt an unmistakable sense of fluid running down her legs. 

Her eyes widened. “Darling . . .” she began. “I think I’m in labor.” 

He was instantly on alert. “PUNJAB!” He bellowed, “Get my wife to the car. DRAKE!! Get the suitcase from the bedroom and then tell The Asp to watch over Annie until I can come back and get her.” 

He spun around, feeling moorless. This was real. He was about to become a father . . . for a second time. “ GRACE!” Her name was both an exclamation and an invocation. 

Punjab had already lifted her, carrying her effortlessly through the door and into the car. Oliver fought the impulse to rush snatch her from his bodyguard’s arms. As much as he needed the contact, he knew she was safer in the other man’s hands than his own. 

“Grace,” he repeated her name, needing to know she was there, that she was aware of him, and reached for her hand even as Punjab was still holding her. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Oliver, darling,” she whispered, “I’m okay.” 

Her reassurance rang empty. All he could do was clutch her hand, struggling to keep pace with Punjab as they rushed toward his Duesenberg.

TBC in the final chapter!!