Now, I live a life filled with personal security, drivers, nannies, and private planes. Not only do we employ several housekeepers, but there’s also a house manager who oversees her staff. I spend much of my time giving away money through charitable works. Just my last name can get me in any door anywhere. I never aspired to have or do any of those things, but somehow this life found me. It’s part of the Paradise package,and despite doing everything I could to reject my husband at first, I embrace everything about him now.

We take the back staircase that leads to the kitchen that is worthy of being on the front page of Architectural Digest. A European designer designed it, boasting that only six of these kitchens exist. Drake had marble flown in from overseas. There’s a chandelier made of Swarovski crystals, and a wine climate cabinet. Since my husband likes to cook, the kitchen is also commercial-grade.

Just as I reach the fridge, he enters through the garage with Carter behind him. Our poodle, Pixie, runs to the other side of the kitchen and wags her tail by his bowl.

“That dog is so spoiled,” Drake says as he removes Carter’s jacket.

This is their weekend routine. They get up early and walk Pixie together. Then Drake comes home and complains about how spoiled the dog is even though he’s the one who spoils everyone under this roof. The weekends are special because they belong to us. During the week, there’s no shortage of staff in this house. There’s always someone here, but not on the weekends. Unless we’re hosting or throwing a party, it's only the four of us and the pets, and that’s the way we want it.

I go to my husband and kiss him.

“Dada!” Priya says. She extends both arms to him, but I don’t let her go yet. Not until he takes off his coat and washes his hands.

“My baby doll,” he says once his hands are clean. He blows a raspberry on her chubby cheeks. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing on earth, as if he doesn’t do this at least half a dozen times each day.

While he gives her his undivided attention, I do my job: filling Pixie’s bowl with the gourmet, organic dog food that myhusband orders for her. Once Pixie is eating happily, I put food in our cat’s bowl, and right on cue, Daddy Cat strolls into the kitchen without a care in the world.

“How did a rich boy like you end up with a job where he picks up dog poop on the weekends?” I joke to my husband.

I reach for Priya, and he gives her one last kiss before he hands her to me.

“I must have taken a right turn somewhere to end up in this life.” He gestures around the kitchen and at me. “Not to mention my other job. Short order cook.” He slaps my behind and retrieves his apron from the walk-in pantry. The apron is a Father’s Day gift from Carter and Priya. It says ‘We love our daddy,’ and it’s designed with pictures of both kids. After he received it, he had a matching chef’s hat made, which he puts on his head now.

“That’s what this fancy kitchen is for. You’ve come a long way, Paradise. Remember when you had to cook in my small galley kitchen.”

The first time he came to my tiny apartment all those years ago, he cooked me dinner on a rainy Friday night. I was his dessert, and he didn’t leave my apartment again until it was time to go to work on Monday morning.

“One of the best memories of my life,” he says. “And what would my baby girl like for breakfast this morning?” He puts his hand on my stomach. “Any cravings yet?”

“You know that’s months away, but I’d like a breakfast sandwich with extra avocado slices, just like you used to make for me.” I lean against the counter, and he does the same until our lips touch.

“Daddy, can I have French toast, fruit salad, bacon, and eggs?” Carter asks. “And chocolate milk.”

“Dada,” Priya says as she claps her hands and bounces in my arms.

“I think she wants that too,” I joke to Drake.

Priya will want whatever Carter has, and my son will gladly give his little sister everything.

“Coming right up, Son. Go wash your hands so you can help me.” Carter goes to the sink my husband had made just for him, gets on his stepstool, and washes his hands. When he’s done, he drags the stool to the kitchen island. My son then gets his own cutting board and kid-friendly knives.

Drake calls out items, and Carter runs to the fridge to find them. While they do that, I put Priya down and make a mimosa for my husband before grabbing a bottle of sparkling water for myself. I stick a straw in his and hold it to his lips. He sips while he whisks eggs in a bowl.

“Good job, Son,” Drake says to Carter, who is cutting strawberries for his fruit salad. “He’s going to get a girl with his cooking skills. Just like his daddy got his mommy.” He winks at me.

“Stop flirting and start cooking. We’re hungry,” I admonish as I walk to him, take his hand, and put it on my stomach. He pats it and bends down to kiss me.

I point at his bowl, and he resumes his whisking. I remain next to him and wrap my arms around him. Priya waddles over and wraps herself around one of her daddy’s legs. He looks at our son, our daughter, and me before whispering, “Do you know what this is? It’s almost paradise.”

Chapter 3

Drake

“I’m here strictly on Mom’s orders,” Langley says. “She wants to take the kids to the art museum. I’m going with her, and I told her I’d meet her and her driver there.”

He looks around the kitchen island, rubs his hands, and grabs a plate. He does this almost every weekend. He figures out a way to drop by right at breakfast time.

“You think you can make me an omelet?” he asks as he piles French toast on his plate.