Page 104 of Twins for the Off-Limits Lawyer

"Of course," I said, scooting over to make room. "Come meet Henry and Charlotte."

She moved slowly, like she was afraid of disturbing something sacred. Her usual commanding presence had been replaced by something almost reverent, as if she was approaching an altar rather than a hospital bed. Victoria sat down carefully beside us, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out to touch Charlotte's tiny hand.

"Oh," she breathed, her voice breaking. "Oh, they're extraordinary."

Charlotte chose that moment to wrap her impossibly small fingers around Victoria's perfectly manicured one, and I watched Lady Victoria Grosvenor—society matriarch, corporate manipulator, ice queen—completely melt.

"I'm your grandMother, darling ones," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "And I must apologize most profusely for nearly missing this extraordinary moment due to my own theatrical inadequacies."

Edward made a choked sound that might have been laughter or tears. "Mother, did you just basically call yourself a nincompoop?"

"Among other things," she said, not taking her eyes off Charlotte. "May I hold her?"

I placed Charlotte in her arms, watching as Victoria's entire demeanor transformed. Gone was the rigid posture and calculated expressions. In their place was something softer, more genuine than I'd ever seen from her.

"You know," she said, studying Charlotte's face with wonder, "she has your eyes, Lili. And this stubborn little chin is pure Grosvenor."

"And Henry?" Edward asked, lifting our son slightly.

Victoria looked at Henry and smiled—not her practiced social smile, but something real and warm. "Henry has the look of a boy who's going to keep his parents on their toes. Just like his Father did."

"I was a model child," Edward protested.

"You were a holy terror who dismantled the grandFather clock when you were seven because you wanted to understand how time worked," Victoria replied, gently rocking Charlotte. "These two are going to give you a proper education in chaos, and it's going to be wonderful."

She was absolutely right about the chaos part.

Two weeks after bringing Henry and Charlotte home to the penthouse, I was beginning to understand why people looked shell-shocked when they talked about newborn twins. It was like being hit by a beautiful, demanding, exhausting tornado that never stopped.

"Edward," I called from the nursery at three in the morning, "I need backup. Charlotte's decided that sleep is optional, and Henry's sympathizing with her position."

Edward appeared in the doorway in his pajama pants and nothing else, hair sticking up in all directions and looking moredisheveled than I'd ever seen him. It was possibly the most attractive he'd ever been.

"Right. Status report. What are the current operational parameters, and how may I assist?" he asked, immediately moving to Charlotte's crib.

"She's fussy, he's hungry, I'm covered in spit-up that somehow managed to get inside my bra, my hair hasn't seen a proper brush in three days, and I'm pretty sure I brushed my teeth with diaper cream this morning," I said, swaying with Henry while trying not to cry from exhaustion.

"Right," Edward said, lifting Charlotte with the sort of careful precision he applied to everything. "You feed Henry, I'll handle Charlotte. We've got this."

"Do we though?" I asked, settling into the rocking chair that had once belonged to his grandMother. "Because I'm pretty sure I put my shirt on backwards this morning, and I definitely tried to put milk in the washing machine yesterday."

"Darling," Edward said, successfully getting Charlotte to stop crying through what appeared to be a combination of gentle bouncing and humming something that sounded suspiciously like a legal brief set to music, "my Mother once forgot me in the car outside Harrods when I was six months old because she was arguing with the valet about proper parking procedures."

"She did not."

"She absolutely did. Daphne reminded me of it constantly growing up." He settled into the other chair, Charlotte now peaceful in his arms. "The point is, we're already better parents than half the aristocracy."

"Well, when you put it like that," I laughed, feeling some of the tension leaving my shoulders as Henry latched on and finally settled.

This had become our routine—the midnight feedings, the tag-team diaper changes, the moments when we'd look at eachother across the nursery and wonder what we'd gotten ourselves into. But even exhausted and covered in various baby fluids, there was nowhere else I'd rather be.

Edward had adapted to the chaos with surprising grace, though his definition of adapting was somewhat different from most people's. He'd created elaborate schedules and feeding charts, color-coded systems for tracking diapers and sleep patterns, and somehow managed to make even 3 am feedings feel organized.

"You know," I said, watching him gently pat Charlotte's back while consulting what appeared to be a color-coded, cross-referenced feeding schedule that looked suspiciously like a legal brief, "most people don't approach parenthood like a military operation."

"Most people don't have twins," he replied reasonably. "And besides, structure helps. Look how calm they are when we follow the schedule."

As if summoned by his words, both babies immediately started crying.

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