Happy? Birthday
The Delacroix family doesn’t do anything by half measures, so when the invitation arrived for Vincent’s 50th birthday in Monaco, I expected nothing but the best. But even after years of red carpets and galas, nothing could have prepared me for this. Only Vincent could commandeer the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo and transform it into something even more extra, its marble halls buzzing with his handpicked roster of power players, family, and a ton of faces I’d only ever seen on magazine covers. Every detail screamed Vincent’s control-freak perfectionism, from the custom seating cards to the specific champagne he’d selected for the toasts.
“Vincent will have a meltdown if the centerpieces are even an inch off-center,” I whispered to Malcolm as we boarded the private jet. “Remember his face at the Christmas gala when the bartender used the wrong ice?”
Malcolm’s lips twitched. “My brother has expectations. Always has.”
That was putting it mildly. Since I’d joined the family, Vincent had maintained a polite but unmistakable distance. At first, I’d chalked it up to the age difference—he was closer to my father’s age than mine—or maybe he just saw me as Malcolm’s trophy spouse, another carrier who’d sealed the Delacroix legacy. Whatever his reasons, he was cordial at family gatherings but never warm, attentive during business discussions but never personal.
Our arrival was straight out of the movies—seriously, we’ve always loved the Riviera but Monaco hits different. Our private jet dipped low over the Mediterranean, and I couldn’t get over how impossibly blue the water was. The marina below was packed with yachts that probably cost more than small countries, and the whole city glowed golden as the sun was setting. These moments still feel surreal sometimes, even after being with Malcolm for years. When he lifted our entwined fingers to kiss the back of my hand, I felt that familiar flutter in my chest—grateful that I get to experience all of this craziness with him.
The hotel ran like a well-oiled machine, bags disappearing the second we stepped inside, staff moving with a quiet efficiency that only came with extreme wealth. The lobby was a masterpiece—towering ceilings with intricate frescoes, the scent of citrus and cedar lingering in the air, the quiet hum of old money. Malcolm and I took our time strolling to our suite. Moments like this—just us—felt rare.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, hooking my arm through his as we stepped onto the terrace. The warm evening air felt amazing after being cooped up on the plane, and I couldn’t help leaning into him. My six-month belly pressed against his side, a physical reminder of how our family kept growing while Vincent remained alone in his penthouse tower. “Think Vincent’s going to survive all this attention?”
Malcolm chuckled, his hand brushing my lower back in that possessive way that still gives me butterflies. “Survive? Sure. Enjoy? Doubtful. But he’s Vincent. He wouldn’t let anyone know if he weren’t.”
I snorted, resting my head against his shoulder. “God forbid Vincent Delacroix reveal an actual human emotion.”
Malcolm’s hand slid to cup my bump protectively. “He wasn’t always like this. But after Father…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening in that way it always did when Charles Delacroix came up.
The party was exactly what you’d expect from a Delacroix event: endless champagne, laughter everywhere, and a string quartet playing in the corner of the ballroom like we were in some period drama. Everyone was decked out in designer everything, mingling on the terrace with the Monte Carlo casino twinkling in the background. I’d gone with a sapphire-blue tuxedo but swapped my usual tailored shirt for this silk blouse that draped perfectly over my bump. The compliments kept coming all night as Malcolm and I worked the room. His hand never left my lower back or my belly for long—his subtle way of saying “mine” to everyone watching.
“Preston Campbell-Delacroix,” a smooth voice said behind me. “Still turning heads, I see.”
I turned to find Julian Whitaker holding two flutes—one champagne, one sparkling water. He handed me the water with a knowing smile. Always observant, that one.
“Julian,” I said, accepting the glass with genuine warmth. We’d met a handful of times at various charity galas over the years, and he’d always treated me like an equal, not just Malcolm’s husband. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Your father-in-law and my father served on the Metropolitan Museum board together,” Julian explained. “Some connections transcend business rivalries.”
I nodded, appreciating his easy manner. In the high-society circles we navigated, finding another Black man who understood the delicate balance of race, wealth, and power was rare.
“How are your parents?” Julian asked, his interest sincere. “I saw Senator Campbell at the Congressional Black Caucus fundraiser last month. Your papa still knows how to work a room.”
I laughed, picturing my father’s political smile and my papa’s calculated charm. “They’re relentless. Half my pregnancy wardrobe came from Papa, who’s convinced I don’t know how to dress this body properly.”
Julian chuckled. “Richard Campbell has exquisite taste, though something tells me you like to add your own flair.”
I nodded my thanks. “Well, it’s good to see you,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Though I’m surprised Vincent didn’t assign someone to keep you on the opposite side of the room. You two aren’t exactly known for friendly cooperation.”
Julian’s laugh was rich and carried just enough to make several heads turn. “Business is business. But tonight is about celebration.”
Before I could reply, Malcolm appeared at my side, his arm sliding possessively around my waist. “Whitaker,” he said, his tone cordial but cool. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Your brother was kind enough to extend an invitation,” Julian replied smoothly. “Hard to resist the allure of Monaco.”
Malcolm’s eyebrow raised slightly, but he merely nodded. “Indeed.”
Vincent was supposed to be the star of the show, but when he quietly disappeared, it was glaringly obvious. He had this weird way of being perfectly charming with everyone else—right amount of smile, perfect small talk—but whenever our eyes met, he’d just… retreat. I tried not to take it personally, but when I saw him slip away alone, my nosiness won out over my pride.
I found him by the marina, staring at the water like it held all the secrets to the universe. He was doing that thing where he tries to look casual but every inch of him was wound tight—shoulders slightly hunched, weight shifting, hands jammed in his pockets with fingers flexing. The moonlight hit the silver in his hair, and for a second, I could see why he intimidated so many people in the boardroom. He looked like a man carrying the weight of something huge.
So much of Vincent is performance—poise, control, effortless power—but right now, he just looked tired.
I walked up beside him, resting my hands on the railing. “I thought it was Cinderella who was supposed to run away from the ball, not Prince Charming.”
Vincent’s head turned slightly, acknowledging me with a glance. “Next to you and Malcolm, I’m just the wicked stepmother,” he said dryly. “Cold, demanding, trying to keep everyone in line.”
I scoffed. “If anyone’s the wicked stepmother, it’s Malcolm. You, Vincent, are more like the fairy godfather.”
That got a smirk out of him, small but real. “Doubtful. My gifts come with conditions.”
I let out a soft laugh, shifting my weight slightly. “A clever genie, then? Ellie’s in a fairy tale phase—we could do this all night.”
Vincent didn’t reply right away, just turned his gaze back out toward the water, his fingers flexing against the railing. The salt air curled around us, thick with the scent of the sea and something heavier, unspoken.
“You don’t have to be clever with us,” I said quietly. “Just be yourself.”
I saw the way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his breath came in a little slower, more measured.
“Preston, you don’t understand.” His voice was quieter now, almost contemplative. “Every move I make has consequences. There’s no version of my life where I can be careless.”
I frowned, studying him. “Careless?” I shook my head. “You act like happiness is a weakness, Vincent.”
His jaw tightened, but when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual sharp edge. “Because for me, it is.”
I didn’t answer right away. There was something raw about the way he’d said it, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.
So I let the words settle between us, let him feel the weight of them, before I spoke.
“You know,” I said eventually, my voice softer, “When we first met, Malcolm was so rigid. I didn’t think he’d ever settle down because I wasn’t part of the plan. And even after we got married, I turned myself inside out trying to be his version of perfect.” I exhaled. “But then… he chose to be happy. He met me halfway. And our love got deeper, stronger, because we found happiness in the mess. We learned from the mistakes.”
I reached out, squeezed his forearm. He didn’t flinch away. That alone felt like progress.
“You deserve to be happy, Vincent,” I murmured. “Just like the rest of us.”
He didn’t reply, but he didn’t pull away either. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the dark water ahead, something unreadable flickering across his face.
After a moment, I let go, stepping back. “Come inside soon, before someone sends a search party,” I said lightly.
Vincent didn’t move immediately, but I got another small quirk of the mouth and a brief nod.
I knew better than to think I’d changed anything. Vincent Delacroix didn’t work like that. But maybe—maybe—I’d given him something to think about.
As I stepped through the terrace doors and into the golden warmth of the gala, I caught one last glance of him lingering just outside, watching the party from a distance.
For once, he didn’t look entirely removed from it.
The rest of the night was a blur of champagne toasts and dancing under the stars. Malcolm pulled me close as the quartet played something slow and romantic, his hands warm on my waist. “How’s Vincent holding up?” he murmured.
“Better,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder. “He’s trying.”
“That’s a start.” Malcolm kissed my temple and led me in a slow waltz, my hands appreciating the firm biceps beneath his tux jacket.
As the music swelled and I spun under the glittering lights of Monaco, I caught Vincent watching us from the terrace. This time, he didn’t look away. For once, there was no distance—just a moment of actual connection, brief but real. And standing there in the glow of the Riviera night, it felt like the beginning of something new.
From across the room, I noticed Julian speaking with a group of investors, his attention seemingly focused on them while Vincent remained alone on the terrace. Two powerful men, two separate worlds—rivals in every sense.
“You did well with him,” Malcolm said, pulling me closer as the music swelled.
“Who? Vincent or Julian?” I asked, leaning my head against his shoulder.
“Both.” His lips brushed my temple. “Vincent doesn’t let many people see the cracks. And Julian rarely bothers with pleasantries at Delacroix events.”
I smiled, savoring the warmth of his arms around me. “Maybe they’re both just getting older. Mellowing out.”
Malcolm’s soft laugh vibrated against my chest. “Mellowing is not in the Delacroix vocabulary. And certainly not in Julian Whitaker’s.”
I glanced back to the terrace one last time, where Vincent stood alone, his silhouette sharp against the night sky. For all his wealth and power, there was something undeniably lonely about him—something that made my heart ache despite his cool demeanor toward me.
“Everyone deserves happiness,” I murmured, thinking of the changed expression I’d seen on Vincent’s face. “Even your brother.”
Malcolm’s arms tightened around me. “Even my brother,” he agreed, though I could tell he wasn’t sure what form that happiness might take, or if Vincent would ever allow himself to reach for it.
