After the Headlines

The first thing Galaxy felt was warmth.

Vincent was wrapped around her like he was afraid she might dissolve in the night. One arm pinned across her waist, his leg hooked over hers, his face buried in her hair. Every breath stirred the strands against her neck.

She didn’t move. She never moved first anymore.

These minutes before the world remembered they existed were sacred. No phones. No headlines. No strangers with opinions about her marriage.

Just warmth. Just him.

She shifted slightly, trying to see his face. His arm tightened immediately.

“Don’t.” His voice was rough with sleep.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” He pulled her closer, his lips brushing her shoulder. “Stay.”

“I have studying to do.”

“Skip it.”

“Vincent.”

“I’ll buy every textbook ever printed. You can study here. In this bed. Indefinitely.”

She laughed softly. His hand moved — slowly, deliberately — from her waist to her hip, fingers finding the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.

Her breath caught.

His thumb drew a slow circle against her hip bone. Then lower. Each stroke more intentional than the last.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered.

“I don’t play fair.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “I play to win.”

She turned in his arms and found his face inches from hers. Half-open eyes, dark and heavy-lidded. Jaw rough with stubble. Looking at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

He kissed her. Not gently. Vincent Drax did not kiss gently in the morning. He kissed like he had spent the entire night dreaming about it and was furious that waking had taken so long.

His hands pulled her shirt over her head. His mouth traced down her throat, between her breasts, lower. She arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair, soft broken sounds falling from her lips.

“Vincent—”

“I’m celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“You.” He looked up at her, and the raw devotion in his eyes made her chest ache. “You exist. That’s worth celebrating every morning.”

He hooked his fingers into her underwear and pulled them down her legs. His mouth found her where she needed him most, and Galaxy stopped thinking entirely.

His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes — tasting, learning, savoring. His fingers slid inside her while his mouth continued its relentless focus, and she gripped the sheets so hard her knuckles turned white.

“I’m going to—”

“Then let go. I’ve got you.”

She shattered with his name on her lips. He worked her through every tremor until she was boneless and gasping.

When he rose above her, she pulled him down and guided him inside her. The sound he made was guttural and broken — his forehead dropping against hers as he filled her completely.

They moved together. Slow at first, then urgent. His hands pinned her wrists above her head. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“You’re mine,” he said against her mouth.

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Vincent—”

He swallowed the rest with a kiss. His thumb found her clit between their bodies, circling with devastating precision, and she came apart a second time — clenching around him so tightly that he followed immediately, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that shook through both of them.

They collapsed together. Breathing. Trembling. Wrecked.

His hand found hers in the sheets.

“I keep waiting for this to feel normal,” she whispered.

“Does it?”

“No. It still feels like I’m getting away with something.”

He kissed her forehead. Soft. Sacred.

“You’re not getting away with anything. You earned this.”

“I think it’s the other way around.”

“Then we’re both lucky.”

The kitchen smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon.

Galaxy came downstairs glowing. Maren noticed immediately. Her eyebrows rose. She said nothing, but her expression contained entire novels.

Sal slid a plate toward Galaxy without being asked. “You look rested, Mrs. Drax.”

Galaxy blushed. “I slept well.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Maren swatted him with a towel. “Leave her alone.”

Hugo came in from the garden carrying yellow wildflowers. He set them on the counter in front of Galaxy without ceremony.

“The yellow ones are blooming early. Thought you’d like them.”

Galaxy touched the petals and felt her throat tighten. These people — Maren, Sal, Hugo — had become something she never expected to find in this house. Family.

Vincent appeared in the doorway. Still slightly rumpled. He poured coffee and leaned against the counter, watching Galaxy eat with an expression that was somewhere between adoration and territorial surveillance.

Nero entered carrying a tablet. “Sir. The interview requests are still—”

“Later.”

“The board wants—”

“Later, Nero.”

Nero retreated. Galaxy threw a piece of toast at Vincent. He caught it without looking.

“Childish,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

The letter arrived at four in the afternoon.

Nero brought it to Vincent’s study — cream-colored paper, heavy stock, an embossed seal Galaxy recognized from the covers of medical journals she had been reading since she was sixteen.

The Whitfield Prize.

The most prestigious academic award for first-year medical students in the country. Only three students were nominated nationally each year.

Galaxy Emery Drax had been nominated.

She read the letter three times. Then she ran.

She burst into Vincent’s study without knocking. He looked up, immediately alert.

“What happened?”

“I got nominated. The Whitfield Prize.”

Vincent went still. Then he was moving — around the desk, across the room, lifting her off the ground and holding her against his chest.

“I knew it.” His voice cracked. “I knew they would see you.”

“What if I don’t win?”

He set her down and took her face in his hands.

“Galaxy. You walked into this house with nothing but your name. You broke a thirty-year scholarship record. You survived things that would have destroyed anyone else.” His thumbs traced her cheekbones. “You really think they won’t see what I see?”

She was crying. “What do you see?”

“Everything.”

He kissed her. She kissed him back. And the celebration that followed left his study floor covered in scattered papers and the desk in a condition that would require professional repair.

The voicemail arrived at eleven that night.

Galaxy was getting ready for bed. Vincent was in the bathroom. The bedroom was warm and quiet — still carrying the sweetness of the evening.

Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

She almost ignored it. Reporters had been calling constantly.

But something made her press play.

The voice was older. Rougher. Familiar in a way that made her stomach drop.

“Galaxy. It’s your father.”

The room tilted.

“I know I don’t have the right to call. I know what I did. But I need to see you. There’s something you need to know. Something about your husband’s family.”

Pause.

“Please. Just five minutes. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for a chance to warn you.”

The message ended.

Galaxy stood frozen. Phone pressed to her ear. Heart hammering.

Marcus Emery. The man who had signed her away like a debt payment. The man she had spent two years trying to forget.

He was back. And he knew something about Vincent’s family.

The bathroom door opened. Vincent emerged, expression soft and unguarded.

He looked at her and stopped.

“Galaxy? What happened?”

She should tell him. Every logical part of her brain screamed to hand him the phone.

But this was her father. Her wound. Her history.

She needed to decide what it meant before she let anyone else touch it.