Ch. 50 – Your Choice

“I told them... I told them I couldn’t give them an answer on my own,” she mumbled softly. She hesitated, biting her lip, looking genuinely nervous as she looked back up at him. “But... honestly, Rhys... I can’t deny that a small part of me feels like... like maybe we should help them out.”

Rhys felt as if a heavy industrial dump truck had just backed up and unceremoniously dumped its load straight onto his chest. He stared at her, his jaw slightly slack, before a dry, incredulous laugh burst from his throat.

“You’re joking, right, Lira?” Rhys asked, his voice pitching up in pure disbelief. “We don’t even have kids of our own yet! How can you even entertain the idea of giving my genetic code away to another couple when our own nursery is empty?”

Lira’s eyes flashed with a sudden, deep well of emotion, her posture straightening as she looked at him. “I know that, Rhys! I know we don’t have children yet. But for me... I think it goes deeper than that.”

Rhys stood bewildered, forcing himself to stay silent and listen, desperately hoping her explanation would make some semblance of logical sense.

“Bringing a child into the world... creating a life... it’s a beautiful thing,” Lira explained, her voice soft, earnest, and dripping with that cosmic, heroic idealism that had made him fall in love with her years ago. “It’s a gift. Who are we to deny another couple the chance to experience that gift if we actually have the power to help them? Especially when it’s our friends? If your biology really is the only key to making it possible for Shula...”

Rhys stood rooted to the spot, digesting her words. As much as he hated the situation, he couldn’t deny the underlying purity of her logic. She wasn’t thinking about the messy, boundary-violating weirdness of Shula’s obsession; she was thinking in terms of life, hope, and altruism.

Furthermore, her words hit a tender, buried nerve inside Rhys’s own heart. He had been longing for children for a long time. He had quietly planned on bringing up the topic of starting their own family this very year—in fact, right around this time. But between the chaotic aftermath of his retirement, the sudden influx of needy neighborhood housewives, and the mountain of secrets he was currently carrying, Rhys had to silently admit to himself that he had shoved his own domestic dreams onto the furthest back burner of his mind. And now, those neglected embers were boiling over in the worst possible way.

Rhys looked at his wife, testing the limits of her resolve. “Lira... let me ask you something honestly. If the roles were reversed... if Darius came to you and asked you to be their surrogate mother because Shula couldn’t carry... would you say yes?”

Lira’s brow furrowed tightly at the hypothetical. She opened her mouth to answer, closed it, and paused for a long, heavy moment, genuinely considering the weight of his question.

“Yes,” Lira finally admitted softly, her gaze steady despite the blush on her face. “I would say yes... but only with your express, unconditional permission, of course.”

Rhys was utterly floored. He stared at her, feeling a cold, solemn weight settle over his shoulders. So that’s where you stand, he thought, feeling profoundly isolated even while holding her.

Noticing the dark, unreadable shift in his eyes, Lira quickly began to splutter her words, waving her hands in a sudden panic. “I mean—only in an absolute extreme case, Rhys! Like, if it were literally a life-or-death scenario and absolutely no one else in the universe could do it!” She looked up at him sheepishly, her voice dropping to a small whisper. “Which... unfortunately... seems to be the exact, real-world factor in Shula’s equation...”

Rhys felt the figurative pit around him and Lira growing deeper and darker by the second. And to his utter dismay, his sweet, compassionate wife had inadvertently picked up a shovel and started helping Shula dig it.

“Y’know what... I think I’m just exhausted,” Rhys said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck and taking a step back, signaling clearly that he was done with the heavy conversation for the night. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Feeling the sudden emotional distance opening between them, Lira looked frantic, as if realizing she had accidentally started a fire she didn’t know how to extinguish. She reached out, pulling Rhys back in close by his waist.

“Wait, Rhys... please, one more thing,” she pleaded gently.

Rhys stopped, looking down at her glumly, his heart heavy.

Lira pushed through his dark, guarded expression with a look of pure, unadulterated love, cradling his hand in hers. “I want you to know... no matter what you decide, you shouldn’t feel a single drop of guilt. Whether your answer is yes or a firm, permanent no, I will stand by you and support you one hundred percent. You are my husband, Rhys. Your comfort and your peace come first. Always.”

Rhys’s guarded wall crumbled once again. He couldn’t stay cold to her. None of this was her fault. She was pure, good, and entirely innocent in a world that was growing increasingly dark and complicated around them.

Especially the parts she doesn’t know about, the devil on his shoulder chimed in again, cackling softly in the dark corners of his mind.

A heavy, tragic realization settled over Rhys: he was becoming the true source of chaos in his own life. His secrets, his indiscretions, and his inability to say no were starting to stain the pure, beautiful life he had built with the woman he loved.

Rhys leaned down, gently kissing Lira’s forehead. “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

“I love you too, Rhys,” Lira whispered, reaching up on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss against his lips.

The following day arrived with a merciful, quiet calm.

It was, thankfully, a thoroughly uneventful day—or at least, as uneventful as Rhys’s chaotic life could possibly be nowadays.

Lira’s rare day off had passed, and she headed back out early in the morning to fulfill her duties at the High League headquarters, leaving Rhys with the entire house to himself. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the silence of the suburban home was genuine. There was no Ariadne hiding under the dining room table, no desperate, breathless calls from Rhea across the street, and, most importantly, no unexpected pop-ins from Vespera dropping cryptic threats over coffee.

Rhys was thriving in the quiet. He loved every single second of it.

Determined to make constructive use of his rare free time, Rhys decided to focus on a real, tangible project. Ironically, the “catering business” cover story that Vespera had spun out of thin air to blackmail him was actually a genius idea. Rhys was a genuinely phenomenal cook, and establishing an actual, registered business would give him a legitimate, respectable anchor in his domestic life.

He spent the better part of the afternoon sitting at the kitchen island with his tablet, filling out official business incorporation paperwork, organizing detailed catering menus, and contacting local high-end food suppliers. By late afternoon, he had laid down a solid, professional foundation—something real, honest, and productive that he felt genuinely proud to build with his own two hands.

He set the tablet down on the counter, stretching his sore shoulders, and looked out the kitchen window at the peaceful suburban street.

Inevitably, his thoughts drifted. He thought of Vespera, of her dark, controlling influence, and of the various suburban housewives who had somehow become deeply intertwined with his daily routine. He thought of his other, unsanctioned “catering” service—the secret encounters, the hushed promises, the lingering scents of expensive perfume.

Rhys caught himself, rubbing his face with both hands in a wave of deep self-disgust. Why the hell am I even thinking about that? he scolded himself harshly. I am definitely not proud of letting that insane, destructive facade grow. It needs to stop. All of it.

As if the universe had been listening to his internal declaration of virtue and decided to burst into a cruel, mocking laugh, the front doorbell chimed loudly through the house.

Rhys froze instantly, his posture going rigid beside the kitchen counter.

He slowly walked out into the hallway, his heart beating a tense, rhythmic cadence against his ribs. He approached the heavy oak front door, reached out, and pulled it open—stopping dead in his tracks.

Standing on his front porch, looking up at him with a complex, swirling mix of deep hesitation, nervous tension, and quiet, unwavering resolve, was the one housewife he had least expected to see standing on his doorstep today.

Dione had finally come.