Chapter 355: Little Helpers
Franz woke at dawn to the sound of retching.
The space beside him in the bed was empty, the sheets already cooling. He was on his feet before he was fully awake, crossing the bedroom in three strides, pushing open the bathroom door. The light was on, harsh and white against the morning dimness, and Arianne was hunched over the sink, her hands gripping the porcelain edges as if they were the only things keeping her upright.
She was throwing up. Her whole body convulsed with the force of it, her shoulders shaking, her knuckles white. The sound was raw and painful. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Her face was pale, almost gray, and when she finally stilled and lifted her head, her eyes were glassy with exhaustion.
Franz was at her side before he remembered moving. One hand found her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. The other reached for the washcloth hanging beside the sink, wetting it with cool water and pressing it to the back of her neck. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. She just stood there, trembling, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
"It’s all right," he said. "I’ve got you. Take your time."
She nodded without lifting her head. Her grip on the sink loosened. He stayed beside her until her breathing steadied, then helped her rinse her mouth and wipe her face. She leaned heavily on his arm as he guided her back to bed. She sank into the mattress, her eyes already closing, her body curling instinctively onto its side.
He pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Smoothed the hair back from her forehead. Her skin was clammy and cool.
"I’m going to stay," he said. "I’ll call Director Yang. I’ll tell him—"
"No." Her voice was a rasp, barely audible. "Go. You have filming. You have the company. I’ll be fine."
"Aria—"
"Aunt Estella is here. The twins are here. I don’t need you to hold my hand while I throw up." She opened her eyes and looked at him. Even exhausted, even pale and shaking, her gaze was steady. "Go. I’ll be fine."
He didn’t want to go. Every instinct he had told him to stay, to cancel everything, to crawl into bed beside her and hold her until the sickness passed. She was looking at him with that particular expression she wore when she had made up her mind about something, and he had learned long ago that arguing with her in that state was futile.
"Call me," he said. "If anything changes. If you need anything. I’ll come back."
"I know."
He kissed her forehead. He forced himself to stand, to walk to the door and start his long day, to leave her there in the dim bedroom with the covers pulled up to her chin and her eyes already closing again.
He was not even out of his door when she pushed back the covers and stumbled toward the bathroom again.
He called Aunt Estella from the car later.
"Morning sickness," Aunt Estella said. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, the voice of someone who had seen this before and was not alarmed by it. "It’s normal. Unpleasant, but normal. I’ll bring her soup and water. She needs to stay hydrated."
"She’s throwing up even when her stomach is empty," he said, his tone filled with worry.
"That happens. Her body doesn’t know the difference. I’ll take care of her. You focus on your work."
Franz wanted to say that he couldn’t focus on anything, that his mind was back in the bathroom with his wife’s white-knuckled grip on the sink. He thanked Aunt Estella and hung up and drove to the set, and for the entire day, his phone never left his hand.
The updates came in a steady stream. From Aunt Estella: She’s kept down some water. Threw up again an hour later. Sleeping now.
From Lily, typed on her tablet with the particular cadence of a five-year-old delivering a report: Mommy Aria looks very sick. She told us to stay away for a little bit. We’re sad but we understand she needs space. Leo drew her a picture of the baby. I put it on her nightstand.
Franz read that message three times. The image of Leo, watchful and unmoving, drawing a baby for Arianne because he didn’t know how else to help.
More updates followed. Aunt Estella: She managed some broth. It stayed down for an hour. Progress. Lily: We’re being very calm. Leo is practicing his big brother skills by organizing the baby’s future bookshelf. There aren’t any books yet but he’s organizing the shelves anyway.
Aunt Estella again: She’s sleeping now. Real sleep. I think the worst of it is passing for today.
The hours stretched. Franz got through his scenes by muscle memory, his lines delivered on autopilot while the rest of his mind remained at the estate. Director Yang, who had been informed of the situation by Daryll, was unusually accommodating. He didn’t ask for extra takes or push for more. He nodded when Franz finished each scene and moved on to the next setup.
After filming, Franz drove straight to Rochefort Group. His father had been handling the day-to-day operations, but there were documents requiring Franz’s signature and decisions that couldn’t wait. He worked through them mechanically, his phone propped against his computer monitor, watching the updates as they came in.
Aunt Estella: She’s awake. Drinking water. Hasn’t thrown up in three hours.
By the time he left the office, the worst of the day seemed to have passed.
He arrived home in the evening to find the twins waiting for him in the kitchen. They had already eaten dinner—Aunt Estella had fed them earlier—but they had saved him a plate. He sat with them at the table and listened while Lily narrated the day’s events in exhaustive detail.
"She threw up seven times," Lily said. "I counted. The first three were before breakfast. The next two were after Aunt Estella brought her soup. The last two were when her stomach was empty. Leo says that’s the worst kind because there’s nothing to throw up but your body keeps trying."
Leo nodded solemnly. He typed: BODY DOESN’T KNOW STOMACH IS EMPTY. KEEPS TRYING TO THROW UP. VERY RUDE.
"Very rude," Franz agreed.
"She’s sleeping now," Lily added. "Aunt Estella said the sickness will go away eventually. When the baby gets bigger. She said it happens to lots of pregnant mommies."
"It does."
"It happened to our first mommy too, didn’t it? When she was pregnant with us?"
Franz paused. The question was unexpected, but Lily was looking at him with those dark, steady eyes, and he knew she deserved an honest answer.
"Yes. It did. She was very sick with both of you. Your daddy felt helpless—he didn’t know how to help her. But he did his best. He tried to find the foods she could eat. He stayed with her when she was sick. He did whatever he could, even when it didn’t feel like enough."
Lily took this. "Did it work? Did she feel better?"
"Eventually. It took time. But she always said it was worth it. Because she got you and Leo at the end."
Lily considered this. Then she turned to Leo, and they had one of their silent conversations—the kind that needed no words, just a glance and a nod. When she turned back to Franz, her expression was determined.
"We should buy lots of fruits for Mommy Aria. Fruits are healthy and they’re easy to eat. Leo and I can help peel them and cut them. We’re very careful with knives. Well, Leo is. I’m learning."
Leo typed: I CAN TEACH HER. CAREFUL KNIFE SKILLS.
Franz smiled. A month ago, he heard from Arianne that the twins insisted that they buy plastic knives for the kids so they could help Aunt Estella in the kitchen.
"See? Leo will teach me." Lily folded her arms with the satisfaction of someone who had solved a difficult problem. "We’ll be her little helpers. Like you were for our first mommy."
Franz looked at them. At Lily with her fierce determination, at Leo with his steady calm. They were so much like Alex and Layla. They were so much like themselves.
"She’s lucky to have you," he said. "Both of you."
Lily beamed. Leo typed: WE KNOW.
After dinner, Franz handled the night routine. Baths. Pajamas. Lily’s hair brushed and braided so it wouldn’t tangle in the night. Leo’s tablet plugged in to charge, the whale positioned on his pillow, the Lion tucked under his arm. He read them a story about a rabbit and a turtle, Lily’s choice, and by the time he reached the final page, both of them were fighting to keep their eyes open.
He tucked them in. Kissed their foreheads. Lily was already half-asleep, her hand curled around Petal. Leo’s eyes fluttered closed as Franz pulled the blanket up to his chin.
"Goodnight, little helpers."
Lily murmured something unintelligible. Leo’s lips curved in the faintest smile.
Franz turned off the light and left the door cracked.
The bedroom was dim when he finally made his way there. The lamp on the nightstand was turned low, casting a soft amber glow across the bed. Arianne was awake, propped against the pillows, a glass of water on the nightstand beside her. She looked better than she had this morning—pale, tired, but the grayish cast was gone from her skin. Her hair was damp, brushed back from her face. She must have showered while he was putting the twins to bed.
"Seven times," he said, crossing to the bed. "Lily counted and told me."
"She would." Arianne’s voice was hoarse but steadier than it had been at dawn. "She also told me about the fruit plan. She and Leo are going to peel and cut fruits for me. Apparently, Leo is going to teach her careful knife skills."
"I heard. They’re very committed."
"They’re very something." She moved over to make room for him, and he climbed into bed beside her. She leaned into him without hesitation, her head finding the curve of his shoulder, her body relaxing against his.
He wrapped his arm around her. Kissed her hair. "How are you feeling now?"
"Empty. Tired. A little less like I’m dying."
"That’s an improvement."
"A small one." She closed her eyes. "The doctor said this might happen. That it might get worse before it gets better."
"I know."
"I don’t like it."
"I know that too."
She didn’t say anything else. Neither did he. The lamp glowed softly on the nightstand. The house was hushed around them—the twins asleep down the hall, the whole estate settling into the hush of night.
Arianne’s breathing slowed. Her hand found his on the blanket and held it.
Franz stayed awake a while longer, listening to her breathe, feeling the weight of her body against his. Tomorrow she might be sick again. Tomorrow he might have to leave her again, phone clutched in his hand, torn between the work that needed doing and the wife who needed him. Tonight she was here, and she was resting, and the baby was growing, and they were together.
That was enough. For now, it was enough.
