Chapter 15: First Births & Lactation

Spring 2021 arrived with a sudden thaw that turned the Chicago sidewalks into rivers of slush, but inside the penthouse the air stayed thick and warm, heavy with the new rhythm of tiny cries and milk-scented skin. Mia’s labor hit at three in the morning on a quiet Tuesday, her water breaking across the marble floor of the master bath while I held her through the first contraction. The private birthing suite I’d arranged at the top-tier hospital downtown felt more like a luxury hotel than a medical ward—dim lights, soft music, a team of discreet professionals who asked no questions about the rotating cast of women who visited her room. I never left her side. Her hand crushed mine through every push, sweat plastering her black hair to her forehead, until the final moment when our son entered the world with a fierce, healthy wail that cracked something open inside my chest.

I cut the cord myself, hands steady despite the storm behind my ribs. Mia’s exhausted smile when she held him for the first time—tiny fingers curling around hers—hit harder than any portfolio spike ever could. This was the bloodline I’d fought eight years to build. Mom followed three weeks later, delivering our daughter in the same suite while the rest of the harem waited in the private lounge, passing around coffee and quiet prayers. Sophie and Tara came next in quick succession, their labors spaced just far enough apart that the house never truly quieted. By late summer four newborns filled the nursery wing we’d converted from the old guest rooms—soft coos and the faint scent of baby powder drifting through the halls like a constant reminder that every risk, every late-night code session, every calculated market move had led here.

Lactation settled into our days like a new language we all learned together. The first time Mia offered her breast in the nursery rocker, milk already beading at her darkened nipple, I knelt without thinking. The warm, sweet rush across my tongue as I latched on sent a low groan through me that made her laugh softly and thread her fingers through my hair. “Drink,” she whispered, voice husky with more than maternal instinct. “It’s yours too.” The taste—rich, faintly sweet, uniquely hers—flooded my senses while her free hand guided my other palm between her thighs. She was soaked already, the new sensitivity turning every suckle into foreplay. I drank deep while two fingers curled inside her, stroking slow until her hips rocked and she came with a muffled gasp against the baby’s blanket.

It became ritual. Mornings started with the four new mothers lined up on the wide sectional in the living room, robes open, breasts heavy and full. I moved down the row on my knees, mouth closing around one nipple after another while the women touched themselves or each other in lazy circles. Mom’s milk flowed strongest, thick and creamy, and she’d cradle my head to her chest while Tara’s fingers slipped between her legs from the side. Sophie’s release came quickest—petite frame shuddering as she squirted lightly onto the towel beneath her, the clear fluid mixing with the faint drip of milk that escaped when I switched to her other side. Tara liked to watch, eyes dark, one hand on her own belly where our next child already grew. The sounds filled the room: soft pulls of suction, quiet sighs turning into moans, the occasional wet click when milk sprayed too freely and ran down my chin.