A cool spring breeze whispered through Reginald Fortescue-Finch’s London townhouse as he finalized the guest list for his impending nuptials. Having carved his fortune in the City, celebrated for sharp investments and fleeting affairs splashed across tabloids, Reginald was ready to settle down once more. His bride-to-be was Arabella Worthington, a society beauty and influencer whose engagement ring sparkled worth more than an entire terrace house. As his assistant hovered, Reginald tapped the list.
“Add Felicity.”
“Felicity… your first wife?” his assistant questioned, eyebrows raised.
“Precisely,” Reginald declared, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Let her witness what she gave up.” He needed no further explanation; the smug satisfaction in his tone was ample.
Felicity Pembroke-Finch had stood beside Reginald long before millions filled bank accounts, preceding hedge funds, acquisitions, and society pages. They married young, when funds were tight yet optimism overflowed. She championed him when others scoffed. But five years of neglect, endless meetings, and a gradual shift into a stranger shattered their bond. She departed quietly, leaving only a signed decree and her simple ring beside the kettle. He never sought reasons, assuming she lacked the fortitude for his grand designs. Her abrupt departure remained a mystery he hadn’t cared to solve. Until now.
In a tranquil Cotswold village, Felicity sat on her cottage porch. Her six-year-old twins, Oliver and Imogen, drew cheerful hopscotch on the garden path. The morning post brought an envelope. She unfolded thick, cream cardstock.
“Mr. Reginald Fortescue-Finch and Miss Arabella Worthington request the pleasure…”
Her knuckles whitened around the invitation.
“Mummy, is that?” asked Imogen, appearing beside her.
“A wedding invitation,” Felicity replied, setting it down. “From… your father.”
The word hung heavily, unspoken for years.
Oliver looked up, puzzled. “We have a father?”
Felicity nodded slowly.
They knew only a name from her past, shielded from the billionaire behind the headlines. She’d raised them single-handedly, juggling jobs before her fledgling home staging business took wing. There were solitary nights, tears shed for paths untraveled, yet never regret for protecting them from Reginald’s glittering, ego-driven sphere. Staring at the invitation, something shifted. She recalled the young man sketching business plans on pub napkins, brimming with world-changing ideas. The one who held her hand through the grief of losing their first baby – a pain that silently fractured them both.
Discovering she carried twins came just after Reginald closed his monumental deal, vanishing for days. Calls were met with “at the bank” or “in Geneva.” Then, she saw him on the front page, embracing another at a Mayfair gala. That sealed it. She left without explanation, never revealing the pregnancy.
Now, six years on, he wanted her to admire his polished new existence. She almost discarded the card. But her gaze fell upon her children – two remarkable beings inheriting his determined jawline and intelligent gaze. Perhaps it was time he realised what he’d forsaken. A wry smile touched her lips as she reached for her phone.
“Right then, loves,” she announced. “We’re attending a wedding.”
The ceremony unfolded at Charnwood Abbey, a magnificent Hertfordshire pile gazing over manicured English parkland. Crystal glinted, antique silk covered chairs, and archways dripped with ivy and roses. Guests adorned in Savile Row tailoring and couture gowns mingled, sipping champagne. Reginald stood at the altar, triumphant in handmade morning dress. Beside him, Arabella shimmered in McQueen, though her smile seemed brittle, failing to warm her eyes.
His attention snapped elsewhere.
Felicity entered quietly, elegant in sapphire silk. Her hair was swept back neatly. Each hand held a child of six – a boy and a girl. Their expressions were calm, curious, absorbing the spectacle with wide, observant eyes.
Reginald hadn’t truly expected her presence.
Arabella leaned close, her whisper sharp. “That’s her? Your ex?”
He nodded, distracted.
“And those children?” Arabella pressed, eyeing the twins.
“Must be someone else’s,” he murmured, though a knot tightened in his gut.
As Felicity approached, a hush descended. She halted before him, the twins close.
“Good afternoon, Reginald,” she stated, her voice level.
He forced a cordial smile. “Felicity. Pleased you came.”
Her gaze swept the grandeur. “Quite the spectacle.”
He chuckled awkwardly. “Life takes turns.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Indeed it has.”
Reginald’s focus shifted to the silent children gazing at him. His throat constricted.
“Friends?” he asked, already dreading the answer.
“They’re yours,” Felicity stated, calm as stone. “Your son and daughter.”
The impact stole his breath. The murmur of guests vanished into a pounding rush within his ears. He studied their faces – Oliver’s resolute chin, Imogen’s cleverly arched brows. Features echoing his own.
He swallowed hard. “Why… why wasn’t I told?”
“I tried,” Felicity replied, unflinching. “Repeatedly. You were unreachable. Then I saw you with her in the papers. I chose to walk away.”
His voice dropped. “You should have made me listen.”
“I was pregnant, stranded, and drained,” she countered, composure absolute. “I refused to beg for scraps from the financial titan.”
Arabella, observing nearby, tugged Reginald aside. “Is this genuine?”
He couldn’t respond. The twins shifted uneasily, sensing the sudden chill.
“Would you like to introduce yourselves?” Felicity prompted gently.
Oliver stepped forward, extending a small hand. “Hello. I’m Oliver. I like palaeontology and astronomy.”
Imogen followed. “I’m Imogen. I enjoy watercolouring and I can perform a cartwheel.”
Reginald knelt, overcome. “Hello… I’m… your father.”
They simply nodded – no judgment, only open acceptance. A solitary tear escaped his control. “I had absolutely no idea.”
Felicity’s expression softened marginally. “I didn’t come for vengeance. You wished me to see your achievements.”
He stood slowly, reality pressing down. “Instead, I see six years of my most vital project missed.”
The wedding coordinator tapped his shoulder. “Five minutes, sir.”
Arabella paced nearby, fury etched on her face.
Reginald turned back to Felicity and the children. “I need… I want to know them. May we speak?”
Felicity hesitated, then gave a single nod. “That rests entirely on one question: do you seek fatherhood now, or merely wish to avoid scandal?”
Her inquiry struck sharper than any market crash.
“I want to be their father,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If you permit it.”
The wedding never commenced.
Days later, Arabella released a statement citing “irreconcilable differences” and “personal revelation.” Gossip columns feasted briefly. To Reginald, it held no weight.
For the first time in years, he went not to an empty Belgravia mansion, but to a modest cottage garden where two children laughed, chasing fireflies beneath a twilight sky. A woman he had once cherished lingered nearby, poised at the edge of forgiveness. And for the first fleeting instance in more years than he cared to count, he stopped building corporate empires. Instead, he carefully began rebuilding something vastly more fragile, and infinitely more valuable. Prosperity means nothing without an heir to share it with.