While Cynthia Lewis is hired by Princess Di to orchestrate a charitable function, Freddie Mercury has agreed to perform. Neither one of them believed that they were to meet their match. Both wealthy, successful and highly sexual, their encounter lea...
The rented estate in Hampstead had long been returned to its original owners—though the staff still whispered about the "wedding of the decade" with the man in gold feathers and the woman who once had a gnome tossed at a saboteur.
Now, Freddie and Cynthia had settled into a grand Georgian mansion in Kensington. Not that anything about their life had settled, really. Freddie's definition of "home" included three grand pianos, a leopard-print nursery, and at least one assistant whose only job was to make sure Cynthia never ran out of chocolate-dipped strawberries.
And then came the scream.
Cynthia gripped Freddie's hand like a vice. She had sworn she didn't want him to see the business end of childbirth. Now she wanted him to suffer.
"You did this to me, you reckless melodramatic peacock!"
"I DID," Freddie wailed, panicked, "AND I'D DO IT AGAIN!"
"Don't tempt me to kill you!"
The midwife, unfazed, guided them both through the final push. Rosalie stood nearby with a cool cloth and a string of whispered prayers. Brian and Roger ran for the hills, but good old dependable John stayed, it was almost routine for him and he stayed for Freddie not knowing how he would react or maybe faint.
And then—just after midnight—a sound filled the room.
Not a guitar riff. Not a scream.
A wail.
Tiny. Fierce.
Alive.
-----
Freddie sat in a rocking chair, his wild hair flattened by exhaustion. In his arms: a small, squirming bundle wrapped in white.
The baby blinked up at him—dark eyes, strong little fingers already gripping the corner of his black silk scarf.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
He was utterly ruined.
Cynthia, still recovering, looked over with an exhausted smile. "You're holding her like she's a rare antique."
"She is a rare antique," he whispered. "She's bloody priceless."
He gazed down again, softer now. "Hello, little meteor. I'm your dad."
The baby blinked.
"She already looks like she knows more than I do."
"She does," Cynthia said. "Most people do."
Freddie grinned and let a tear escape. "She's going to have my fire and your brain. The world isn't ready."
"Good," Cynthia whispered, closing her eyes. "Let's raise some hell."
========
The house was filled with flowers, cards, teddy bears, and a telegram from Brian that read: "STOP. She has your cheekbones. STOP. Give her a guitar by age five. STOP. Love, B."
Roger had left a voicemail singing lullabies in falsetto. John Deacon had come back with a crib he built by hand. Karen was drafting a press release that said absolutely nothing and everything at once.
Freddie stood in the nursery, rocking his daughter gently to the rhythm of "Somebody to Love" playing low in the background. She had already thrown up on three of his favorite shirts. He didn't care.
"Look at you," he whispered. "Little world dominator. Just like your mum said."
Cynthia appeared in the doorway, barefoot and smirking. "You're smitten."
"I'm rewritten," he corrected, kissing the baby's forehead. "Forever."
In the stillness of the night, Freddie Mercury—once untouchable, unstoppable, unreachable—sat in the dark, humming lullabies to the greatest collaboration of his life.
