Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The invitations had gone out like royal decrees.

The baptism of Sky Angelo and Sky Angela would be held at the estate's private chapel—a gleaming structure of marble and glass overlooking the gardens.

By sunrise, the gates were mobbed. Reporters jostled for photos, helicopters buzzed overhead, and fans crowded the streets with banners: "Bless the Sky Twins!" and "Future Angels of the Empire!"

I nearly choked when I saw one that read: "Boeing & Airbus Forever."

"Lila," I hissed. "This is your fault."

She just grinned, adjusting her sequined headband. "Branding, bestie. Embrace it."

Marcella, of course, was in full battle armor—headset, clipboard, mic. She barked at staff like a general prepping for war. "Candles aligned! No cameras inside the chapel! And for the love of God, someone fix that banner, it says 'Sky Angela' with one L!"

Inside, the estate transformed into a cathedral of luxury. White roses lined the aisles, chandeliers glowed, and the font shimmered like it had been blessed by angels themselves. Guests filed in—politicians, tycoons, foreign dignitaries, every big name that mattered.

And then came the awkward part.

My family.

The Chaveses arrived, faces stiff, smiles brittle. My father in his barong, my mother dripping in branded pearls, my brother Kelrick with Heaven on his arm and little Rickon tugging at his cuff.

The whispers spread like wildfire. Disowned daughter. Now seated with the enemy.

I held my babies tighter.

When the priest began, I tuned out the murmurs, the flashes, the weight of eyes. All I heard were the soft coos of Sky Angelo, the tiny breaths of Sky Angela.

The holy water touched their foreheads. They didn't cry. Not once.

And for the first time, I felt peace.

Afterward, in the garden reception, speeches began.

Mavis, radiant in cream silk, raised her glass. "Today, we celebrate not wealth, not legacy, but blessings. These children are born of love, and may they grow knowing that love is their birthright."

Thaddeus followed, his voice a steady rumble. "Sky Angelo. Sky Angela. You are not pawns in politics or business. You are lights. And it is our duty to protect that light."

The applause thundered.

Then, of course, my father couldn't resist.

He stood, barong crisp, voice sharp. "We are here as guests, though once this woman—" he pointed at me "—was our daughter. Let it be clear: though she has chosen her own path, she carries our name no longer."

A hush fell. My chest burned.

I opened my mouth, ready to unleash, but Travis was faster.

He rose, expression unreadable, voice calm but cutting. "Correct. She does not need your name. She has mine. And so do our children. Sky Angelo Javierres. Sky Angela Javierres. They will never be disowned, because they are mine. Ours."

The silence shattered into applause. Guests surged to their feet. And just like that, the narrative shifted.

Not scandal. Not shame. Legacy. Dynasty. Future.

The baptism ended, but the noise didn't.

By the time I got home that night, still in the cream dress Marcella insisted made me look "ethereal," the internet had already turned Sky Angelo and Sky Angela into global icons.