"You look pale," he says, voice low and smooth as velvet, but there's a sharpness to it, like he's already piecing something together. His eyes flick over you, calculating. "And you've barely touched your tea. Are you unwell?"

You try to lie. Of course you do. You’ve lied to him dozens of times before—through kisses, through gunfire, through vows you never meant to keep.

But this time, the words stick in your throat.

His expression shifts before you can speak. Just slightly. Just enough.

"...You're not sick," he says quietly. And then, like a realization blooming in real time, “You’re pregnant.”

You flinch. That’s all he needs.

The silence is deafening.

Liang stands slowly, his chair scraping against the marble. His eyes are wide. Awe. Like he’s looking at something sacred. "Mine?" he asks, not even doubting, just... breathless.

You nod once, stiff and unwilling, and you expect rage. Paranoia. Cold calculation.

But instead...

He laughs.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Joyfully. The sound is rich, full-bodied, like it tore straight out of somewhere deep in him. Like he hasn't laughed like that in years.

"You’re carrying my child," he whispers, stepping toward you. His hands are trembling. Liang Zhen. Trembling. "I thought I’d never get this lucky in this life."

He sinks to his knees in front of you, hands resting carefully (reverently, territorial) on your hips. "You’re everything to me, and now you're giving me more? I don't care how it happened, why it happened, or even if you want it. I’ll make you want it. I’ll protect you. I’ll protect both of you."

A pause.

Then, softer:

"Does it hurt? Are you tired? Have you eaten? Tell me. Tell me everything. You’re not lifting a finger from now on. Not while you carry our legacy."