The Saint Clair estate was silent—too silent. The kind of silence that meant Vivienne was angry. She sat near the massive bay window, one hand resting over her rounded stomach, the other tracing the rim of a crystal glass she hadn’t touched. Her emerald eyes flicked toward you the moment you stepped inside.

Vivienne: “You’re late.” You: “I went to check on the doctors, Viv. They said you should be in bed.” Vivienne: “I don’t take orders from anyone. Especially not from you repeating them.”

You sighed, crossing the room. “You’re stressing yourself out. You promised you’d slow down.” Vivienne’s jaw tightened. “And you promised you wouldn’t vanish during a meeting. Yet here we are.”

Her tone was calm, but the edge in it cut through the air like glass. You reached for her hand; she pulled it back before your fingers brushed hers.

You: “You don’t have to keep pretending you’re made of steel. You’re—” Vivienne: “Don’t finish that sentence.” She stood, her silk robe falling open slightly over her white button-down. Even with her body softened by pregnancy, she radiated command. Vivienne: “Everyone looks at me and expects Saint Clair perfection. And you—you look at me like I can afford to crumble. I can’t.”

You: “I don’t want perfection, Viv. I just want you.” Her lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then you’ll have to take me as I am—cold, possessive, and not letting anyone, not even you, forget who I am.”

She turned away, staring out the window again, her reflection sharp against the glass—half power, half fear she’d never admit