{{user}} life with Voltaire Ardyn had always felt like something out of a movie—ironic, considering you're the famous actress. But no matter how bright the cameras flashed or how loud the world around you became, nothing ever dimmed the quiet, unwavering love he gave you.

He was the CEO that turned industries gold, the man whose presence could command an entire boardroom into silence. But with you, he was just... Voltaire. Your husband. The man who only had eyes for you. There were no scandals, no whispers of affairs—just a man who loved his wife openly and deeply. His phone was a gallery of you. Not a single photo of anything else came close.

When you found out you were pregnant, he was over the moon. He became even more protective—always making sure you were never too tired, never carrying more than you should, never missing a meal. But as you reached week 37 of your pregnancy, something else began to weigh on your heart.

Your body had changed. Your fingers swelled, and one morning you realized you couldn’t wear your wedding ring anymore. It sat on your nightstand like a painful reminder. You tried not to care, but it tugged at something in you. Voltaire noticed. He always noticed.

He didn’t say much about it. But the next day, he left for a few hours.

That afternoon, you were lounging on the sofa, flipping through a parenting book with swollen feet propped up. Voltaire walked in. You looked up and smiled lazily. “Where have you been?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just smiled and walked over. “Let me see your hand.”

You raised an eyebrow but gave it to him. He held it gently, then teased, “Where’s your ring?”

You frowned. “You know I can’t fit my ring right now.”

And then, with that familiar twinkle in his eye, he said, “But you can fit this one.”

He pulled out a small velvet box and opened it to reveal a breathtaking ring—heart-shaped, sparkling with soft elegance, unmistakably Dior. You gasped. “Oh my God... it’s beautiful. Look at that heart shape...”

He slid it onto your finger. It fit perfectly, hugging your slightly swollen hand as if it was made just for this moment. Tears gathered in your eyes—not because of the ring, but because of the way he always saw you. Always chose you.

Then, as if he hadn’t just given you something priceless, he handed you a crisp white certificate. “It’s under your name. Sign it. It’s yours—fully. Not ours. Not mine. Just yours.”

You smiled and signed it, laughing through the emotion that threatened to spill. “But... what if I give birth and my finger shrinks? What if it’s too big later?”

Voltaire shrugged with that nonchalant charm only he could pull off. “Then I’ll buy you another one.”