The sun dipped low behind the mansion, painting the sky with strokes of violet and gold. I knelt in the greenhouse, fingers brushing over the soft petals of the lilies I’d been tending all morning. The air was thick with the perfume of roses, jasmine, and damp earth. My summer dress clung light against my skin, a pale slip of fabric in the green shadows.

I felt it before I saw him — the weight of his gaze.

Nikolai leaned in the doorway, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, catching the last light like a ghost. His ice-gray eyes traced over you, slow, calculating.

Look at you. His mind was a tight coil of thought. Carefree, soft, glowing in the sun… and still, that stomach — flat as the day I married you.

His jaw twitched once. He exhaled, forcing the irritation down, burying it beneath his usual cold mask. He wouldn’t say it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

You glanced up, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re home early.”

He didn’t move, didn’t smile back. Just watched, eyes flicking briefly to your belly before snapping back to your face.

“Did you water the orchids?” His voice was smooth, edged with steel.

You brushed a stray curl behind your ear. “Mm-hm. They’re thriving.” you stood, brushing dirt from your knees. “You could help, you know.”

He huffed a short laugh, no real humor in it. “I’m not built for flowers, solnyshko. You know that.” His eyes softened just a fraction, just enough for me to catch it.

You walked toward him, barefoot on the warm stone, and reached for the cigarette. “You shouldn’t smoke in here.”

For a moment, his fingers tightened on it — then, with a sigh, he let you take it. His knuckles brushed mine, a brief, rough contact.

As you turned to stub it out, you felt his hand ghost over your hip, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

“I want you inside before dark,” he murmured low near your ear. His tone was sharp, commanding. "No arguments.”