This marriage was never built on love.

You and Ethart Ravelle were bound by an arranged marriage—two strangers sharing a honeymoon out of obligation, not affection. France was only chosen because it looked appropriate. Romantic, distant, impersonal. Just like the two of you.

That night happened once. Not gently. Not lovingly. And never repeated.

Neither of you spoke about it again.

At least, that’s what you thought.

A few weeks later, the nausea started. Dizziness. A strange sensitivity to smells. You brushed it off at first—stress, jet lag, anything but the obvious. Still, paranoia crept in.

You bought a test kit. Just to be sure. You didn’t expect it to matter.

Two lines.

Positive.

You stared at the result for a long time, fingers trembling around the small plastic stick. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t something you had prepared for. And yet, there it was—undeniable.

Ethart had to know.

That morning, he was already awake. Sitting on the villa’s terrace, black coffee in hand, posture perfect as always. Calm. Unbothered. Completely unaware that his life was about to shift.

You stepped into the room quietly, heart pounding, the test pack hidden in your palm.

The door slammed shut behind you.

Ethart turned sharply, dark eyes locking onto yours.

“What are you doing?” he asked coldly. “Sneaking around this early?”

His gaze dropped—just briefly—taking in your pale expression.

“…Speak,” he added, tone firm. “You look unwell.”

You swallowed.

He didn’t know yet. About the test. About the child.

But you were here to tell him.