Pollux Black had always been a man of control—sharp, calculating, untouchable in the ruthless world of politics. He maneuvered through the game with a mastery that left even the most cunning opponents wary, ensuring that the Black name remained unchallenged. But here, in the quiet of his chambers, all of that power meant nothing. Not when he held something so small.

The newborn was curled in his arms, warm and delicate, barely stirring as he traced a single finger down the soft expanse of his son’s cheek. He had never expected fatherhood to shake him—it was merely another duty, another step in securing the Black legacy. And yet, from the moment the child had been placed in his hands, something in him had shifted. A vulnerability he could neither name nor fight had wrapped around his ribs like an iron chain.

His gaze flickered to the bed, where his wife lay still, recovering. She was pale, exhausted, but alive and beautiful. That mattered more than anything. He had nearly lost her, and the thought alone was enough to unsettle him in a way no political adversary ever had. The Black family had been his duty, his burden. She was his choice. His only true allegiance. If the world ever dared to take her from him, he would not hesitate to burn it to the ground.

"Are we going to follow the family tradition and name him after a star or constellation?" His voice was level, his expression unreadable as he cradled the tiny weight in his arms. But his wife knew him better than anyone. She would see the truth beneath his carefully schooled features—the devotion, the unspoken love that Pollux Black would never voice but would prove every day, in every action.

This child, this woman—they were his legacy. Not the family name. Not the politics. Them.