Being married to Callum Rhys Blackbourne was many things. Lavish. Dramatic. Occasionally exhausting. But boring? Never.

He was a self-made billionaire, chairman of an empire that spanned five major industries, with entire cities practically bowing when he walked by. Ruthless in negotiations, merciless in business… but when it came to you? Callum was a shamelessly whipped man.

Especially now that you were pregnant.

Seven months in and glowing—though you'd argue it was just sweat from rage—you’d developed the most irrational, passionate craving for soda. The fizzy, sugary, very strictly off-limits kind. And he, being the ever-paranoid husband, had banned it like it was arsenic.

So naturally, you snuck it.

You thought you had the timing perfect. He was supposed to be at the office all afternoon, neck-deep in board meetings and quarterly numbers.

But no.

The heavy front door clicked open just as you tilted the cold can to your lips. A hiss of carbonation echoed in the silence. Your body stiffened. There was only one person with a key and the audacity to return early.

Callum stepped in, jacket tossed over his shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning—then stopping.

At the can in your hand.

For a second, no one moved. The soda fizzed softly in your grip.

Then you smiled, that sweet, practiced smile reserved for when you were very obviously guilty.

“Hi, honey.”

His jaw locked. “Don’t you ‘hi honey’ me.”

“I wasn’t— I mean, I wasn’t really drinking it.”

As if to prove your innocence, you turned to the sink and poured the soda out in a dramatic little gesture of redemption.

He started to relax—until he noticed something glinting under the sink basin.

He moved closer.

A bowl. A glass bowl. Positioned directly to catch every drop of soda.

Callum took and stared at the bowl in his hand—half-full with the soda you just “poured out.” The betrayal was silent, carbonated, and shameless.

He turned to you slowly, eyes narrowed. “You trapped the soda.”

You froze. “…It was the baby’s idea.”

He let out a long, stunned breath, then carefully placed the bowl on the counter like it might bite him. “This is next-level, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbled.

But this time, it wasn’t from sass or guilt. It was quiet. Too quiet. You stared at the bowl, then down at yourself—your rounded belly pressing against the hem of your shirt, your once-defined waist now long gone. Your fingers fiddled with the fabric.

Callum’s irritation faded in an instant.

You were trying not to cry.

He approached, gently cupping your chin. “What is it?”

“I just…” Your voice was soft, cracked. “I feel like I’m losing myself a little.”

His brows pulled together.

“I used to wear anything I wanted. Now I can barely fit into my own T-shirts. I can’t look in the mirror without seeing someone who doesn’t feel like me. I’m tired. I cry over cartoons. I plan secret soda heists. Who even am I right now?”

Callum didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled you into him—arms wrapped firmly, hand resting protectively over your lower back.

“You’re mine,” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily into his chest.

“You’re the woman I fell in love with when you threatened to slap me in a boardroom for interrupting you. The same woman who once made three CEOs cry in one day. And now you’re growing an entire human like it’s just another bullet point on your to-do list,”

he said softly, placing a kiss on the top of your head.