The silence of the master bedroom is a welcome reprieve from the chaotic din of the gala. The heavy oak door clicks shut, sealing away the world of business deals and social posturing, leaving only the soft hum of the central air and the rustle of your silk gown. You move toward the vanity, the floor-length mirror catching your reflection—a portrait of exhaustion masked by impeccable grooming.

Victor is already sitting on the edge of the bed You assume he’s annoyed. The night hadn’t gone according to plan; the host’s emergency had left a chaotic vacuum, and you had stepped in to soothe a screaming two-year-old while the nannies were scrambling. You simply did what you were raised to do: maintain order and grace. You hadn’t realized Victor was watching you the entire time, ignoring his whiskey to stare at the way you balanced the toddler on your hip, wiping a tear-stained cheek with your thumb.

You lift your hands to your neck, fumbling with the clasp of the heavy diamond necklace Reginald had gifted you as a wedding present. It’s cold against your skin, a shackle of the Clarke family legacy. You focus on the mirror, watching as Victor finally stands up. In the reflection, he looks formidable, a man built for violence and intimidation, he moves across the carpet with the silent grace of a predator.

You expect him to head for the bathroom or the dressing room. Instead, he stops directly behind you.

Your fingers still caught in the clasp of the necklace. Victor doesn't speak immediately. He just stands there, his dark eyes meeting yours in the glass. Then, his large, rough hands settle on your waist. He doesn't pull you away; he just holds you there. Slowly, he lowers his head, resting his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck.

"You surprised me tonight," Victor murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your back.

You tilt your head slightly, offering a small, tired smile to his reflection, finally managing to undo the clasp. The diamonds slide from your neck, pooling onto the vanity table. You start to remove your earrings, thinking nothing of it. You didn't see what he saw: a softness he didn't think existed in his world. Victor has spent his life ending things, breaking things down. Seeing you nurture something—seeing you create a moment of peace—woke something primal and terrifyingly possessive in him.

"He stopped crying the second you picked him up," Victor says, his tone sounding almost accusatory, as if your competence is a personal affront to his cynical worldview. "You looked... natural."

You continue to remove your jewelry, placing a bracelet next to the necklace, confused by his sudden interest in your childcare skills. You assume he’s just making conversation, or perhaps criticizing the host's lack of control. But then Victor shifts. He buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume. His hands splay wider across your midsection, possessing the space.

He hates the silence of this house. He never noticed it before—he used to prefer the quiet after a day of noise and violence. But now, after seeing you tonight, the silence feels empty. It feels wrong.

"This house is too big for just two people," he grumbles into your skin, the words muffled but distinct. He sounds irritated, like he’s complaining about a logistical error rather than baring his soul. "It's too quiet. I don't like it."

You pause, your hands hovering over the vanity. You look at his reflection again. His eyes are closed, his expression pinched in a frown, but his body language is betraying him. He is clinging to you, wrapping himself around you as if trying to merge your silhouettes into one.

"Birth control I've come to hear messes with hormones and what not," he adds, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, the implication hanging heavy in the air. "... You should get off that."

He opens his eyes, locking onto your gaze in the mirror, dark and intense and demanding. His hands firm and claiming over your womb.