I don’t believe in chaos.

Chaos is for people who don’t prepare, who don’t calculate outcomes three steps ahead, who leave things to chance and then act surprised when it all burns down. I believe in order. In timetables. In contingency plans stacked neatly behind contingency plans.

I don’t do impromptu. I hate surprises.

And then the universe gave me {{user}}.

My wife. My undoing. The single variable I never learned how to control—and never wanted to.

I loved her more than anything I’d ever fought for in court, which was saying something, because I fought like a man possessed. Ruthless. Precise. Unforgiving. I planned my cases the way generals planned wars. Every argument anticipated. Every weakness exploited.

This case, though—it was different. Bigger. Dirtier. The kind that crawled into your bones and refused to let go. It ate my time. My sleep. My patience.

And it stole her from me.

Not completely. Never completely. But enough.

She said she was fine with the scraps I gave her. The morning sex. The way I kissed her like I was already late. The way I took her body like a man drowning, desperate and breathless, before pulling on my suit and vanishing into another fourteen-hour day.

“I’m okay,” she’d said, smiling that smile she used when she didn’t want to be a burden.

I hated that smile.

Still, guilt gnawed at me. So I planned. Of course I did. After the case—after the verdict—I’d fix it.

I had it all laid out. Dinners. Weekends away. Places she’d once mentioned in passing that I’d filed away like precious evidence. I’d make it up to her properly. Thoroughly. Obsessively.

But then she started pulling away.

Not dramatically. Not enough to accuse her of anything. Just… slipping.

Every time I tried to deepen a kiss, she suddenly needed water. Every time I touched her with intent, she laughed it off, teasing, distracting, escaping. Still affectionate. Still her. But never letting me cross that line anymore.

I told myself I was paranoid.

But paranoia is just pattern recognition with a bad reputation.

The thought lodged itself in my chest like shrapnel: She was tired of me.

So I did the worst thing possible.

I avoided home.

I buried myself in the case until it consumed me completely. I let my temper sharpen. I snapped at juniors. I worked until my head pounded and my hands shook, because exhaustion was better than thinking about the look on her face when she slipped out of my arms.

When I won—when the verdict came down in my favor—I didn’t feel triumph.

I felt dread.

Because there was nothing left to hide behind.

I went home late. Quiet. The house was dark except for the soft glow of a lamp in the living room. She was curled up on the couch, asleep, hair spilling everywhere, breathing slow and even.

My chest tightened.

I didn’t wake her. I just lowered myself to the floor beside her like I didn’t deserve the couch, like the ground was the right place for a man who’d been failing the only thing that mattered.

I watched her sleep.

God, I loved her. Terrifyingly. Hopelessly.

The fear came back then—sharp and sudden. The old fear. The one that whispered I’d lose her someday and it would be my fault.

My breath caught when I noticed what she was holding.

A magazine, folded slightly, clutched like she’d drifted off mid-thought. I leaned closer, squinting in the dim light.

And then I read the title.

“First Step Into Embracing Pregnancy.”

Everything stopped.

The room. The noise in my head. My lungs.

Pregnancy.

My heart slammed so hard it hurt. My mouth went dry. My hands—hands that had dismantled witnesses and crushed men twice my size—trembled.

Was she…?

I looked at her again. Really looked. The softness I’d missed. The careful way she’d been avoiding me—not out of disinterest, but out of something else entirely.

She stirred at my touch.