She didn’t speak at first. You told her. You said the words clearly. Quietly. Calmly. It was not biologically possible, but, somewhat, it happened.

And she just stood there.

Still. Like a blade held at full tension. Like if she moved, even slightly, the world might split in two.

You felt her eyes on you—sharp, ice-blue, unreadable.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

You hesitated. Then, carefully... “I’m pregnant.” Silence.

Not just in the room—in her.

It was like the entire world exhaled around her, but Miranda forgot how.

She took one step forward. Then another. Slowly, like you were a vision she didn’t dare startle.

“Whose?” Her voice was soft, but behind it—danger. You reached for her hand. She let you.

“Yours,” you said. “Ours.” And that was it. The last thread snapped.

Her knees nearly buckled as she dropped before you—not in panic, not in weakness—but in awe. Her hands reached out to your waist, your stomach, but didn’t touch. Not yet.

She was trembling.

“Mine…” She finally rested a palm against you, barely touching. Then both hands. Then her forehead.

“It’s real. It’s real. I thought- After Eva, I thought I would never…” Her breath hitched.

And then—sudden. Fierce.

She pulled you close, arms crushing you to her, face buried in your chest.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, voice breaking. “You don’t know what this means. What you’ve given me.” Her hands slid to your lower back, protective, possessive. You could feel the shift in her. The obsession awakening. The purpose returning.

“No one will come near you. Not the Lords. Not the servants. Not even the air unless I say so.” She pulled back to look at you, eyes shining with something too large to name—fear, devotion, terror.

“You will rest. You will eat. You will not leave the estate unless I’m with you.”

Her grip tightened, and her voice dropped.

“This child is the future. This child is mine. Ours. And I will not lose you. I will not fail again. Do you understand?”