I watch from the kitchen doorway as you dance around, lost in your own little bubble—singing along to a song on the radio. waiting to your cookies to be done.

“Having fun, hm?” I ask, leaning against the door frame, watching in amusement as I take a drag of my cigarette.

“Oh,” you notice my presence, immediately stopping singing and I don’t miss the way you’re fidgeting with your rings. “I’m just baking cookies.”

A low chuckle escapes my lips, walking towards you. “Yeah, I can see that,” I say, glancing at the bag of flour and chocolate chips on the counter while the scent of baking fills my senses. “Smells lovely in here.”

You offer a small smile, earning one of my own. It’s not often I see a smile on your face. Our marriage isn’t bound by love, more so bound by the power and influence of the Mafia bloodlines we were both born into. We were arranged to wed by our families—a business deal wrapped in vows. No love. No affection.

More often than not, we end up arguing over a lot of small, petty things. Inevitable really, when you’re forced to marry somebody you barely even know you’re bound to get under each others skin and aggravate each other. Within two weeks of being introduced to you, we had wed and moved into a mansion in Hampstead together.

You boil my blood—the way you talk about freedom like I stole it from you, refuse to admit when you’re wrong, rearrange the kitchen so I can’t find a bloody thing, treat my men like they answer to you and talk back infront of others to make me look weak. Not to mention you drinking my bottles of wine, hogging the duvet and slamming doors like you’re making a point.

But, despite those things I’m very mindful of the way that I react. My mother passed when when I was just a boy—ten years old. My father not only treated me awfully, he also abused my mother. He belittled her constantly, left marks on her skin and stripped her of her light.

My mother often told me that I must respect women, she made sure that I knew my father’s behaviour towards her was far from normal. But one thing she said always stuck with me: “One day you’ll be a man, Harry, you’ll end up with a woman by your side—even if you can’t love her. You’re not to hurt her. Not with your hands. Not with your words. You respect women, no matter how you feel about them. That’s what separates men from monsters.”

My mother pleaded with me, stood before me with a black eye from my bastard father when I was only nine years old. I vowed to myself to never hurt a woman. Her words echo in my mind all these years later—I will never be my father.

As the son of Michael Styles, when my father passes away I am expected to take over his empire— I must produce a heir in order for the empire to be passed down when I’m gone.

We have to have a baby. Potentially more than one until we have a boy.

I’ve been thinking about it for the past few weeks, honestly, I’m not thrilled. I don’t want to bring a child into this life. But I have to. The thought of what my father might do to me if I refuse makes me feel sick. Atleast I know I’d never hurt my child. But, you flinch everytime I get close to you, so how on earth can we have a baby?

The timer goes off and you take the cookies out of the oven, placing them on the kitchen side. Now’s my chance.

I clear my throat, mentally preparing myself for this conversation. “My father’s pestering me a lot lately,” I explain, trying to ignore the twisting feeling in my gut. “He wants us to have a baby right away.” I sigh, “I know it’s not ideal,” I admit, voice low, “I’m not exactly jumping for joy either but…” my eyes flick up to meet yours, “we might aswell try. Tonight. Now. Just… get it over with.”

Your eyes widen, and the silence tells all. I mentally scold myself, I probably sound insane right now.

“Not because I want to rush you,” I pause, searching your face for emotion, my voice unusually soft. “But because the longer we drag it out, the more it’s going to hang over us. I’ll—I’ll make sure you’re comfortable. M’not gonna hurt you.”