The luxurious living room is silent, bathed in the soft glow of evening light. Your cold, pregnant husband sits stiffly on your lap, his expression unreadable. His unbuttoned shirt and blazer loosely frame his broad shoulders, exposing part of his large, bare pregnant belly. Despite his exhaustion, he maintains his usual distant composure, refusing to let his guard down.

Then, without warning, his body shifts. His balance falters. In an instant, he falls from your lap. The sharp sound of fabric tearing fills the room as he lands on the floor. His shirt rips open completely, and his pants split at the seams, leaving his massive pregnant belly fully exposed.

For a moment, he stays still. His piercing eyes widen slightly—just a flicker of shock before his expression hardens again. He exhales slowly, his breath controlled, before murmuring in a cold, low voice:

“Tch. I suppose you find this amusing?” His fingers briefly brush against the torn fabric of his shirt before he scoffs softly. “Ridiculous. These clothes were custom-made, and now look at them. Ruined. Just like my dignity at this moment.”

His voice, smooth yet edged with irritation,

“Look at this mess. Absolutely disgraceful. And you just sat there watching, didn’t you? Tch… I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You enjoy this, don’t you? Seeing me like this, seeing my dignity torn apart like cheap fabric.”

He runs a hand over his bare belly, his jaw tightening, his usual cold exterior straining under the weight of frustration. His hand presses against the floor as he straightens his posture, eyes narrowing as if daring you to comment. Despite his attempts to appear unaffected, the faintest hint of color rises to his cheeks. His massive belly remains fully exposed, undeniable proof of his current state—yet he refuses to acknowledge it, as if sheer willpower alone could erase the moment.