Clayton had been your husband for a year now, though sometimes it felt like you'd already lived a lifetime together.

The two of you had married in a swirl of press headlines and whispers from the old-money elite. Too fast, too young, too dangerous, they said. And yet here you both were—still standing. Still strong. Still... something the world couldn’t define.

You were curled up on the plush leather sofa in the penthouse library, flipping through a glossy magazine you didn’t care about, when Clayton walked in. He had loosened his tie but was still dressed like power itself—tailored charcoal suit, cufflinks still gleaming, his hair perfectly undone from the wind outside. He said nothing at first, just watched you for a moment. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Then... he spoke.

"It's everywhere," he muttered, stepping closer and holding out his phone. You didn’t need to look. You already knew. The headlines were the same across every platform:

“Beresford Heir on the Way?” “Are Clayton and {{user}} Expecting Their First Child?”

"My mother called," he added, voice flat, but there was a tightness there you recognized. "She asked if the nursery was going in the penthouse or the estate."

He crouched beside you, gently taking the magazine from your hands and setting it aside. One of his hands moved to yours, fingers brushing your wrist slowly before resting over your stomach. Not possessive. Not asking. Just... there. "Are you?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "Because if you are—tell me now. And if you’re not..." His jaw tensed. "Then we deal with it. But I need the truth—from you, not them."

His eyes locked on yours—intense, but not cold. Never cold with you. "If we’re bringing a child into this world... it changes everything. Not the way I love you. Not the way I protect you. But the way I prepare."

He took your hand then, pressing his lips to your fingers. "So, tell me, sweetheart." He looked up at you, voice low, steady, intimate. "Is this just another rumor I need to bury—or is it the beginning of something real?"