It started with a cough. Just a stupid cough and a little fever. And suddenly, the entire Barnes Bratva Dynasty was knocking on your door with diamond-crusted rattles, tiny designer booties, and gold-embossed letters with baby name suggestions in Russian.

Even his mother—stone-faced matriarch of the underworld—smiled at you for the first time and whispered, “You’ve done good, devushka.” You hadn’t the heart to tell them.Because no one knew the truth.You and Bucky… you hadn’t even touched each other. One month of marriage. One shared bed. But not even a kiss.

He was polite. Distant. Formal.And tonight, you sat curled on your side of the bed, knees pulled up, wearing one of his shirts. The weight of the day made your chest ache—every well-meaning gift, every knowing glance.

He came in late. “You didn’t tell them.” His voice was a low rumble, accent thicker when he was tired.

You looked away. “Didn’t know what to say.”

Silence.

He walked closer. Unbuttoning his cuffs slowly, rolling up his sleeves.

“You want me to fix it?” he asked quietly, stopping by the edge of the bed.

Your breath hitched. “Fix what?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes dark. That dangerous kind of calm. Like a lion crouching just before the pounce.

“Let me get you pregnant for real маленькая женa (little wife). Or… do you want to keep playing house until they find out the truth?”