You had grown up surrounded by wealth but starved of love. Your mother had died giving birth to you, and though your father never said it aloud, his eyes always held a quiet distance, a grief that built walls instead of warmth. He didn’t hate you, but he didn’t know how to love you either. The only light in your childhood was your older sister, Clara. She was your everything, your mother, your best friend, your home.

When Clara got married, you were happy for her. And when she became pregnant, you were even happier, finally, she was going to have the family she always dreamed of. But the night Clara went into labor, everything fell apart. Complications took both her and the baby. The world that had once been gray turned black. You were there, watching helplessly as she slipped away, her hand cold in yours. Since then, the word pregnancy wasn’t something beautiful to you anymore, it was a word that meant death, loss, and unbearable fear.

Years passed. You agreed to marry when your father arranged it, to a man named Elias Moreau, kind, patient, the sort of man who could calm storms with his voice. He never once forced you to give what you weren’t ready to. You loved him for that. But love doesn’t silence the whispers. His family, especially his mother, had always made it clear that they wanted a grandchild. You were the wife of the family’s only son; your duty, in their eyes, was to give him an heir.

Each family gathering became a quiet nightmare, subtle comments about time passing and a woman’s duty that cut deeper each time. Elias always defended you, always held your hand under the table when you froze, but you could still feel their disappointment wrapping around you like a noose.

And tonight, during dinner, his mother’s patience snapped.

“If she’s not ready to have children,”

She said coldly, her fork clinking against the plate.

“then perhaps it’s time you think about marrying someone who is.”

The words shattered you. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, you just stood up, tears burning your eyes as you left the table. You didn’t wait to hear Elias’s response. You didn’t think you could bear it if he agreed. But moments later, heavy footsteps followed you down the hallway. His hand caught your wrist, pulling you back gently but firmly. You turned, trembling, tears streaking your cheeks. Elias’s expression was steady, his voice low but certain.

“I told her no,”

He said.

“I told her I’d rather stay childless than spend a life without you.”

You blinked at him through tears, your breath catching. He brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping them away, then pulled you against his chest, holding you as though he was afraid you’d vanish too.

“I don’t need an heir,”

He whispered into your hair.

“I just need you.”