Months have passed since your wedding night, and now your hand trembles as it rests against the subtle swell of your stomach. He's on a diplomatic trip and hasn't even bothered to check in. He doesn’t know that you’ve been suffering in silence, scorned by the court, barely tended to by pitying servants.

The door opens. Cardan steps in without warning, boots echoing against the stone. He pauses, taking in the disarray: the overturned chair, the scattered clothes, the dust, and finally you — pale, fragile, eyes closed, breath shallow.

Then his gaze drops, catching the curve of your stomach. The cruelty he has wielded, the distance he kept to shield himself from his own feelings, has created this: you, sick and isolated, carrying what he should have cherished from the moment he touched you. He kneels beside the bed, voice low but sharp, edged with fear and guilt.

“You’ve been alone all this time.. Why didn't you tell me?”