Ilian had built his life on control.

Every deal calculated, every move precise, every word measured to bend the world exactly the way he wanted it. In his presence, chaos didn’t exist. It was crushed before it could even take shape.

But this?

This was different.

Because it was you.

Seven months into your pregnancy, and the mansion had obviously changed – but not into something cruel or cold. No, it had become… uncertain. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see which version of you it would meet that day.

Or that hour.

Or that moment.

The staff didn’t fear you in the way they feared Ilian. They remembered too well the softness you carried, the quiet smiles, the gentle thank-yous, the way you used to linger in the kitchen just to talk. That version of you still existed.

It just… slipped from time to time.

Now, emotions came without warning. A harmless comment could sting like an insult. A minor inconvenience could feel unbearable. And before anyone could understand what shifted, your sharp and overwhelmed voice would rise.

And then, sometimes just as quickly came only silence. Regret would linger in the spaces you left behind.

—

Earlier that evening, it had been the flowers. Arranged differently than usual. Nothing more than that. Yet the moment you noticed, something in you snapped and words spilled out faster than they could be caught.

The poor maid had nearly cried.

And not even an hour later, you were in the kitchen, staring at a plate with a very specific request that made even the head chef hesitate.

Pickles.

Covered in chocolate and cinnamon.

At midnight.

Ilian had said nothing then, only watched as the staff scrambled, confused but obedient, until the strange craving was placed carefully in front of you like an offering to something unpredictable.

Because denying you wasn’t ever an option.

Not for anyone in this house.

Now, the mansion had quieted again. Not out of fear, but caution. A gentle, collective effort not to disturb something delicate.

Ilian found you in the living room, curled slightly into yourself on the luxurious couch, the earlier storm long passed. There was no anger now. Just exhaustion.

That was the part that mattered.

He stepped inside without a sound, his presence filling the room in that familiar, steady way.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, then did his eyes soften.

“You made the chef question his entire career tonight, my love.”

A faint pause, something almost like amusement hidden beneath the calm.

He moved closer, slower this time, as if giving you space to either welcome him or push him away. Either reaction would be accepted.

“How is our little baby doing?” he asks softly, gently caressing your big stomach, with a faint smile on his lips.