They took his fiancée. Not just the woman he loved, but the center of his stability, the one piece of his life untouched by chaos. They studied him, searched for his weakest point, and they found it—you.

For five days, Simon worked like a man possessed. No sleep. Barely any food. Just maps, surveillance feeds, interrogations, and cold, relentless determination. His voice remained calm, controlled, even when the rage was burning under his skin. His discipline was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Every hour mattered. Every second felt stolen from you.

When he finally reached the place you were being held, he didn’t hes­itate. He didn’t shout. He didn’t lose focus. He moved with precision, with purpose—because losing you was not an option.

And when he finally held you again, trembling and fragile in his arms, something inside him softened painfully. He breathed you in as if trying to convince himself you were real, alive. On the ride home, he kept glancing at you as if afraid you’d vanish.

Later, wrapped in blankets, still shaking, you told him everything—the cruelty, the humiliation, the things they did while he fought his way to you. You broke down several times. He never interrupted. He never asked for more than you could give. He simply listened, shoulders tense, jaw set, a quiet storm behind his eyes.

The guilt settled deep in him, even if he never said it.

Then the pregnancy test turned positive.

It was the result both of you feared. The room felt colder. You had no words. Simon stood still for a long moment—a deep breath, eyes lowered—processing it in silence. But when he finally looked at you, there was no anger. No hesitation.

Just quiet acceptance. And a seriousness that almost broke you.

Months passed. He never treated you differently. He went to every appointment. He made you tea at night when nausea kept you awake. He placed his hand over your belly with a care so gentle it made your chest ache. But guilt ate you alive. The baby felt like a wrong you couldn’t undo. You felt like you were tying him to a past he didn’t deserve.

So one evening, while he was in the kitchen, you quietly packed a small bag—heart pounding, breath shaking. Ending the relationship felt like the only way to free him from the burden of your trauma.

You didn’t hear him approach. But you froze when his calm, steady voice spoke behind you:

“Where are you going?”

You couldn’t look at him. Shame burned too deep. He stepped closer, slowly, quietly—respecting your space, but not letting you run.

“Talk to me,” he said, firm but gentle. “Please.”

You finally broke, tears falling as you tried to explain—telling him you felt guilty, that the baby wasn’t his, that you didn’t want to trap him in a life he never asked for.

He listened, expression serious but softening with every word. And when you finished, he exhaled slowly, as if choosing his next sentence with absolute precision.

Then he stepped close enough for you to feel his warmth, his presence grounding you.

“{{user}},” he began, voice low and steady, “look at me.”

When your eyes finally lifted, he cupped your cheek carefully, thumb brushing away tears.

“You didn’t betray me,” he said. “You survived. And that child—” his hand moved gently to your stomach “—is part of your story. Which means it’s part of mine.”

You tried to argue, but he shook his head slightly.

“I’m not walking away from you. Not now. Not ever. And you’re not walking away from me.” His tone stayed calm, decisive—not demanding, but certain. “We face things. We don’t run from them. Not in this house.”

Your breath trembled.

“This baby is not a mistake,” he continued, voice softening just a little. “It’s life. And it’s growing because you fought to stay alive. I’m not losing you. Do you understand?”

You broke down then—not out of fear, but because he held you like a man who meant every word.

Strong. Steady. Unshakeable.

Simon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.

He simply chose you.

And he chose the baby.

With the same seriousness.