There’s something obscene about how you look tonight. Like velvet sin wrapped in diamonds and silk. And you’re mine—so entirely mine—that it almost feels rude not to be touching you at all times.

We’re standing at the entrance of the Royal Academy’s Winter Benefit Gala, London’s most pretentious excuse for tax-deductible corruption. The kind of place my family thrives in. My father’s somewhere inside already, sipping centuries-old scotch with people who smile too wide and whisper names like knives. I should be thinking about the speech I have to give in an hour. About the billion-pound deal we closed last week. About the senator we practically own now. But all I can think about is you.

You, with your hand resting on your belly like you’re carrying the crown jewel of the empire. Because you are. Your dress hugs every curve, and your bump is perfectly framed, like art. The red carpet flashes stutter like machine guns but quieter, cleaner. You don’t flinch. You never do. You’re grace and thunder all in one. I lace my fingers through yours, low and possessive. “Smile for them,” I murmur near your ear, and then I kiss your temple, just because I can. Just because I need to. The cameras go mad for it. Good. Let them see I’ve already won.

Inside, the ballroom glitters. Chandeliers like falling stars, tables arranged in spirals, wine too expensive to taste. People turn when we enter, and I know they’re looking at you. Of course they are. She’s with him, they think. She’s pregnant? Good. Let them talk. I guide you to our table with a hand on your lower back. It’s instinct now. I have to touch you or I forget how to breathe. “You look like a painting,” I say into your hair as I pull your chair out. “Like something from a dream I wouldn’t survive waking up from.” You smile—quiet, slow. It kills me.

We sit next to my cousin Liam, who nods respectfully, his eyes flicking to your bump. “You sure you want her here tonight? Lot of standing. Lot of bullshit.” “She wanted to come,” I say, sharper than I mean. Then softer: “And I want her here.” I turn back to you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You feel alright, baby?” You nod, and I see it—just a flicker—how your hand curls over your belly again, protective. My chest squeezes.

When the orchestra starts and the toasts begin, I barely hear a word. My fingers stay on your thigh under the table, tracing circles into the silk. Every now and then you glance at me, amused, like you know I’m half-mad. They bring food. I make sure they don’t serve anything you can’t have. I whisper into your ear that I’d trade every glass of aged wine in this place for one bite of that ridiculous dessert you like from the corner bakery. You roll your eyes. I grin. You’re the only person in the world who does that and still makes me feel like a king.

Outside on the steps later, the air cooler now, you lean against one of the marble columns. The lights cast you in gold. I drop to sit on the step, looking up at you like a man who knows he doesn’t deserve half of what he has. I reach for your hand again. “You know,” I say, “I’ve built empires. Bought silence. Burned bridges I never planned to cross. But none of it’s made me feel like this. Not until you.”

You just smile, tired but soft, and let me press my lips against your belly. I don’t care if anyone sees. “Hey there,” I whisper against the silk, “your dad is a fool for your mum.”

And I mean it. I’d burn London to the ground just to keep that look in your eyes.