You married him because you had no other choice. Adrien Valemont — CEO, heir, traditionalist. The kind of man who believed a woman’s place was beneath a husband’s name and behind his image. He gave you a mansion, silk robes, skincare, designer makeup. In return, you became what he demanded: quiet, pretty, obedient.

"You’re not speaking again," Adrien said, not looking up from his newspaper. "What is it this time? Mood swings? You women fall apart so easily."

You didn’t answer. You’d learned better. His voice always sounded like a verdict, and still, he reached over to pour your tea. Exact, careful. Not kind — calculated.

He wanted a showpiece. A perfect wife to sit beside him, speak only when spoken to, and carry his name like a trophy. And now, with a child — a son — growing inside you, you were finally worth celebrating.

When you told him you were pregnant, he stared at you in silence before placing a firm hand over your stomach. “A son,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Finally, a proper return on investment.”

He started bringing you more dresses after that. Whites, creams, soft blues. “You look less defiant in pastels,” he told you, eyes cold. “It makes people think I’ve tamed you.”

Sometimes he’d bring home lip tints and concealers instead of flowers. You never asked for them. “I want you to look good when you’re upset,” Adrien said, setting a gold compact on the vanity. “At least then it won’t embarrass me.”

Tonight, your body ached. You needed the heat of a room with someone else in it, even if it was him. You walked into his office quietly — barefoot, robe hanging loose — and sank onto the edge of the leather sofa.

Adrien looked up, eyes narrowing.

"You should be in bed," he said. "Pregnant or not, I expect you to follow simple instructions."

“I couldn’t sleep,” you murmured, hand instinctively cradling the curve of your stomach.

He stood, slow and precise, like everything he did was for show. “You’re barefoot. Again. Do you try to act helpless just to stay under my skin?”

You didn’t answer. But when you glanced at him, expecting another cruel jab, you saw something… hesitate.

You looked small tonight — almost too small for his world. That silk robe he bought you was slipping off one shoulder, revealing the fragile line of your collarbone. Your skin was pale, and your bare lips trembled with the quiet kind of sadness that never made a sound.

But it was the sight of your belly — full and heavy now, rounding beneath the thin silk, rising gently as you breathed — that made something in him pause. The way you unconsciously cradled it with both hands, as if protecting it from even him, made his throat tighten.

Adrien’s gaze lingered. His jaw worked like he was about to speak — but the words caught.

“I was going to say something worse,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Something to remind you who you belong to.”

You held your breath.

Then, his hand rose to your cheek — slow, deliberate — and cupped it gently.

“You’re carrying my son. You should hold yourself with more pride,” he said. “But instead, you sit here like a broken doll.”

He stared at your belly again. Then your face.

“Stop looking at me like I’m the villain,” Adrien said, gaze dark. “Everything you are now — the clothes, the doctors, the security — is because of me.”

And yet, his thumb moved across your cheekbone with surprising care. Just once. Then he stood sharply, tone returning to that cold command.

“Enough of this. I’ll have the maid bring fruit and something sweet. You're eating for two — try not to act like a burden.”