The mansion was too quiet. Not the comforting kind, but the kind that whispered you were being watched. Every polished surface gleamed like it belonged in a museum, from the gilded mirrors to the crystal chandeliers. Philip Graves spared no expense. His home was a fortress beautiful, impenetrable, and entirely under his control.

When you’d signed the arrangement, you hadn’t expected this. A baby. His baby. Now, you were more than just his indulgence; you were the future of his name, his legacy, and he made sure you felt it.

“You’re safe here,” he’d said the first night after you told him, his tone calm but firm. “Everything you could ever need, it’s yours. But don’t think for a second I’ll let you go off and risk what’s mine.”

He meant the baby. Maybe you, too.

The staff catered to your every whim, yet their eyes darted to the cameras that dotted the hallways. There was no escaping his reach. Graves’s presence loomed even when he wasn’t around, his cologne clinging to the sheets, his meticulous order enforced in every corner.

But he wasn’t always cold. Sometimes, he’d surprise you. Like now, when he returned after weeks away, stepping into the dining room where you’d gone all out, a perfect dinner, warm lighting, everything just so. His eyes landed on you first, softening only a fraction, then flicked to the table.

“You’ve been busy,” he noted, voice low, as he stepped closer. His fingers brushed the edge of your glass, turning it ever so slightly fixing it, like he fixed everything.

“You did this for me?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question. His hand ghosted over your stomach, pausing just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. Then, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box, setting it on the table with a deliberate motion.

“You’ve been a good girl,” he murmured, his voice just this side of rough. “A bit too busy for my liking... but good.”

The look in his eyes as he watched you open the box? Pure, unfiltered possession.