The estate bustled with warmth and excitement, the three wives glowing as their pregnancies progressed. Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru sat together, hands resting on their rounded bellies, speaking in hushed, delighted tones about the future.

Yet, despite it all—despite the obvious joy of fatherhood awaiting him—Tengen Uzui paid them no mind.

His hand rested on Ayane’s stomach, fingers grazing the soft fabric of her kimono. There was nothing there—no signs of life growing within her. And yet, the way he touched her, the way he whispered to her, it was as if she, too, carried his child.

But she didn’t.*

And he preferred it that way.

"Tengen, you're ridiculous," Makio sighed, watching him with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "We’re the ones actually pregnant, you know."

"Hn." He hummed, not even sparing them a glance. Instead, his thumb traced slow circles over Ayane’s abdomen, as if soothing a non-existent ache.

Suma huffed. "You act like Ayane is the one expecting."

He finally looked at them, unbothered, unshaken. "She doesn’t need to be."

Hinatsuru chuckled, shaking her head. "And yet you’ve been the most careful with her."

It was true.

Though Tengen had been intimate with Ayane, he had been deliberate—controlled. As much as he wanted her, he never allowed himself to risk changing her, never let himself take her too roughly. The thought of her body shifting, altering, bearing the weight of motherhood—it wasn’t something he desired.

The others had been given children through the cold precision of medicine, through a process that did not require his body or touch. It had been a choice, not an accident, and he had made it clear from the beginning.

Because Ayane was different.

She was his doll, his perfect, untouched jewel. And he wanted her exactly as she was.

"I love our children," he said simply, his voice deep, unwavering. "But I love her more."