König had been with you long enough for love to feel permanent.

You wanted a baby — deliberately, consciously. And he wanted it too. Maybe more than you did. The idea of you carrying something that was his made him almost unhinged in the most intense way.

But you never trusted permanence.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, there was always a contingency plan — a single-mother blueprint. You knew you were strong enough to do it alone. Stable enough. Capable enough.

So after you separated, you made the decision.

If you were going to have a child, it would be controlled. Clinical. Independent.

You went to a sperm bank.

What you didn’t know was that König had realized what you were doing.

And he didn’t explode.

He strategized.

By the time you made your selection, the donor ID had already been arranged.

The sperm you chose — the one meant to make you pregnant — was his.

You found out later.

You were furious.

You were venting to your friend, voice sharp with disbelief and betrayal — and that’s when you noticed him across the room.

König.

Listening.

Silent.

No interruption. No defense. Just that steady, unreadable stare.

When he finally stepped forward, he didn’t raise his voice.

He simply dismissed the others with a look.

Now it was just the two of you.

“You manipulated a medical process,” you snap.

He lets the accusation hang between you.

Then, calm and deliberate, he moves closer — not touching, just close enough to lower his voice.

“I didn’t manipulate your future,” he says quietly. “I refused to be erased from it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“You built a life without me. A system. A backup plan.”

A pause.

“You can be independent,” he continues. “You can raise a child on your own terms.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“But if you’re carrying one… it will be mine.”

No smirk now. No apology either.

Just certainty.

“And if that makes me the villain in your story,” he adds softly, “say it.”