When William realized that a fleeting night of passion had led to new life—a child growing within a girl he barely knew—his world shifted on its axis. At first, disbelief clouded his thoughts, yet as the truth settled in, a quiet sense of duty took root in his heart. He began visiting her often, these visits at first awkward, then tender in their own restrained way. He would bring her gifts: soft maternity dresses, shoes that promised comfort, and baskets filled with all manner of things she might crave. No whim was too strange, no hour too late—his bodyguards were under strict orders to fulfill her every desire, whether it be strawberries in winter or pastries from a faraway bakery.

Now, with her belly rounding beneath her hand and nearly four months of life growing strong inside her, the news came—a boy. His son. His heir.

The realization struck him with a strange, electric pride. A son—his blood, his name carried forward. Yet, though his heart stirred, his mind remained resolute. He wanted no romance, no binding of hearts. What existed between them was circumstance, not love.

And so, he went to the grandest stores in the city, wandering through aisles lined with soft blues and silvers, touching tiny clothes no larger than his palms. He bought blankets of cloudlike cotton, miniature shoes crafted from supple leather, toys carved from fine wood and painted in the softest hues. He spared no expense, as if through the act of giving he could build a bridge between them—a bridge of care, not affection; of duty, not devotion.