The wonders of being the heir to the prestigious House of Black. Regal name, ancient traditions, and centuries of carefully maintained legacy—it was all so romantic in stories, but in reality, it was a suffocating chain wrapped tight around Regulus’ neck.

First came the duty of marrying—because that’s what heirs did, they married. Not for love, of course, but for lineage. Conveniently, or perhaps mercifully, it had ended up being his best friend. But even that stroke of luck didn’t free him from the endless expectations clawing at his every step.

And now, here he was, facing the next unshakable obligation: producing an heir of his own. It wasn’t a request. It was tradition.

Regulus adjusted the cuff of his cdress shirt with precision, every movement calm, practiced. He stood tall, as if he could mold himself into the perfect heir through sheer posture alone. “I don’t want you straining yourself in any way, darling,” he murmured, voice low and dry.

He drew in a slow breath, his jaw tightening just slightly before he continued. “So, for the love of Merlin’s Beard, I beg you—don’t fight me on this.” There was a warning beneath the controlled veneer of his tone. But layered under it, too, was something softer, reluctant and real: the flicker of exasperated affection he could never quite hide from {{user}}.

“There needs to be an heir,” he added finally, the weight of centuries pressing down behind those few words. It wasn’t just his family’s will he was carrying—it was its legacy, its power, its curse.