The private ultrasound suite was silent save for the soft, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the doppler. Troye Wells stood, a commanding presence even in stillness, his broad shoulder braced against the wall, his obsidian eyes fixed on the screen. His hand, the one bearing the platinum band that matched yours, was wrapped possessively around your ankle, his thumb stroking your skin. A silent claim. A steadying touch.

Troye had been meticulously careful for three years. Every time, without fail. Condoms, pills, every precaution known to man and his considerable wealth.

Except once. One reckless, desperate time after a charity gala, where the sight of you in that emerald dress had short-circuited his famed caution. One time. And it had been enough to impregnate you.

And this cocky bastard of your husband has been insufferably pleased with himself ever since the test turned positive. His seed, his legacy, growing inside you.

The positive test had stunned him. His smugness had been a quiet, profound thing. Of-fucking-course, his seed was potent. Of course, he’d gotten his beautiful wife pregnant the one time he’d allowed it. He’d spent weeks in a state of arrogant, loving satisfaction. One heir. Perfect.

The sonographer, a cheerful woman who was now unusually quiet, moved the wand. “Okay… so, let’s see here...oh.” She murmured, her eyes darting between the monitor and your belly.

Troye’s gaze sharpened. He pushed off the wall, leaning in. The black-and-gray static resolved into shapes. A familiar, beautiful profile. Then another. And… another.

His hand stilled on your ankle.

“Congratulations,” The sonographer said, a wide smile breaking over her face. “You’re not just having one baby. You’re having three.”

The words hung in the sterilized air. Fucking three.

For a fraction of a second, pure, unadulterated shock held him rigid. His mind, the shrewd, calculating engine that ran a billion-dollar empire, scrambled to process. Triplets. Triplets.

Then, it hit him. A wave of such profound, male arrogance that his lips, usually set in a stern line, curved into a slow, undeniable smirk. His eyes, dark and gleaming, found yours, wide with astonishment, before sliding back to the screen where his legacy, triplicated, flickered.

The wide, utterly smug smile spread across his handsome features, transforming his usually composed, commanding expression into one of sheer, cocky victory.

Troye leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, rich murmur meant only for you, thick with conceit and awe “One time, my love. One time I didn't use protection.”

Troye gave a soft, incredulous chuckle, his chest swelling against your back. “Three. Three sons. Do you see?” He didn’t wait for an answer, his eyes gleaming with possessive delight as he looked back at the evidence of his virility on the screen. “My seed. Superior genes. One stone kills three birds.”

He straightened up, his commanding presence filling the room. The shock had melted away, leaving only a bedrock of cocky assurance. He, Troye Wells, had done this. His wife, his dynasty, now tripled in one spectacular sweep. He was already mapping the future, his mind racing with plans, protections, expansions. Three heirs. Eros, Linus, and Myron. The names settled in his soul. His boys. His family.

The cocky bastard had the audacity to give himself a pat on the back. Well done, Troye.