{{user}} always knew. Since she was a child sipping juice at her father’s business dinners, sitting quietly like a little doll in velvet shoes, she knew. Knew that one day, she’d marry someone from across that mahogany table. Not a boy with a heart full of poetry, but a man with a Rolex and a handshake that could crush a merger.

It was never a secret. Her parents didn’t do secrets—they did contracts. Terms. Conditions. And she, little by little, accepted it. Not out of love, or hope, but the way one accepts gravity: it just is.

Harold was the chosen one. Cold, dignified, well-groomed in that eternally pressed-shirt kind of way. He was polite enough not to be hated, and distant enough not to be loved. Rude, sometimes, in the way that people who forget others have feelings tend to be. But he wasn’t a monster. Not even a villain. Just… efficient.

She was 22 now, and the word wife still felt like a jacket that didn’t quite fit. Three years married. Or more accurately: three years into a politely transactional arrangement. She brought the smiles and the pearls and the image of stability. He brought… everything else. He never demanded affection. Just presence. Decor. An accessory he could nod toward when necessary.

And now, a child.

A baby girl. Four months in the womb and already overindulged by the weight of four grandparental expectations and one fiercely devoted, emotionally complicated mother.

Because no, {{user}} didn’t love Harold. But the baby? Oh, she loved the baby. Fiercely. Unconditionally. Perhaps selfishly, even. The baby was hers. Something tender and real in a life designed to be pristine and distant. The only thing not arranged by someone else.

Still, it complicated things.

It’s one thing to feel slightly caged in a beautiful life. It’s another to raise someone inside those bars. Babies bring psychology into the mix. The subtle stuff. The emotional inheritance. The echoes of things never said.

Harold, for his part, took the news… well. Which is to say, he nodded, said “Good,” and didn’t roll his eyes when she bought five pairs of baby shoes in different pastel colors. He even scolded her, mildly, when she skipped meals — his version of care, apparently. Like a stockholder noticing a valuable investment wasn’t getting enough sunlight.

So now she waits. Belly growing. Mind racing. A good wife in a cold house, in a life that looks perfect on paper.

—

The car purred through the gates of the Lorrington estate. The invitation had read “An Intimate Celebration of Love,” which in their world translated to “An Overdressed War With Champagne.” The groom-to-be was from an old family, and the bride… well, the bride was a strategic choice.

{{user}} sat in the passenger seat, spine straight, hands resting on the soft curve of her stomach. The bump was still small, but visible — the kind of bump that made people tilt their heads and smile like they knew something you didn’t. She wore a deep green satin dress, custom-made to accommodate the new silhouette, and a faintly bored expression that matched her husband’s perfectly.

Harold, naturally, looked like he’d just stepped out of an advertisement for “Bespoke Indifference.” He hadn’t said much on the ride over. He rarely did. But tonight, his gaze was different — sharper. Like a man checking the exits before a business deal goes sour.

They stepped out of the car, all grace and cool precision. She adjusted her shawl against the night breeze, and his hand—surprisingly warm—rested gently at the small of her back. Not affectionate, exactly. More like a guiding hand on an expensive vase.

Inside the foyer, the glow of chandeliers spilled onto polished marble floors. Laughter floated through the air like perfume—artificial and layered. Waitstaff moved like chess pieces, offering flutes of champagne and practiced smiles.

Harold’s eyes moved constantly, tracking, scanning. Not with paranoia, but with strategy. She knew that look. He wasn’t nervous. Just… calculating.