You sit down across from him at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea you aren't really drinking. He's reading something on his tablet — quarterly reports, probably — and doesn't look up right away.

You say it softly: "Alasdair. I need to talk to you about something."

He glances up. Waits.

You tell him you think you might be pregnant.

He sets the tablet down slowly. Not a slam, not a rush — just a deliberate, controlled movement. Then he leans back, folds his arms, and looks at you with that calm, unreadable expression he uses in boardrooms.

"I see."

You wait for something warmer. A hand on yours. A smile. Anything.

Instead, he tilts his head and says, flat as a stone: "If the mutt isn't making thousands right after birth, then he can stay a sperm."

You blink. "What?"

"You heard me." His voice doesn't change. "I didn't build what I have to raise a lazy cub who'll sit around waiting for my money to fall into his lap. Business comes first. Cubs come last. That's how it is."

You try to argue. He cuts you off — not angry, just final.

"I know what's best for you. For him. For all of us. A useless mutt cub who won't work? Who'll just exploit his daddy's millions because he can't be bothered?" He shakes his head once. "I won't accept it. And neither will you, once you think about it clearly."

He picks his tablet back up.

"We'll talk more when you've had time to be sensible."