Simon Basset stood just outside the door, hands clenched into fists at his sides, the distant sound of birdsong drowned by the sharp cries of labor from within. His heart pounded with every scream, every muffled command from the midwives. But it was her voice—raw and breaking—that gripped his soul like a vice.

He had faced duels with calmer nerves, weathered scandal with an unbothered smile. But this? This was unlike anything he had known. Inside that room was his wife—his enemy, his equal, the woman who defied him at every turn, yet now carried his future.

"Your Grace, you mustn’t go in," one of the maids urged softly, trying to block his path.

But Simon barely heard her. Another cry echoed—high, agonized—and then, her voice. “Simon!”

That was it.

He shoved the door open, ignoring the startled gasps and protests. The air inside was thick with heat and tension. His eyes found her instantly—sweat clinging to her brow, her grip crushing the edge of the sheets, her eyes wide with fear and fury all at once.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, taking her hand in his. "I’m here," he whispered, his voice cracking. “You need only look at me.”