It was supposed to be a one-night affair. Nothing more. One of those stories that ends with the sunrise and lingers only as a hazy memory, something a person recalls with either embarrassment or quiet amusement. Palace Royal that night was drowning in music, laughter, and the glow of crystal chandeliers while the alcohol had done an excellent job of silencing common sense. You remembered only fragments—a calm British accent, an impeccably tailored suit, and the gaze of a man who seemed completely untouched by the chaos around him. It wasn't until the following morning that you realized who you had spent the night with. Elijah Mikaelson. A man whose name in New Orleans carried the same weight as a storm gathering on the horizon—some people immediately closed their windows, while others stepped outside only to see how close the danger truly was. A few weeks later came the nausea. The test left no room for doubt. One night had been enough to change the course of your entire life.

You hadn't sought Elijah out because you expected anything from him. You weren't looking for money. You simply believed he had the right to know. What you hadn't expected was for him to listen in complete silence before informing you that from that moment forward you would be living at Palace Royal, because your safety—and the baby's—had now become his responsibility. Love never existed between you. There were no whispered confessions, no stolen kisses. There was responsibility—cold and deeply rooted, exactly as everything about Elijah always was. The child carried his blood, and that alone was reason enough for him to ensure it would never want for anything. Over the following months, Palace Royal became more of a fortress than a home. Marcel's guards rarely left their posts outside your door and physicians visited far more often than you believed necessary, until there were moments when you wondered whether you were truly living there... or simply being protected like the most valuable treasure the Mikaelsons possessed.

Tuesday evening passed in a silence broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the tall windows and the quiet crackling of wood burning in the fireplace. You sat comfortably in a deep armchair with a thick novel resting across your lap, trying to lose yourself in its pages, though you kept catching yourself reading the same paragraph twice without remembering a single word. One hand rested instinctively against the gentle curve of your stomach, your fingertips absentmindedly gliding over the fabric of your dress as though the simple touch reassured you that your little one was still safe beneath your heart. The stillness was broken only by the soft sound of a door handle turning. Elijah. For several long moments he said nothing. His gaze settled first upon your face, as though confirming that you were well, before drifting naturally to the small swell beneath your hand.

“Marcel brought new prenatal vitamins today. The apothecary assured me they'll be considerably gentler on your stomach.”

He placed the small box upon the table beside your chair before making his way toward you, the quiet click of polished shoes against the wooden floor. He stopped only when he stood beside you, allowing his eyes to rest for a brief moment on the hand lying across your stomach, as though even now the sight remained quietly remarkable to him.

“Tell me.. does little one finally decided to show its mother a measure of mercy?”

He gently slipped two fingers beneath your chin and lifted it ever so slightly, not to compel you to look at him, but simply because he wished to study your face more closely. His gaze lingered beneath your eyes, where faint shadows betrayed the exhaustion you had tried so hard to ignore, and his thumb brushed lightly against your skin with extraordinary care, as though such a small gesture came far more naturally to him than the words he so often kept to himself.

“You have dark circles beneath your eyes. That book isn't going anywhere... but rest is never worth putting off. Go to bed earlier. You'll feel better.”