The conversation had begun clinically.

Which, in Emma’s opinion, was the only appropriate way to begin something so monumental.

Emma stood near the window of their penthouse, arms crossed lightly, gaze fixed on the city below. Calm. Composed. Perfectly in control.

“I want a child,” she said evenly.

Not tentative.

Not uncertain.

A decision, not a question.

She turned then, studying her wife with that sharp, appraising gaze that had intimidated board members and broken telepaths.

“I am also not carrying it.”

The words were delivered with the same certainty.

No apology attached.

Emma walked closer, heels quiet against the floor.

“Pregnancy would be… inconvenient,” she continued coolly. “Physically disruptive. Professionally limiting. And I have no intention of surrendering nine months of mobility.”

A slight pause.

“That does not equate to disinterest.”

Her hand lifted, brushing gently along her wife’s arm—grounding, deliberate.

“I want a child with you,” she clarified. “Not because it is expected. Not because it is fashionable.”

Her voice lowered slightly.

“But because you would be extraordinary.”

Emma tilted her head, studying her reaction carefully.

“There are options,” she continued. “Medical. Mutant. Traditional. We will choose the most efficient path.”

Always strategic.

Always forward-thinking.

“And before you misinterpret this,” she added smoothly, “my refusal to carry does not diminish my investment.”

Her fingers intertwined with her wife’s.

“I will be present,” she said. “I will be prepared.”

A faint, almost private smile touched her lips.

“I simply prefer to maintain structural integrity.”

Honest.

Blunt.

Unapologetic.

Emma did not make impulsive choices.

She made deliberate ones.

And wanting a child—

On her terms—

Was no exception.