It was supposed to be a gift. A favor. One born of guilt, and grief, and the ache in your sister’s eyes when she whispered, “We can’t have kids.”

So you said yes. Yes to the appointments. Yes to the hormones. Yes to carrying a child that would never be yours.

Because how could you say no?

They were married. You were family.

Even if you’d been living under their roof for years. Even if your sister had grown colder with time. Even if Bucky—quiet, unreadable Bucky—had started looking at you with something too heavy to be harmless.

You didn’t see it. Not at first.

Not when he insisted on attending every appointment. Not when he bought two sets of nursery furniture—one for your room. Not when he started sleeping on the couch, telling your sister he was “too stressed.”

You just thought he cared.

But then the touches changed. Gentle brushes of his hand when he helped you out of a chair. His palm resting a little too long over the curve of your growing belly. The way he looked at you—not with admiration.

With possession.

And your sister? She didn’t fight it. She ignored it.

As if she already knew.

---

One night, six months in, you asked to leave.

You stood in the hallway—barefoot, heavily pregnant,wearing one of the silk robes he’d bought you—and whispered it like a confession.

“I think I should move out.”

His eyes darkened. His jaw clenched.

“Why?”

“Because…” You swallowed. “It doesn’t feel right anymore.”

He stepped closer. One hand on your stomach.

“You’re carrying my child.”

Your heart stopped. “Her child,” you corrected, too fast. “I’m doing this for her.”

His gaze dropped. And when he looked back up at you, it was final.

“No, you’re not.” “You’re doing it for me.”