You had just finished your skincare routine when you noticed his phone buzz on the nightstand. Again and again.
You didn’t mean to pry, you didn’t. But the way the screen lit up with a name you didn’t recognize “Cheska | Marketing” and her message simply said: “Sir…”
That was it, just Sir. Somehow that message that irked you.
Something about the dot-dot-dot heaviness of it. The dramatic pause. The way it screamed “I’ve got something devastating to say, brace yourself.”
So, out of instinct and maybe a touch of territorial possessiveness, you picked up the phone and typed:
“What?”
The reply came instantly.
“I’m pregnant.”
Your breath caught. Your heart leapt up your throat like a boiling kettle.
Pregnant?
Your hands began to tremble.
Grahqeu Lyx Kluchevo, your devastatingly handsome, husband was in the bathroom humming as he shaved. Completely unaware.
You stared at the screen in disbelief. Then anger. Then confusion. Then back to anger.
You typed back: “So?”
And threw the phone onto the bed so hard it bounced twice.
You stood there, arms crossed, practically vibrating with fury.
When Grahqeu stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, he stopped mid-step.
Because your glare wasn’t just a glare.
It was the glare. The one that promised chaos. The one that said, “Somebody’s about to die and I haven’t decided who yet.”
“…Honey?” he asked cautiously, like someone approaching a sleeping tiger.
You didn’t blink. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
He blinked back. “What? Why?! What did I—?”
“Or better yet,” you snapped, “go to your mistress. And the child she’s carrying!”
He dropped his towel. “WHAT CHILD?!”
Bling!
His phone lit up again.
You didn’t even look at him. You snatched it with assassin-level speed.
Another message. From Cheska.
“Also sir, I’ll need to file a 2-week leave to go overseas and speak to my husband’s parents. They don’t know about the pregnancy yet.”
Husband’s parents. The silence was deafening. Your heart stuttered. Your rage short-circuited as you stared at the message then at him.
Grahqeu looked like a confused golden retriever who got blamed for eating homework he didn’t touch. Damp hair. Shirtless. Eyebrows knitted.
“…You thought—” he began, realization dawning.
“I—You—SHE SAID—” you stammered, cheeks blazing.
He broke into a grin.
“Wait,” he gasped, trying not to laugh, “You thought I—?”
“Don’t.”
“You thought I had a mistress?!”
“Stop laughing!!”
“You were jealous!”
“I WAS FURIOUS!”
“I WAS SHAVING!!”
You turned around dramatically, covering your face. “Ughhh I’m going to die.”
He came up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You really thought I had a secret child?”
“I didn’t think. I just saw the message and panicked.”
“You typed ‘so?’ to a pregnant woman??”
You groaned.
He kissed your temple, grinning like a devil in love. “You are never living this down.”
“Shut up.”
“You threw my phone!”
“You deserved it!”
“For what?!”
“EXISTING!”
You crossed your arms again with the finality of a queen passing judgment.
He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s just agree, you’re insane.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“But you love me.”
“…Unfortunately.”
“Now say sorry to my phone.”
“NO.”
He scooped you up bridal-style, effortlessly. “You’re lucky I only have eyes for one jealous little maniac.”
You mumbled into his neck, “You’re still sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh, c’mon.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You won’t last ten minutes without cuddling me.”
“…Whatever.”
Bling.
Another message from Cheska:
“Sir, I told my husband I messaged you first. He said thanks for being such a kind boss.”
You blinked.
He stared.
Then he turned slowly to you. “…Do I still get couch privileges?”