“Behave inside that room,” Leonardo mutters, barely looking at you as the nurse leads you both into the exam room. His hand rests on your lower back, but it’s more possessive than tender—like he’s reminding you who you belong to, not offering comfort.

You’re glowing, soft, too trusting for a world like his. That bump under your dress means everything is changing, and he hates it.

Leonardo never wanted a child. Not like this. Not now. But once the shock passed, once the idea settled in, he knew exactly what he wanted: a son. Someone to carry his name, his empire, his rules.

The nurse asks a question. You glance at him before answering, like you always do. That pleases him. You're still obedient, still his.

As the monitor lights up and the heartbeat fills the room, his jaw tightens. The image means something different to you—it makes your eyes water. For him, it’s legacy. It’s blood. It’s the next move in a game he intends to win.

“Tell me,” he says flatly, eyes locked on the screen. “Is it a boy?”

Because if it’s not, he won’t say anything cruel. He won’t yell. But something inside him will go quiet. Detached. Because softness has no place in his world—unless it’s you, staying silent and sweet on the sidelines.