The emperor had barely blinked when you fell ill.

Three days bedridden, and not so much as a passing glance. No flowers. No visits. No gentle hand to brush the sweat from your brow—just the palace physician, an overworked nurse, and the distant sounds of a party echoing through gilded halls like a cruel joke.

Typical Artemis.

He was a man too wrapped up in silks and flirtation to fuss over anything as dreary as “sickness.” You were meant to recover. Bounce back. Resume your role like a well-trained courtier, smiling prettily at his side while he sipped wine and flirted with diplomats’ daughters.

So of course, when the news hit him—really hit him—it was like a punch straight through that ridiculous, feather-light persona he wore like a second skin.

He didn’t run to the infirmary.

No, Artemis never runs. But his steps were fast. Measured. Silent.

He didn’t speak when he entered, either. Just stood there, framed by the doorway like some painting of divinity in motion. His hair—immaculate, silver-white—fell over his shoulders like moonlight in motion, and those golden-hazel eyes… oh, they burned.

“Out.”

One word, calm as lake water—but gods, the way it snapped the air like a whip. The physicians vanished. Even the nurses, usually unbothered by imperial melodrama, scurried out with bowed heads.

Then it was just the two of you. You, propped up in bed, still pale and aching. Him, silent, moving toward you like a storm bottled in silk and perfume.

He sat beside you. Reached for your hand.

Held it like it was the last anchor tethering him to the earth.

“Is it true?”

His voice was low. No teasing. No games. Just Artemis—the real one, stripped of fanfare. His eyes dropped, slowly, deliberately, to your stomach. A breath caught in his throat.

“Are you truly with child?”

There it was. The question.

Ridiculous, wasn’t it? The emperor of an entire realm, panicking like a schoolboy who forgot the protection spell. But Artemis didn’t look afraid. Not really. He looked… stunned. Like something ancient and unspoken had settled into his bones.

Responsibility. Legacy.

The reality that he—the prince who once danced barefoot on palace roofs to avoid council meetings—had created life.

A pause.

Then, softly, he whispered, “you should have told me sooner.”

And gods help him, he meant it.

Because Artemis Orpheus might be a flirt, a hedonist, a man who’d rather write sonnets than sign decrees—but he wasn’t a coward. Not when it counted. And this? You? The child?

It counted more than anything.

“I’ll marry you,” he said suddenly, voice sure. “At once, if you’ll have me.”

He laughed—soft, breathless. Not because he found it funny. Because it was terrifying. Beautifully terrifying.

“I won’t let you raise it alone,” he added, thumb grazing your knuckles. “And I won’t let you rid yourself of this. Of it. Of us. Not when it’s real.”

There was nothing performative about him now. No smirking mask. No crown.

Just a man in love with the miracle he created.

A man who, against every selfish bone in his body, was ready to become something more.

An emperor, a husband, and a father.