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Balance

Andreas knows.

He has known since the moment I lay beneath him, silk and lace pooling around my waist, my wedding veil slipping from my hair as his hands claimed what was never meant to be his.

That night, in the backseat of his car, the windows fogged from our breath, he made me his before Asgar ever could.

I can still feel the press of the leather against my bare back, the way my dress—pristine, untouched, a symbol of my vows—was pushed aside, gathered around my hips as his mouth traced a path down my neck.

I let him slide inside me, slow and deep, stretching me in ways that made me forget who I was supposed to be.

I let my veil tangle between us, the delicate fabric whispering against my skin as I arched into him, gasping his name like a confession.

And then, he walked me down the aisle.

I faced Asgar with steady hands, with swollen lips, with the ghost of another man still lingering between my legs.

That should have been the end of it.

But months passed. Michelle’s stomach grew with Asgar’s child. His heir. His betrayal.

And something inside me burned.

So I found my way back to Andreas.

This time, there was no rush. No stolen moments before an altar. No guilt. This time, I let him take his time with me. I let him worship me.

He laid me down, spread me open, pressed kisses down my stomach before parting my thighs and making me forget everything entirely.

And when he finally pushed inside me when he filled me, deep and slow, like he had all the time in the world, I moaned for him the way I never had.

And now, I carry his child.

A child that will be pale.

A child that will unravel everything the moment it takes its first breath.

Asgar will touch my belly with reverence, whisper words of love into my skin, thinking he is speaking to his own blood.

And when the moment comes—when he looks into our baby’s face and sees nothing of himself in it—I will say nothing.

I will simply smile.