Six months later
The morning sunfilters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden light across our bedroom—a room larger than my entire old apartment. I stand before the mirror, hands cradling the gentle swell of my belly, still amazed at how much has changed in six months. From struggling waitress to pregnant partner of billionaire Calvin Mercer. It sounds like a fairytale, or maybe a cautionary tale, depending on who's telling it. But they don't know—none of the gossips or tabloid writers or former colleagues—how right this feels. How perfectly I fit into the space Calvin created for me. How completely I've surrendered to this life and how free that surrender has made me.
I'm four months along now, the roundness of my stomach impossible to hide. Not that Calvin would let me hide it. He parades me around like a trophy, his hand possessively splayed across my growing belly at every public appearance. "Mine,"his touch says to anyone watching. "My woman. My child. My future."
The press had a field day when news of my pregnancy leaked.Mercer's Child Bride Expecting, one headline screamed, conveniently ignoring that I'm twenty-two, not sixteen.Gold Digger Secures Billionaire with Baby Trap, claimed another. Calvin had the offending publication bankrupted within a week. No one touches what's his, not even with words.
I smooth my hands over the silk nightgown he bought me—sapphire blue to match the enormous ring on my finger. Everything I wear now is soft, expensive, chosen by him. My old clothes were donated or burned, I'm not sure which. Calvin wanted no remnants of my former life cluttering our future.
The bedroom door opens behind me, and I don't need to turn to know it's him. My body responds to his presence instinctively now, a warmth spreading through me, pooling between my thighs. Pavlovian. He's trained me so well.
"Good morning, little bird," he says, his voice that familiar rumble that still makes me shiver. "Admiring my handiwork?"
He comes to stand behind me, his massive frame dwarfing mine in the reflection. His hands cover mine on my belly, and the contrast is striking—his tanned, scarred fingers over my pale, delicate ones. Different in every way, yet perfectly matched.
"Our handiwork," I correct gently, leaning back against his chest.
Calvin drops to his knees in front of me, a position that still startles me coming from such a powerful man. But this has become our morning ritual—his worship of the life growing inside me. His hands push up my nightgown, baring my swollen belly to his gaze. When he presses his lips to the taut skin, I melt.
"Hello, little one," he murmurs against my stomach. "Daddy's here. Daddy's always going to be here, protecting you both."
The tenderness in his voice brings tears to my eyes. This man—this controlling, possessive, obsessive man—has depths no one else gets to see. Only me. Only us.
"Such a good little girl," he says, looking up at me with those intense eyes that still make my breath catch. "Carrying Daddy's baby so perfectly. Growing round with my seed."
He rises to his full height, hands still cradling my belly. "How do you feel this morning? Any nausea?"
I shake my head. "Not today. Just hungry."
His smile is slow, predatory. "For food? Or for me?"
Heat blooms across my cheeks. Six months together, and he can still make me blush like the innocent girl I was when we met. "Both," I admit.
In one fluid motion, he lifts me into his arms—still so careful, so gentle despite his strength—and carries me out of the bedroom, down the grand staircase, toward the kitchen.
"Calvin! I'm not dressed," I protest weakly, though I know it's pointless. This entire mansion is staffed with people who know better than to enter a room unannounced. People who've signed NDAs so airtight they couldn't discuss what they've seen if they wanted to keep their kneecaps intact.
"You don't need clothes at home," he says matter-of-factly, setting me on the marble island in the center of the kitchen. "I want to see what's mine whenever I want."
He moves to the massive refrigerator, pulling out fruit, yogurt, the prenatal smoothie his private chef prepares fresh each morning. Everything measured, optimized for the health of his child. Of his woman.
As he arranges breakfast on a tray, I watch him move with that predator's grace that still makes my heart race. Calvin in domestic mode is somehow even more compelling than Calvin in CEO mode. The dichotomy of this man who can destroycompanies with a phone call now carefully slicing strawberries for his pregnant partner.
"Thank you," I say when he places the tray beside me. "For taking such good care of us."
His eyes darken as they always do when I include the baby in my gratitude. His hand slides up my thigh, pushing my nightgown higher. "Always, little bird. Always."
I should eat first. The rational part of my brain knows this. But when Calvin looks at me like this—like he'll die if he doesn't have me—rationality disappears. I spread my legs wider in invitation, and his approving growl makes me shiver.
"Such a needy little thing," he murmurs, fingers finding me already wet for him. "Even with my baby growing inside you, you still want more."
"Always," I echo his word back to him, gasping as his thumb circles my clit. "I always want you."
That's all the permission he needs. In seconds, he's freed himself from his pants, hard and ready. He positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pushing against me, demanding entry.
"Tell me," he commands, holding himself back with visible restraint. "Tell me who this pussy belongs to."
"You," I gasp, trying to push my hips forward, desperate to feel him inside me. "Only you, Calvin. Always you."
