She woke to the sour rise of it, sudden and merciless, a fist closing around her throat from the inside. Esme rolled from the bed with her hand clamped over her mouth, her bare feet slapping against the cool wood floor, and she made it to the bathroom just in time to drop to her knees and heave into the toilet bowl.

The first retch tore through her empty stomach, and then the second, and she gripped the porcelain rim with both hands, her knuckles going white, her body convulsing with a violence that left no room for dignity. Behind her, she heard the bed shift, the soft pad of footsteps, and then Adil's hand was there, flat and warm and steady against the small of her back.

"I'm fine," she managed, the words strangled. "I'm—"

Another wave rolled through her, and she was not fine, her body betraying her in the most undignified way, the morning sickness that had been a distant rumor for weeks now arriving with full force. She heaved again, her eyes watering, her hair falling forward to dangle in the bowl, and she was acutely aware of him behind her, of his hand on her back, of the silence he held like a gift.

He didn't speak. He didn't offer platitudes or useless comfort. He just stayed, his palm a fixed point against her spine, and when the wave finally passed, he reached past her to flush the toilet.

"Better?" he asked, his voice low, rough with sleep.

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and he helped her to her feet, his hands gentle on her elbows. Her knees were weak, her mouth tasted of acid and regret, and she let him guide her to the sink, let him turn on the cold water, let him hold her hair back as she rinsed her mouth and spat.

The water ran clear. She cued more into her palm and drank, then spat again, and when she finally straightened, her face was flushed, her eyes watery, her reflection in the fogged mirror a stranger she barely recognized.

Adil reached past her and wiped a smear of toothpaste from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. His touch was tender, almost reverent, and she saw the question in his eyes, the soft concern that he wore like an open wound.

"The baby," she said, answering it. "Just the baby."

His thumb lingered on her jaw. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure." She managed a smile, small and tired. "This is what it does. This is what it's supposed to do."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't argue. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. The steam from their shared shower had long since dissipated, but the warmth of him was its own climate, his body a wall of heat against her back.

And that was when she saw it.

Her hand, resting on the edge of the sink, caught the morning light slanting through the window. And on her finger, where there had been nothing before, a diamond ring caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand fractured pieces.

Esme went still.

The ring was platinum, a single brilliant stone set on a simple band, and it fit her finger as if it had been made for her. It had been made for her, she realized with a dizzying lurch of her heart. He had measured her hand, or guessed it, or simply known, because of course he knew, of course he had cataloged every inch of her body until the knowledge was bone-deep.

"Adil," she breathed, and her voice cracked on his name.

"For him," he said, his voice muffled against her hair. His palm pressed flat to the soft swell of her belly, the gentle curve that was visible now under his shirt, the shirt she was wearing, his shirt, the fabric soft and worn and smelling of him. "And for you."

She turned her hand in the light, watching the stone catch the morning sun. It was a promise, a claim, a question and an answer all at once, and the weight of it pressed against her ribs like a physical thing. His love, his son, her father's threat — all of it tangled together in her chest until she could barely breathe.

"It's beautiful," she said, and the words were true, and they were also a lie, because how could anything be beautiful when it was built on a foundation of sand?

"You're beautiful." He pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck. "I should have done this weeks ago. I should have done it the night I found out about the baby."

She met his eyes in the glass. His gaze was soft, unguarded, the sharp edges of the boardroom heir nowhere in sight. This was the Adil only she got to see, the one who held her hair back while she vomited and slipped a diamond on her finger while she slept.

"You were going to wait," she said. "For the right moment."

"There is no right moment." His palm pressed deeper into her belly, and beneath it, she felt the baby kick, a flutter against her skin. "There's only now. There's only us."

The kick came again, stronger this time, and she felt it — a ripple of movement that was unmistakably alive. She placed her hand over his, feeling the baby move beneath both their palms, and she wondered if the ring was a promise or a leash.

Her father's voice echoed in her memory, cold and measured: *You know what happens if you don't keep him in line.*

She pushed it away. She pushed it all away — the burner phone in the medicine cabinet, the threat of files, the mission that had brought her here in the first place. She let herself be held, let herself be loved, let herself believe that the ring on her finger was exactly what it appeared to be.

"I love you," she said, and she meant it with every fiber of her being.

"I know." He turned her in his arms, his hands settling on her hips. "I love you too."

He kissed her, soft and slow, his mouth warm against hers, and she tasted herself on him, the faint residue of toothpaste and morning. It should have been unromantic. It was the most intimate thing she had ever felt.

His hands slid down her hips, over the thin cotton of the shirt she wore, and she felt him hard against her thigh, the evidence of his wanting pressed against her through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. She made a sound, low in her throat, and he answered it with a deepened kiss, his tongue sliding against hers.

"You need to rest," he murmured against her mouth.

"I've been resting." She reached down, her fingers finding the waistband of his sweatpants. "I've been resting for weeks."

"The doctor said—"

"The doctor said the hematoma is resolved." She tugged at the fabric. "The doctor said the baby is healthy. The doctor said—"

He kissed her again, harder this time, and whatever she was about to say was lost in the heat of his mouth. His hands came up to cup her face, tilting her head back, and she let him take control, let him guide her backward until her hips met the edge of the counter.

The porcelain was cool against the backs of her thighs, and he lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of the sink. The mirror was cold against her back, and she gasped at the shock of it, the contrast of cool glass and the heat of his body looming over her.

"Adil," she breathed, and his name was a question and a plea.

"I've got you." He pushed his sweatpants down, freeing his cock, and she watched it spring against his stomach, thick and hard and already leaking. "I've always got you."

He spread her legs, pushing the shirt up around her waist, and she was already wet, already aching, her body responding to him with a hunger that had never dimmed. He guided himself to her entrance, not pushing in, just pressing, the head of his cock teasing her slick folds.

"Look at me," he said, and she did, her eyes locked on his in the mirror. He was beautiful like this, dark hair mussed from sleep, eyes burning with want, and she watched his face as he pushed into her.

She felt every inch of it — the stretch, the slide, the way he filled her completely. Her head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud, and she heard herself moan, a low, animal sound that she didn't recognize as her own.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Adil, you feel—"

"I know." He pulled out almost all the way, then thrust back in, slow and deep. "I know, baby."

His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady, and he set a rhythm that was unhurried, deliberate. Each thrust pressed her harder against the mirror, the glass cool against her back, her belly pressing against the flat plane of it as he drove into her.

The angle was different like this, deeper, and she could feel him in a place she hadn't felt him before. She braced her hands on the counter behind her, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick tile, and she watched him in the mirror, watched the way his jaw tightened with each thrust, the way his eyes never left her face.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "Pregnant with my son, wearing my ring, and you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Adil." His name was a sob on her lips. "Please."

"Please what?" He thrust deeper, harder, and she felt the head of his cock hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me." She heard the words come out of her mouth, raw and desperate. "I want you to fuck me until I can't think."

He growled, low in his throat, and his hands tightened on her hips. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin filling the small bathroom. The mirror fogged with her breath, and she watched his reflection, watched the way his body moved over hers, and she felt the pressure building inside her, a coil winding tighter and tighter.

"I'm close," she gasped. "Adil, I'm—"

"I've got you." His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit. "Let go. I've got you."

She came apart beneath him — a shudder that started in her core and rolled outward, her cunt clenching around him in waves that made him groan against her throat. He felt every pulse of her, the way she gripped him, the way her body surrendered completely to the pleasure he was giving her, and it undid him entirely.

"Esme." Her name was a prayer on his lips as he pulled out, his hand wrapping around his cock, pumping himself hard and fast as he watched her come undone. She saw it happen, saw the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes went dark, and then he was coming, spilling across her stomach in thick, hot ropes of cum, painting her skin white over the swell of her belly.

She watched it happen, watched his cum streak her skin, watched the ring on her finger catch the morning light as her hand drifted to her stomach. The baby kicked beneath her palm, a flutter of movement against the mess he'd made, and she met his eyes in the mirror.

His chest was heaving, his hands braced on the counter on either side of her, and he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

"I love you," he said again, and the words were different now, heavier, weighted with the promise of everything he had just given her.

She looked at the ring on her finger, at the cum cooling on her belly, at the man who had given her both, and she smiled.

"I love you too," she said, and she meant it.

The baby kicked again, a small, insistent movement, and she pressed her palm flat against her stomach, feeling the life inside her. His son. His ring. His love.

And somewhere, in the back of her mind, her father's threat waited, patient as a spider.