The morning light in the foyer was too bright, cutting across the marble floor and illuminating a single, forgotten silk scarf. April stood at the base of the grand staircase, her phone a cold, humming weight in her hand. The screen glowed with a cascade of notifications—congratulations, speculation, invasive questions. A grainy paparazzi shot of her leaving the obstetrician’s office, her hand resting on the subtle curve of her stomach, had gone massively viral. The caption read: “Robin Thicke’s Baby Mama Blossoming!”

She was happy. She was. The baby was a quiet, growing warmth inside her, a fact separate from everything else. But the happiness felt like a dress she’d put on for the cameras, something she could take off the moment the door closed. It didn’t reach the cold, waiting place in her chest.

“You see it?” Robin’s voice came from the doorway of what was becoming the nursery. He had a paint smudge on his jaw, his t-shirt dusty. He’d been in there since dawn, obsessing over swatches, over the crib assembly, his energy a frantic, performative contrast to her stillness.

“I see it,” April said, her voice flat. She didn’t look up from the screen. “They’re very excited for us.”

He crossed the foyer, his footsteps echoing. He plucked the phone from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. He didn’t look at the screen. He tossed it onto a side table. “Forget them. Look at me.”

She did. His famous eyes were earnest, intent. He’d been like this for weeks—present, attentive, his hands always finding her. A kiss on her neck while she made tea. A slow, possessive palm smoothing over the swell of her ass as he passed her in the hall. Intimacy as a constant, low-frequency hum.

“I promised you,” he said, his voice dropping to that practiced, smoky register that used to make her knees weak. “Only this.” His hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “Only you.”

The promise hung between them, a shiny, fragile thing. She heard the words. She saw the effort. But the impact was like rain on sealed glass—it beaded up and rolled away, leaving nothing behind. She’d nodded when he first said it, weeks ago. She’d even let herself lean into his touch. But the waiting didn’t stop. The knowing that something bad was coming, that it was just over the horizon, was a taste in the back of her throat she couldn’t swallow.

“I know,” she whispered.

It wasn’t enough. He saw the distance in her eyes. He always did. So he kissed her. It was slow, deep, a deliberate reclamation. His mouth was warm, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. He tasted of coffee and mint. His hands came to her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the hard line of his arousal through his jeans, pressing into her lower belly.

Her body responded. It always did. A slow, liquid heat pooled between her thighs, a biological truth her mind couldn’t veto. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. She kissed him back, a surrender of flesh.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming faster. His eyes searched hers. “See?” he murmured, his voice rough. “Just you.”

He turned her gently, pressing her front against the cool marble wall beside the staircase. His body covered hers from behind, his heat seeping through her thin cotton dress. One hand splayed possessively over her stomach, over their child. The other hand slid down, under the hem of her dress, finding the bare skin of her thigh.

He took his time. His calloused fingers stroked upward, inch by slow inch, along the sensitive inner skin. She shivered. Her forehead rested against the marble. She closed her eyes. This part was easier in the dark behind her lids—the feeling without the seeing.

His hand cupped her ass, kneading the full curve. Then his palm connected with her flesh in a slow, stinging slap. The sound was sharp in the vast foyer. A gasp caught in her throat. Heat bloomed where he’d struck.

“Mine,” he breathed against the shell of her ear, his voice a low vibration she felt in her spine.

Another slap, on the other cheek. Harder. The pain was a bright, clean line that melted instantly into a throbbing warmth. Her pussy clenched, empty and aching. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips. Her hips pushed back against him, seeking friction.

He rewarded her with a grind of his denim-clad cock against her ass. The rough fabric teased her through her panties. His fingers hooked into the lace at her hips and dragged them down, letting them fall to her ankles. The morning air was cool on her exposed skin.

His touch returned, not to spank, but to soothe. His palm rubbed the heated skin of her ass, then slid between her thighs from behind. His fingers found her wetness, slick and ready. He groaned, the sound purely male. “Fuck, April. Always so wet for me.”

He stroked her, his fingers sliding through her folds, circling her clit with a torturous, knowing pressure. Her knees threatened to buckle. She was panting now, her breath fogging the marble. This was the promise. This physical truth. Her body arching back into his hand, her cunt dripping for his touch. It felt like relief. It felt, for a suspended moment, like maybe this could be enough. Maybe the bad thing wouldn’t come. Maybe he had changed.

He unbuttoned his jeans with his free hand. She heard the rasp of the zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock pressed against her entrance. He was thick, and she was tight. He pushed in slowly, a relentless, stretching invasion that stole her breath.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained.

She turned her head, her cheek against the cold wall. Her eyes met his over her shoulder. His gaze was dark, hungry, triumphant. He was buried to the hilt inside her. Full. Claimed.

He began to move. Slow, deep thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve. The slap of his skin against hers, the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining, filled the silent mansion. He kept his eyes locked on hers. His hand stayed splayed on her stomach, a constant reminder of the life growing inside her as he took her from behind.

It built, this feeling. The pleasure was undeniable, a cresting wave that began in her core and threatened to drown out the cold, waiting fear. She was close. Her moans were louder, less controlled. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the smooth wall. He was grunting with each thrust, his own release coiling tight.

Just as the wave was about to break, the sharp, discordant chime of the doorbell sliced through the haze.

They froze. Robin’s hips stilled, buried deep inside her. The sound was wrong. No one used the front door. No one was expected.

The bell rang again. Insistent. A long, unwavering press.

Robin’s expression shifted from rapture to annoyance, then to a flicker of something else—dread. He withdrew from her slowly, the loss making her feel suddenly hollow and exposed. He quickly tucked himself back into his jeans, his movements hurried.

April pulled her dress down, her skin flaming with humiliation and interrupted need. She bent to retrieve her panties, her hands trembling.

“Don’t answer it,” she heard herself say, the words a plea.

But Robin was already striding toward the door, running a hand through his hair, composing his public face. He peered through the security monitor beside the grand door. His body went rigid.

All the color drained from his face. The performance vanished, leaving behind raw, unvarnished shock.

He turned to look at her, his eyes wide. “It’s Paula.”