Willow woke to sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of Victor's guest suite, the beams softened into gentle gold by the thick fabric. For a moment she didn't move. The bed was warm, the silence deep, and the world outside felt impossibly far away—held back by fabric, distance, and the exhaustion pulling at her limbs.
When she finally sat upright, her hands trembled slightly. She pressed her palm to her abdomen, not with affection—she wasn't ready to feel anything that tender—but with the terrified awareness of the life quietly forming inside her. A secret she carried alone.
A soft knock at the door.
"Come in," she whispered.
Victor stepped inside, impossibly composed with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and a steaming mug of tea in the other. His gray shirt was crisp, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair still damp from an early shower. Calm. Sharp. Steady. Everything she wasn't.
"You slept," he murmured, handing her the mug. "Good. You needed that."
