The elevator opened directly into the apartment (no hallway, no neighbors, just them).
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped three sides, city sprawling gold and violet below.
The moving truck was still downstairs; the only things inside were a king mattress on the raw hardwood, one box labeled **OURS**, and the ultrasound photo already magnet-stuck to the empty fridge.
Alex stepped in first, key dangling from the chain around his neck.
Elena followed, barefoot in his oversized college hoodie and nothing else, duffel slung over her shoulder.
He hit the light switch.
Nothing happened (power not turned on until Monday).
Didn't matter.
Sunset poured through the glass like liquid amber.
"Welcome home," she whispered.
He dropped the duffel, turned, and kissed her against the window (city 300 feet below, her back to the glass, his hands already under the hoodie).
"No one can see us up here," he murmured against her throat.
"Ever."
She smiled, wicked.
"Then don't hold back."
He didn't.
He lifted her, legs around his waist, and carried her to the mattress.
Laid her down like an offering.
The box marked **OURS** sat beside them.
He ripped it open with one hand.
Inside:
- Black silk rope
- The ruined photographs from Chapter 14, now laminated
- A bottle of lube
- The blue sundress, still faintly stained
- A brand-new mirror (full-length, freestanding)
He bound her wrists to the headboard they hadn't installed yet (just rope looped through the mattress frame).
Spread her legs wide, tied her ankles to imaginary posts.
Then he stood back, stripped slow, and watched her squirm in the golden light.
"Twenty-four hours," he said.
"No furniture. No food. Just this mattress and every inch of you."
He started at her throat (teeth on the ribbon choker she still wore).
Worked his way down (nipples, ribs, the faint curve of her belly that would grow round with him).
When he reached her pussy, he didn't tease.
He devoured (slow, filthy, relentless) until she came twice, screaming his name loud enough for the whole city to hear if anyone could.
Then he flipped her onto her stomach, ass in the air, and took her from behind while the skyline burned orange behind them.
Every thrust pushed the mattress an inch across the floor.
At 9:12 p.m., the sun was gone.
City lights flickered on below like fallen stars.
He untied her, carried her to the window, pressed her front to the cold glass.
Entered her again (slow, deep, one hand splayed over the ultrasound on the fridge across the room).
"Look at it," he growled.
"Look at what we made."
She did (tiny blob, perfect heartbeat).
Came with her breath fogging the glass, his name a prayer.
Midnight.
They'd lost count.
He laid her on her back, slid inside slow, and stayed there (barely moving, just pulsing, just *home*).
"I'm dropping out," he said quietly.
"Full-time job is keeping you pregnant and screaming."
She laughed, teary.
"I already quit mine. Remote consulting. From this bed."
He kissed her, deep and filthy.
"Good. Because I'm never letting you leave this apartment again."
She clenched around him.
"Promise?"
He thrust hard once, twice.
"Promise."
3:33 a.m.
They finally opened the duffel (water bottles, strawberries, whipped cream).
He fed her a berry, licked the juice from her lips, then from her breasts, then lower.
By sunrise, the mattress was in the middle of the living room, surrounded by rope burns on the floor, whipped-cream handprints on the windows, and the laminated photos stuck to every surface with their combined release.
They fell asleep tangled, city humming below, his hand cupped protectively over her belly.
Monday, the movers would come.
Monday, the world would pretend they were just mother and son.
But tonight (tonight, tomorrow, every night after), this apartment was theirs.
No locks.
No lies.
No one else.
Only yours.
Always.
Week 8, Day 3
28th-floor loft, 2:14 a.m.
The city was asleep, but Elena was wide awake on all fours in the middle of the living-room floor, silk rope loose around her wrists, Alex behind her moving slow and deep like he was trying to imprint himself on every cell.
He'd been like this for days (gentle, reverent, terrified of hurting her).
She was having none of it.
"Harder," she gasped, pushing back against him.
"I'm pregnant, not porcelain."
He groaned, fingers tightening on her hips.
"Doctor said—"
"Doctor said sex is fine." She looked over her shoulder, hair sticking to damp cheeks. "Doctor didn't have your cock inside her."
That did it.
He snapped his hips forward, once, twice, filling her so perfectly she saw stars against the dark windows.
They came together (quiet, because the walls were thin and the baby was the size of a raspberry, but still shattering).
After, he carried her to the shower, washed her slow, then laid her on the mattress and kissed every new inch of her body like he was mapping the changes.
Week 9
Morning sickness hit at 5:57 a.m. every day without fail.
She barely made it to the toilet before her stomach emptied.
Alex held her hair, rubbed her back, whispered, "I've got you, I've got you," until she stopped shaking.
Then he carried her back to bed, tucked her against his chest, and let her sleep on him while the city woke up below.
He started keeping saltines and ginger chews in every room.
There was a small trash can lined with lavender bags beside every surface she might need it.
Week 10
Her breasts ached constantly.
He noticed before she said a word (the way she flinched when the hoodie brushed her nipples).
That night he laid her on her back, drizzled warm coconut oil over her chest, and massaged until she was boneless and crying from relief.
Then he sucked her nipples gentle (so gentle) until she came just from that, thighs clenched around his waist, his name a broken sob.
Week 11
The first ultrasound in the new apartment.
They'd bought a cheap portable machine off a medical-supply site (Alex's idea, because he couldn't wait another month for the OB).
He spread the gel over her still-flat belly, hands shaking.
The screen flickered.
A tiny blob.
A fluttering heartbeat.
He dropped the wand, fell to his knees, and pressed his lips to her stomach.
"Hi, little one," he whispered, voice cracking. "Daddy's here."
She threaded her fingers through his hair and cried harder than she had in years.
That night he fucked her slow on the couch, her legs over his shoulders, one hand always on her belly like he could feel the baby through her skin.
When he came, he stayed inside, pulsing, and murmured against her lips:
"Gonna keep you pregnant forever."
She laughed through tears.
"Give me nine months at a time, caveman."
Week 12
The nausea eased.
The hunger arrived (ferocious, specific, 3 a.m. cravings).
He kept the fridge stocked with pickles, vanilla ice cream, and ripe strawberries.
She woke him with her mouth on his cock and strawberry juice on her chin more nights than not.
One morning she straddled him while he was still half-asleep, sank down slow, and rode him until they were both sobbing into each other's necks.
After, he carried her to the kitchen, sat her on the counter, and fed her strawberries while still inside her.
Week 13
First visible change: the tiniest curve beneath her navel.
He noticed in the shower (water streaming over them, city lights flickering through steam).
Dropped to his knees again, hands spanning the new roundness.
"Look what we did," he breathed.
"Look what you're doing for us."
She cupped his face.
"Look what you're doing to me."
He stood, turned her to the glass, and took her from behind while the sunrise painted them gold (one hand on her belly, the other between her legs, slow circles until she came with the sun cresting over the skyline).
Later, wrapped in towels on the bathroom floor, he traced the faint linea nigra starting to appear.
"Mark thinks I'm gaining sympathy weight," she said quietly.
"Told him stress eating."
Alex's jaw flexed.
"Let him think whatever keeps him gone."
She kissed the key at his throat.
"He's gone until the baby's born. I made sure."
Alex's eyes darkened (relief, possession, love).
He laid her back on the cool tile, slid inside her again, and made love to her until the city disappeared and there was only them and the life they'd made.
First trimester down.
Twenty-seven weeks to go.
And every single day, he loved her harder, deeper, more.
Only yours.
Always.
Week 14, Day 2
Tuesday, 11:07 a.m.
Women's Imaging Center, 47th floor, private clinic, cash only, no records.
Alex had found it on a private Reddit thread for high-profile affairs and NDAs.
Elena wore a baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, and his hoodie zipped to her chin.
He wore the same, plus the brass key on its chain tucked beneath his shirt.
They checked in under the name "Harper-Party-of-Two."
The receptionist didn't blink.
In the dim ultrasound room, the tech (Dr. M. Singh, discreet, expensive, kind eyes) smiled.
"First-time parents?"
Alex's hand tightened on Elena's.
"Something like that," Elena said, voice soft.
She lay back on the table, hoodie lifted just enough to expose the gentle curve that was now unmistakable to anyone who knew where to look.
Alex stood at her head, fingers threaded through hers, eyes never leaving the screen.
Cold gel.
Wand pressed low.
Then…
A whoosh of static, then the rapid flutter (thump-thump-thump-thump).
Stronger than the portable machine.
Louder.
Dr. Singh turned the screen.
"Perfectly healthy. Measuring right on track."
She clicked a button.
"And… congratulations. It's a girl."
The room tilted.
Alex made a sound (half-sob, half-laugh) and dropped to his knees beside the bed, face pressed to Elena's belly.
"A daughter," he whispered against her skin, tears soaking the hoodie.
"We're having a daughter."
Elena's free hand flew to her mouth, sunglasses fogging.
She was laughing, crying, shaking.
Dr. Singh quietly printed photos (four of them, glossy, labeled only with date and heartbeat).
Slipped them into a plain black envelope.
"Anything else you need, you call me directly. Day or night."
They left the clinic floating.
Elevator ride down: Alex pinned Elena to the mirrored wall, kissed her slow and deep, one hand splayed over the bump.
"Little girl," he kept murmuring.
"Our little girl."
Back in the loft, 2:43 p.m.
Door barely closed before he had her hoodie off, bra pushed up, mouth on her breasts (swollen, sensitive, already changing for milk).
He laid her on the kitchen island, spread her legs, and ate her slow while the ultrasound photos sat beside her head like sacred relics.
When she came, it was with her fingers in his hair and his name and "daddy" tangled together on her tongue.
4:12 p.m.
He carried her to the bedroom, laid the four photos on the pillow like a crown.
Entered her missionary (slow, eye-contact, every thrust deliberate).
"Look at her," he whispered, nodding to the prints.
"Look what we made."
She did (tiny profile, perfect nose, hand curled by her face).
Came again just from that, clenching around him, tears streaming.
He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, spilling deep with a broken, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
6:30 p.m.
They hadn't moved.
Still joined, still trembling.
He reached for his phone, opened the camera, and hit record (no faces, just her belly, his hand spanning it, the ultrasound photos in soft focus behind).
Soft piano music from the speaker.
His voice, low and reverent:
"Hi, baby girl.
This is your daddy.
I'm never gonna let anyone hurt you.
I'm never gonna leave you.
You're gonna have your mom's eyes and my stubborn heart, and we're gonna love you so hard the whole world will feel it."
He kissed the bump, once, twice.
Stopped recording.
Saved it to an encrypted folder labeled **For Her – 18th Birthday**.
8:01 p.m.
They finally ate (takeout Thai on the floor, her sitting between his legs, his hand never leaving her stomach).
He fed her bites of pad thai from his fork, then licked the sauce from her lower lip.
"Names," he said suddenly.
"I've been thinking."
She turned in his arms.
"Tell me."
He brushed a thumb over her cheek.
"If she's got your fire… I want something strong.
Luna.
Nova.
Aurora."
She smiled, eyes shining.
"I was thinking… Lily."
He stilled.
"Your mother's name."
She nodded.
"Lily Harper.
After the woman who taught me how to love without limits."
He kissed her slow, tasting tears and curry and forever.
"Lily Harper," he echoed.
"Perfect."
11:11 p.m.
They made a wish on the digital clock (same one every night now).
He slid inside her again, slow and deep, one hand on her belly, the other laced with hers.
"Marry me," he whispered against her lips.
"Not legally. Never legally.
But here. Now. In this bed. With her between us."
She came just from the words, clenching around him, sobbing "Yes, yes, yes."
He followed, spilling inside her with her name on his tongue and Lily's heartbeat in their ears.
After, he slipped the brass key from his chain, fastened it around her left ring finger on a new, thinner chain.
"Till death," he said.
"And after," she answered.
They fell asleep still joined, city lights flickering across the ultrasound photos like a promise.
Week 14.
Secret kept.
Daughter named.
Family claimed.
Week 16, Day 1
28th-floor loft, 6:03 a.m.
Golden November light poured through the east windows and painted Elena's skin in slow, honeyed strokes.
She stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, palms cradling the unmistakable curve that had bloomed overnight.
Four months tomorrow.
Lily was making herself known.
Alex came up behind her, still sleep-warm, and wrapped his arms under hers so they both held the bump.
His lips found the brass key-turned-ring on her finger, kissed it, then the soft spot beneath her ear.
"Look at you," he whispered, voice rough with awe.
"Look at what you're doing."
She met his eyes in the mirror.
"I've never felt more beautiful."
He turned her gently, sank to his knees, and pressed his mouth to the swell.
Morning light caught the faint silver stretch marks just beginning to appear; he traced each one with his tongue like they were sacred text.
"Every mark," he said between kisses, "is proof you're mine."
He stood, lifted her onto the dresser, and slid inside her slow (no rush, just reverence).
They watched themselves in the mirror the whole time (her legs wrapped around his waist, his hand spanning the bump, the city waking up far below).
When she came, it rolled through her like warm waves, soft and endless.
He followed with her name on his lips and Lily's heartbeat fluttering against his palm.
Week 17
The glow was real.
Her skin had turned luminous, breasts fuller, hips softer, hair thicker.
Strangers smiled at her on the rare times she left the loft.
Alex couldn't keep his hands off her for more than five minutes.
He started taking photos again (this time with permission).
Every angle.
Every light.
Every new inch.
One evening he laid her on the white sheets, city lights glittering behind her, and shot an entire roll of film (black-and-white, high-speed, her hands cradling the bump, wedding-ring key glinting at her throat).
After, he developed them in the darkroom he'd built in the second bathroom (red light, chemical smell, her watching from the doorway in his robe).
He hung the prints to dry like love letters.
Week 18
Sex became worship.
He'd wake her with his mouth between her legs, slow and lazy, until she came twice before coffee.
Afternoons on the couch (her straddling him, bump pressed between them, rocking gentle while he whispered how perfect she was).
Nights against the windows (her palms flat on the glass, his hands cupping the weight of her breasts from behind, city lights strobing across their skin).
He never finished anywhere but inside her now.
"Keeping you full," he'd murmur.
"Keeping Lily safe."
Week 19
First kick.
3:11 a.m.
Elena jolted awake with a soft gasp.
Alex was instantly alert, hand flying to her belly.
"There," she whispered, guiding his palm.
A pause.
Then—
A tiny, unmistakable flutter.
His eyes filled.
"Hi, baby girl," he breathed, voice cracking.
"Daddy felt that."
Lily kicked again (stronger, right under his hand).
He laughed through tears, laid his head on Elena's chest, and let her stroke his hair while their daughter danced between them.
They didn't sleep again.
Made love instead (slow, quiet, tears mixing with sweat, every thrust a promise).
Week 20
Anatomy scan (same private clinic, same black envelope).
Dr. Singh smiled wider this time.
"Still a girl. Still perfect. And look—"
She turned the screen.
Lily waved (tiny hand, five perfect fingers).
Alex lost it completely (shoulders shaking, face buried in Elena's neck).
Back home, he framed the new photos beside the first set.
Built a small shelf above the bed (ultrasounds, the brass key when they showered, the first dried strawberry stem from the night they moved in).
That night he laid Elena on her side, entered her from behind, one arm under her breasts, the other cradling the bump.
"Feel her," he whispered with every slow thrust.
"She knows her daddy's voice."
Lily kicked in rhythm.
They came together (quiet, shattering, eternal).
Week 21
The glow became a beacon.
Elena's body was rounder, heavier, radiant.
Her breasts leaked the first drops of colostrum (Alex licked them clean, eyes dark with hunger and wonder).
He started calling her "wife" in public (soft, under his breath, when no one could hear).
She'd blush crimson and squeeze his hand.
One night he cooked naked (apron only), fed her bites of pasta from the fork, then bent her over the island and took her slow while the sauce simmered.
After, he carried her to the bath (their new ritual), washed her belly with both hands, then made her come with his fingers while the water lapped at her nipples.
Week 22
First public outing as "parents."
A discreet maternity boutique in Soho (private appointment, curtains drawn).
Alex knelt in the dressing room, hands on her bare bump while she tried on dresses that actually fit.
He cried when she stepped out in soft white lace (empire waist, flowy skirt, bump proudly on display).
"Bought it," he said immediately.
"You're wearing that when you marry me for real."
She laughed, teary.
"We're already married."
He kissed the ring on her finger.
"Not on paper. Not yet."
They left with six bags and plans that made her heart race.
Week 23
The glow was blinding.
Elena had never felt more powerful (body changing, life growing, love consuming).
Alex had never been more devoted (every touch worship, every word a vow).
They made love on the rooftop at midnight (blanket under the stars, city humming below, her on top, bump between them, his hands never leaving her skin).
When she came, the sky burst into fireworks (someone's early Diwali celebration across the river).
He laughed into her neck.
"Lily ordered those just for you."
She kissed him until the colors faded.
Second trimester.
Halfway there.
More in love than ever.
November 07, 2025 – 7:47 p.m.
28th-floor private rooftop, Mumbai skyline glittering like a jewel box.
The city was on fire with Diwali (marigold garlands on every balcony, rangoli glowing under streetlights, the air thick with rose incense and the pop-crack of fireworks).
Up here, thirty-eight floors above the chaos, it was only them.
Alex had spent three weeks planning in secret.
The entire rooftop was transformed:
- A mandala of tea lights spelling **LILY** in three-foot letters
- White silk drapes billowing in the warm breeze
- Low wooden platform covered in white rose petals and marigold petals
- One lone sitar player in the corner (hired for two hours, paid triple to forget faces)
- A small brass thali with sindoor, rice, and a mangalsutra he'd had made in gold and black diamonds
Elena stepped out of the private elevator at exactly 8:00 p.m.
She wore the white lace dress from Week 20, now altered to flow over her six-month bump.
Hair loose, eyes lined with kohl, the brass key-ring glinting at her throat.
Alex waited at the center of the mandala, barefoot in a cream kurta, lungs forgetting how to work.
The sitar began a soft Raag Yaman.
He walked to her, took both her hands.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She laughed, teary.
"You planned a Hindu wedding on Diwali?"
"I planned *our* wedding," he corrected.
"On the loudest night of the year, so the whole city can be our witness and still never hear us."
He led her to the platform.
The sitar player looked away (paid for discretion).
They stood face to face.
No priest.
Just them and Lily and the sky on fire.
Alex spoke first, voice steady:
"Elena Harper,
I take you as my wife, my home, my forever.
In front of these lights, this city, this life we made—
I vow to love you when it's easy,
to fight for you when it's impossible,
to keep you full of me and Lily full of us
until the stars burn out."
He took the mangalsutra, fastened it around her neck (black diamonds cool against her skin, resting just above the bump).
Elena's turn.
Tears rolled freely now.
"Alexander Harper,
I take you as my husband, my son, my everything.
I vow to carry you in my body and my heart,
to hide you in plain sight,
to build a world where Lily never has to choose between truth and safety.
You were mine first.
You will be mine last."
She dipped two fingers into the sindoor, pressed the red powder into his hairline (bright against the dark strands).
Then turned, lifted her hair, and guided his fingers to do the same to her.
The sitar swelled.
They stepped into the circle of tea lights.
Fireworks exploded over the Arabian Sea (gold, red, green, white).
Alex pulled a small box from his pocket.
Inside: two simple gold bands etched with tiny lilies.
He slid one onto her left ring finger, over the brass key-chain.
She slid the matching one onto his.
"I now pronounce us husband and wife," he said, grinning through tears.
"You may kiss your bride."
He kissed her like the world was ending and beginning at once (hands on her bump, Lily kicking hard between them as if clapping).
The sitar player stopped at exactly 8:17 p.m.
Left without a word.
They were alone.
Alex laid her down in the center of the mandala, petals sticking to her lace, city lights strobing across her skin.
Pushed the dress up to her waist, no panties (never anymore).
Entered her slow, eyes locked, gold band glinting with every thrust.
"Wife," he whispered with every stroke.
"Mine."
She came with fireworks bursting overhead, sindoor smudged on both their foreheads, mangalsutra swinging between her breasts.
He followed seconds later, spilling deep, staying inside, forehead pressed to hers.
"Happy new year, Mrs. Harper," he murmured.
"Happy forever, Mr. Harper," she answered.
They stayed on the rooftop until dawn (wrapped in silk drapes, petals in her hair, city quieting below).
Lily kicked in perfect rhythm with the fading fireworks.
Married.
Secret.
Perfect.