Early the next morning, as the pale winter light crept through the curtains, Oskar lay staring at the ceiling, mind finally beginning to work again.
A sentence rose up out of the fog of last night.
"Tanya is pregnant, Your Highness."
He heard it again in his head, clear this time. He remembered it had come in gasping breaths, half-muffled against his neck. At the time he'd thought:
Ah. She's talking about herself. She's pregnant. We did it. I'm going to be a father. Wait, how old was this body again?
Except—
He turned his head.
The woman sleeping in his arms was not Tanya.
Now that the sleepy morning confusion had burned away, he saw her properly in the gray morning light. This wasn't the small, golden-haired maid who haunted his bathroom and his bed and his thoughts.
This was the other one.
The quieter one.
The junior maid who sometimes hovered near Tanya in the laundry hall. The one Tanya had mentioned once or twice with a little laugh:
"You made her whole month, you know. With that pastry and 'you're beautiful' thing. She hasn't stopped smiling about it."
Anna. Anna Müller.
He remembered now: the tray, the collision in the corridor, the pastry, the way her eyes had lit up when he'd called her beautiful. A widowed mother, Tanya had said. With three girls somewhere out in the country.
And now she was here, pressed against his side like a sleepy cat, breathing softly.
He studied her quietly.
Not as cute and spritely as Tanya, perhaps, but softer in a different way. A little older than his current body. A gentle, worn kind of beauty: fuller hips, deeper curves, the softness of a woman who had carried children. A motherly warmth that clung to her even in sleep.
And if Tanya's words last night were true…
Then both of them—Tanya and Anna—might be carrying his children.
His mind flicked back to the bath in late November. Tanya, nervous and giggly, closing the door behind them. Her "Christmas present"—which, in practice, had been him agreeing to start "preparing" for it in the tub weeks in advance. Hot water, slippery limbs, breathless kisses… and that heat-of-the-moment "don't pull away" choice that had seemed very clever at the time.
Afterwards, Tanya had gone quiet for a few days. Less playful. As if the weight of what they'd done—maid + prince + potential heir—had suddenly settled on her shoulders like a wet blanket.
Maybe this is a bad idea, her eyes had seemed to say.
But I still want it, the way she clung to him admitted.
And last night, Anna had whispered the result of that bathtub Christmas gift.
Tanya is pregnant.
He sucked in a slow breath.
If he was honest with himself, this wasn't exactly a noble's unique sin. His imperial father was hardly a saint. If the stories were right, Wilhelm II had quietly bought the silence of more than one prostitute or mistress with tens of thousands or sometimes even hundreds of thousands of marks over the years. There were rumors—always rumors—of "bastards" tucked far away in respectable houses, taken care of provided they never bore the Hohenzollern name.
So strictly speaking, this wasn't new.
And somewhere in the back of his head, the Bible—half-remembered from school and late-night internet debates—whispered:
"Be fruitful and multiply."
"Well," he muttered inwardly, "I'm definitely taking that part seriously."
He grimaced.
The pastors would not be impressed.
His old Chinese brain tried desperately to cope the only way it knew how: with half-baked arguments and drama logic.
If God truly hated men having more than one woman, why bless Jacob through Leah and Rachel and the maids? Why legislate for men with two wives instead of banning it outright?
It was a comforting thought.
Also utterly unconvincing.
Because no matter how he spun it, nothing truly excused what he'd done. Not history, not the Bible, not his father's behavior.
At the end of the day, very simply:
He had slept with one woman he loved and another who loved him, without meaning to, in a way that would probably shatter at least one heart and create a scandal if handled poorly.
And now, two lives—maybe more—might be growing because of it.
He exhaled, feeling the weight settle in his chest.
Take responsibility, he told himself. As a man. As a prince. For them. For the children, if they come.
He thought about the court. The gossip. The Empress. The Crown Prince.
In this time, taking mistresses wasn't unheard of. Marital fidelity was a rule everyone pretended to keep and quietly broke in private. Illegitimate children existed; everyone simply pretended not to see them.
And he was not the Crown Prince. He was the fifth son. A spare of a spare. If anyone had room for… irregular arrangements, it was him. He wasn't going to trigger a succession crisis by having a couple of extra children out of wedlock—especially if he didn't try to force them into the main line.
If he behaved in public, backed the dynasty, kept scandal discreet, and didn't pick fights with the Church, the court would likely adopt the usual attitude:
Don't ask. Don't say anything in the papers. Everyone knows. No one says it out loud.
He had money. He had companies to hide shares in. He could give both women real positions: directors, senior ladies-in-waiting, "personal maids" with suspiciously nice houses and suspiciously well-dressed children.
Unofficially, everyone would know they were his women. Officially, no one would write it down.
It was system-compatible sin.
But even with all the political gymnastics, it still left one hard thing:
He had to look both women in the eyes and accept what he'd done.
He just hoped Tanya wouldn't be too hurt. Their relationship was still young. Maybe the blow wouldn't destroy her. Maybe.
Please be stronger than the average drama heroine, he begged mentally. Don't go full "throw myself off a bridge" on me.
He looked down at Anna again.
She was still deeply asleep, worn out, lips parted slightly. Exhausted in a way that made him oddly proud and very, very guilty.
He shifted carefully, tightening his arm around her.
Then he bent and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
Her lashes fluttered. She made a tiny, content sound, but didn't fully wake.
"Du gehörst jetzt zu mir, Anna," he whispered softly. "You're mine now. So just rest, you beautiful woman. This prince will take care of everything."
She smiled in her sleep and snuggled closer, face pressed to his chest.
He swallowed.
Then, slowly, he eased his arm free and rolled away, tucking the blanket up around her shoulders. It was already cooling, damp with sweat and… best not to think too hard about what else it smelled like.
He stood, stretched once, and went looking for a clean uniform.
Father… two pregnant women… a failing shipyard… a secret dreadnought program… a gym empire… a lottery empire… a major growing industrial empire…
His brain tried to juggle it all and dropped everything at once.
And now I'm going to be a father?
The word still felt unreal. Like a title he'd stolen from someone else and pinned on temporarily.
He couldn't picture it.
He couldn't feel it yet.
It hovered over him like a storm on the horizon: acknowledged, but not emotionally real. All he had for now were scattered thoughts and old Chinese soap-operas whispering:
You must marry her. No, you must marry the other one. No, you must become monk. No, you must die heroically.
"Shut up," Oskar muttered at his own brain.
He needed a bath.
Desperately.
He was naked, dirty, smelled like sweat and shame, and his mind was one giant screaming question mark. And he had to meet the Krupp family — the literal titans of German industry — looking respectable, princely, and not like a man who had just ruined three lives at once. He had to move for the sake of Germany and the world as well.
He grabbed a clean uniform off the stand, slung it over his arm, and slipped out of his bedroom.
The heavy door closed behind him with a solid click — mercifully hiding Anna from view.
Oskar let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He turned toward the side door leading to his private bath — the big one, with the huge porcelain tub where he and Tanya had spent far too many hours together —
Do NOT think about that right now.
He took two steps toward it—
CREAK.
A door opened at the far end of the hallway.
He froze.
Tanya stepped through.
Golden hair still a little messy from sleep. Blue eyes shining with excitement. Small hands pushing a food cart with a breakfast tray — sliced fruit, warm rolls, butter, even a little folded note tucked under the plate.
Behind her, the guard nodded respectfully and shut the door.
"Tanya…" Oskar whispered.
Her entire face lit up.
"Good morning, Oskar!" she called brightly.
Then, softer, shy:
"…my love."
Oskar's heart tried to leap out of his chest and sprint away screaming.
Before he could blink, she abandoned the cart entirely and ran straight to him, throwing her arms around his naked waist and pressing her small, warm body against him.
She tilted her face up, concern softening her features.
"Oskar?"
He tried to smile.
"Tanya, I… I don't— I mean—"
His throat closed.
"I don't know what to say. I just…"
He wanted to confess everything — every awful detail — but he had no idea how to do it without sounding like the world's biggest villain.
Before he could form a single coherent apology, she touched a finger to his lips.
"Hush," she whispered, smiling with fragile hope. "It's alright. I was shocked too when I realized it. I still can't believe it myself."
Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "But… I'm pretty sure I'm pregnant. I have all the symptoms."
Oskar's panic shattered into a thousand pieces.
He dropped into a squat so he could look her in the eyes.
"No, Tanya— it's not like that."
He took her trembling hands.
"You being pregnant is… wonderful news. When I heard it last night, I… I couldn't believe it. Even now I'm still trying to understand it."
Her eyes widened — sparkling — and she suddenly hugged him so tightly he nearly toppled backwards. Her chest pressed against his face, and she kissed the top of his head again and again.
"Oh, Oskar, that's wonderful! I was so afraid, but you— you really—"
She almost cried from joy.
He held her gently.
For one tiny moment, everything felt perfect.
Then she turned her head.
And saw it.
The bucket.
Anna's bucket.
Still sitting where it had been last night.
With the towel draped over the rim.
Her smile faltered.
"Wait…" she murmured.
She stepped back slightly, eyes flicking between the bucket… and Oskar… and the closed door behind him.
"Where's Anna?" she asked slowly. "The maid who always cleans this corridor. She never came back to the attic last night. Her bucket is still here. Did she— did she come to you?"
Oskar stiffened so visibly it was like watching a tree harden into iron.
He didn't look at the bucket.
He didn't look at her.
He just clutched the uniform against his chest like a shield against guilt and doom.
Tanya's brows knit in innocent confusion.
"Oh — I'm sorry!" she said suddenly, misreading all of it. "First things first — you need to get ready for the day!"
Before he could react, she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bathroom.
"Karl was looking for you earlier! He said the Krupp family agreed to meet you today — they're very interested in the safety helmets you designed! We can't keep them waiting, Oskar!"
It felt like a divine escape hatch had opened under his feet.
He almost sagged in relief.
"Yes," he said quickly. "Yes — the bath — let's— let's get clean and then go."
She beamed and tugged him into the bathroom.
But inside, as he sat in the bath with her on his lap—naked, soft, beautiful—scrubbing his body with such careful attention, he felt like he was being crushed from the inside. She truly cared for him. Every touch said it. When his hand slid to her stomach, to where their baby was growing, she only giggled and smiled down at him with eyes full of warmth and love.
It almost broke him from guilt alone. He could lie. He could bury it. He could let Anna become a secret forever. But that would rot everything he'd built with Tanya—from the inside out.
He couldn't hide it any longer.
"Tanya… my love," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. Truly, utterly sorry. I've failed you."
She froze.
The shift from tender warmth to suffocating tension was so sharp it felt like the air had vanished. She stared at him, wide-eyed, lost, suddenly afraid of what might come next.
Then he said it.
"Last night, Anna did come to my chambers. And like a fool, I acted without thinking and I… I did the unthinkable to her."
Tanya gasped, the bar of soap slipping from her fingers and falling into the water with a soft plop. Her hands flew up to her mouth as she stared at him, blue eyes huge with horror and already shimmering with tears.
"No," she whispered. "Did you—? Did you kill her?"
Silence.
For a moment, even Oskar was stunned. Kill her? Just what kind of monster did she think he was?
His brain stuttered; then he shook his head quickly.
"What? No—Tanya, what are you even—? No. No, I didn't kill her. I…"
He forced himself to say it.
"I slept with Anna. Last night."
Tanya's eyes widened even further.
Before the full storm could hit, he spoke again, desperation spilling out.
"It was dark. I thought it was you. I just… did it. I'm a fool. If you never want to see me again, I understand. Nothing I say or do will fix it." He swallowed hard. "But please, Tanya—please don't do anything stupid. For the baby's sake, if nothing else. Please. I love you. I swear I do. I just… you know me. I'm an idiot."
She moved.
A small left hand with slightly long, sharp nails snapped across his cheek with a loud smack.
His head barely turned—he was too solid for that—but his skin stung, and the emotional blow hit much harder than the physical one.
Then came the roar.
"You— you— ASS FACE! BASTARD!"
The words were more pain than profanity.
He opened his mouth, trying to say something, anything—but before he could, her light body crashed against his chest. To his utter shock, she surged up and bit his collarbone. Hard.
He shouted, more from surprise than anything, and instinctively wrapped his arms around her.
He didn't push her away.
He didn't restrain her.
He let her rage.
She bit, scratched, shoved, pummeled him with tiny fists full of emotion and zero technique. He took it all without resisting. This was the least he owed her.
She let go of his skin long enough to hiss furiously into his ear:
"As if I'd ever let you go! And let someone else have you all for themselves instead? Never! You're mine, my man! You ASS FACE!"
Then she bit him again.
He yelped.
When her jaw grew tired and the biting faded, she switched to slapping him and hammering his chest with little, trembling fists. She had almost no strength behind them—but all her heartbreak was there.
At last even that burned out.
She sagged forward and pressed herself against him, shaking, pressing her face into his chest as the sobs finally tore free. He held her as tightly as he dared, whispering apology after apology, promise after promise.
Nothing he said really helped.
He knew it.
Only time and his actions from now on would mean anything.
So he simply held her, letting her cry into him, determined to stay right there for as long as she would allow it.