Pregnancy changed many things.
Anna's sleep schedule.
Her patience.
Her relationship with expensive trousers.
Most unexpectedly, it changed breakfast.
At 2:14 a.m., she woke abruptly and sat upright in bed.
Oliver woke instantly.
Years of power had trained him for crisis.
"What happened?"
"I need mango."
He stared into the dark.
"What?"
"Mango."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"A fresh one?"
She turned slowly.
"That sounded judgmental."
"It sounded confused."
"I need mango with chili salt."
At two in the morning, Oliver Walker processed this request as if reviewing wartime logistics.
Then threw back the covers.
"Stay here."
Twenty minutes later, he returned.
Hair messy.
Coat half-buttoned.
Barefoot in house slippers somehow worth more than rent.
Holding:
Three mangoes.
Two brands of chili salt.
A knife.
And, inexplicably, flowers.
Anna blinked.
"You found mango?"
"I acquired mango."
"At two a.m.?"
"I know people."
She laughed.
"Why flowers?"
"You looked distressed."
"That required produce, not romance."
"I covered both risks."
They sat in the kitchen under dim lights while rain tapped the windows.
Oliver sliced mango with surgical precision.
Anna ate straight from the plate with zero elegance.
He watched her.
Again.
Constantly.
"What?" she asked.
"You seem happier."
"I have mango."
"Good."
He pushed another slice toward her.
"Try this salt."
She tasted it.
Eyes widened.
"This one is better."
He nodded once.
"I thought so."
"You tested salts?"
"I ran comparisons."
She nearly cried laughing.
By morning, the household staff knew two things:
Mrs. Walker wanted fruit at impossible hours.
Mr. Walker had become terrifyingly committed to sourcing it.
The kitchen now contained:
Imported mangoes.
Local mangoes.
Organic mangoes.
Frozen mangoes.
Dried mango.
Anna entered and stopped short.
"This is excessive."
Oliver looked up from emails.
"This is preparedness."
"It's a tropical warehouse."
"It's inventory."
"You've built a mango portfolio."
"Diversification reduces risk."
She kissed his cheek.
"You're ridiculous."
"Eat first."
Later at headquarters, Anna attended one strategy meeting before declaring everyone irritating.
She returned to Oliver's office and dropped into the sofa dramatically.
He ended a call immediately.
"What happened?"
"People."
"Specific names?"
"No."
"Pity."
"I'm tired."
He crossed to her, loosened her heels, and placed a glass of water in her hand without comment.
Then he crouched in front of her.
"Headache?"
"A little."
"Light sensitivity?"
"Yes."
"Have you eaten?"
She paused.
"That's a no."
He stood.
"Meeting canceled."
"It's your meeting."
"Then they'll suffer."
He took her home himself.
In the elevator, she leaned against him.
"Am I difficult?" she asked quietly.
He looked down, surprised.
"You're pregnant."
"That was not an answer."
"It was the only relevant one."
"But I'm moody and tired and I cried because the bakery sold out of lemon tart."
"You cried because the bakery was careless."
She laughed weakly.
He touched her cheek.
"Love, you are carrying our child. You may feel however you like."
That nearly undid her.
That evening, she found a small dessert tray waiting on the terrace.
Lemon tart.
Fresh mango.
Tea.
Warm blankets.
Oliver stood by the railing pretending this was casual.
"You sent someone across the city for tart."
"I corrected a market failure."
She smiled.
Then noticed a second plate.
"You're eating tart?"
"No."
"Then why two?"
"So you don't have to choose."
That man.
She crossed to him slowly.
"You know this level of care is suspicious."
"I'm building precedent."
"For what?"
"For the day our child learns you can be bribed with pastry."
She laughed and wrapped her arms around him.
He held her carefully, hands settling over the curve of her stomach.
Below them, Milan glittered.
Inside them, a family kept forming in ordinary moments.
And on the table beside them sat enough mango to feed a village. ✨