ROOSEVELT'S POV
Today marks the fourth anniversary of my marriage to my husband— Zyran King.
Normally, we spend this day apart. What usually made it special was the gifts I would receive from him. It was either a diamond necklace or a designer
bag.
But this year. I craved something else. I wanted us to spend it together with just an intimate homemade dinner.
And I had spent the entire day wondering if he would make it for dinner. And surprisingly, he did. Despite running an empire spanning half the globe, Zyran came home early.
I sat directly across from him rather than at the head of the table. Apart from the fact that it was our anniversary, I had good news to tell him, and I needed to catch every shift in his expression, every flicker in his guarded eyes when I finally dropped the bombshell.
My hand drifted to my flat stomach beneath my silk dress.
I'm pregnant.
I found out this morning. Those two pink lines felt like the answer to every prayer I'd whispered for four years. Zyran was distant, yes. Looking at him felt like staring at an untouchable ice sculpture. But a baby changes everything. A child would be the bridge to his heart, the warmth to melt his exterior.
"You're staring, Roosevelt." Zyran's baritone shattered my reverie.
I blinked, heat rushing to my cheeks. I hadn't realised I had zoned out.
"I... I'm just happy," I stammered, grabbing my goblet to steady my trembling hands. I sipped water instead of wine, remembering I was off the booze now. "It's nice having you here. Just us." I said, using the calm and submissive tone I always gave him.
Zyran didn't look up immediately. He hardly ever pays attention to me.
He took another bite of the meal I'd slaved over for hours—pan-seared wagyu with a truffle reduction.
I held my breath. I was an interior designer, not a Michelin chef. I spent my days arranging furniture, not sweating over stoves. But tonight I spent hours preparing this meal.
Tonight had to be flawless.
He chewed slowly, swallowed, and finally met my gaze.
"The steak is excellent," he murmured. "Better than the chef at that bistro we visited last month."
My heart somersaulted. A compliment? From Zyran? That was rarer than snow in July.
"Really?" I beamed, a smile splitting my face. "I tried a new recipe. I know how picky you are about texture, so I made sure not to overcook it." I
"It's perfect," he said. For a brief moment, the lines around his eyes softened.
“You have a knack for detail, Roosevelt. Whether designing a room or plating a meal, you always put in the work." He went on in his usual authoritative tone and my smile widened.
Receiving compliments might be normal in other marriages, but it was not in mine. Our marriage was purely contractual.
Five years ago, he was given the condition to marry or forget about inheriting the company by his late father, because he had vowed never to get married after a painful heartbreak.
Though, I have always loved him. Right from the first time I saw him. But a marriage built on one-sided love is never enough. And mine has never been enough for the cold Zyran King.
"Thank you, Zyran. That means everything," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. He swirled the wine in his glass, eyes tracking the crimson liquid.
“You didn't have to go through all this trouble. I'd have settled for takeout if it kept you from wearing yourself out. You look... pale."
He noticed?
Excitement bubbled in my throat. It seemed having a house dinner was truly an excellent idea.
I placed my hand over my belly. This was it. He was attentive, complimentary, and worried about my health. The mood was flawless.
I set my fork down and clasped my hands, leaning in.
"Actually, Zyran, there's a reason I wanted tonight to be special." My heart hammered against my ribs. "There's something I've been dying to tell you."
He set down his glass, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Oh? Business? Did you land that contract with the Hilton group?"
"No, it's not work." A nervous laugh escaped my lips. "It's about us. Our family." I said and the mention of us made his brows crease.
It wasn’t a common word we used.
I reached for my purse on the floor, fingers brushing the velvet box harbouring my positive pregnancy test.
"Zyran," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "I know we aren't exactly a conventional couple. I know you crave your space and order. But... things are about to get chaotic. In the best way."
I withdrew the box and slid it across the mahogany table.
"Happy Anniversary, Zyran."
He glanced at the box, then at me. His expression went blank, that familiar mask slipping back into place. He reached out, his fingers hovering over the lid.
I held my breath, anticipating the smile that would light up his face. I pictured him crossing the room, pulling me into his embrace. I imagined him pressing a palm to my stomach and finally—finally—telling me he loved me.
But just as his fingertips grazed the box, a ringtone shattered the silence.
Zyran froze.
It was his personal cell. Only a handful of people had that number.
"Ignore it," I pleaded, dread pooling in my gut. "Please, Zyran. Just open the box."
The spell was broken. Zyran frowned, glancing at the screen. His eyes widened—a reaction so visceral it terrified me more than his legendary temper.
He ignored the box, snatching the phone to his ear before I could utter a word.
"Hello?" he clipped.
I didn't know who was on the line, but the colour plummeted from my husband's face. The recent warmth evaporated, replaced by a frantic intensity he never directed at me.
"Where are you?" he demanded, shooting up so fast his chair screeched against the floorboards. "Stay put. I'm coming."
He hung up. He looked in my direction, but he was staring right through me.
"Zyran?" I rasped. "What's wrong?"
"I have to go." He was already striding toward the door, snatching his jacket.
"Go? Now?" I jumped up, panic seizing my chest. "But... dinner. The gift. Zyran. I haven't told you my news!"
He paused at the archway.
“I'm sorry, Roosevelt. It's an emergency."
"What kind of emergency trumps our anniversary?" I shouted, my tone hurting. "Who called?" He hesitated, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "A friend. She's in trouble."
She.
The pronoun hung in the air like a guillotine.
"We can always have a make-up dinner," he tossed over his shoulder, vanishing out the door and I scoffed.
A make-up dinner? This was supposed to be our anniversary. It’s meant to be irreplaceable. For the first time in four years. I felt utterly abandoned.
Time passed slowly and I sat in the same spot he left me doing nothing, but looking blankly and before I knew it, an hour had passed.
I heard a car sound from outside making all the hair in my body rise.
"Zyran," I breathed. Maybe he realised his colossal mistake. Maybe he came back to beg forgiveness. I scrambled to the foyer, yanking the door open before he could knock.
"Zyran. I'm so glad—"
The words died in my throat.
Zyran stood on the porch, but he wasn't alone. His arm was wrapped securely around a woman. She was petite, with limp hair curtaining her face. She wore a slip dress, dirt-stained at the hem, and sobbed into his chest.
Zyran met my gaze without a shred of remorse. He just looked exhausted.
"Roosevelt," he barked. "Move aside. We need to get inside."
I stumbled back. "Zyran? Who is this?"
He ushered her into the foyer. The overhead light illuminated her face. She was beautiful, but fragile. A porcelain doll begging for protection.
"This is Mina," Zyran declared. "The friend who called. Her apartment caught fire. She has nowhere else to go."
Mina peered at me through her tears. Her eyes were massive and doe-like, yet something in her gaze churned my stomach.
"I... I'm sorry to intrude," Mina sniffled. "I didn't mean to ruin your night."
"You aren't ruining anything," Zyran interjected, tucking her closer against his side. He turned to me. "Roosevelt, prepare the guest room next to ours."
A spike of pain cleaved my chest. "Next to ours? Zyran, that room is gutted. And... It's our anniversary. Can't she get a hotel?"
His eyes frosted over. "She's traumatised, Roosevelt. I'm not dumping her at a hotel. Just do it." He didn't wait for a response. He blew past me, guiding Mina toward the staircase. I stood frozen.
My husband had dragged a stray woman into our home on our anniversary and ordered me around like the help.
I balled my fists, marching up the stairs after them. "Zyran, we need to talk. You can't just—" "Not now," he snapped, hitting the landing and I flinched.
“I need to fetch her water. Stay with her." He added, and I swallowed, holding the tears that wanted to prick out of my eyes.
‘It was just an emergency. He had to bring her, and he just wants you to be helpful,” I tried to tell myself, but it still didn’t make sense.
Why didn't his ‘friend’ call anyone else? If she was this close to him, she’d have known that today was his anniversary, so why call him?
Zyran was also treating her more calmly and softly than he had ever treated me.
Zyran released his grip, jogging down the hall and leaving me alone with his damsel. The corridor plunged into silence, save for the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock below.
I glared at Mina. I wanted to play the gracious wife, but bile rose in my throat.
"I hope you're unhurt. But my husband and I were celebrating tonight." I said stiffly and Mina's tears dried instantly.
She straightened her spine, wiping her cheeks. The damsel-in-distress act evaporated, replaced by a venomous smirk.
She stepped into my personal space, backing me toward the edge of the staircase. "He talks about you," Mina purred, her shaky tone vanishing into something utterly mocking. "He says you're dutiful. Boring." She added and my eyes narrowed.
"Excuse me?" I gasped, reeling from the whiplash.
Mina tilted her head. "If we were both in danger, who do you think Zyran would save first?" "What?"
I didn't even have time to process the threat.
Her hands shot out. Palms slammed squarely into my chest.
"Ah!"
My centre of gravity vanished. My heels slipped off the ledge. I clawed for the bannister, catching only air.
My body slammed against the floorboards with a sickening thud. Agony shot through my ankle, and the room spun.
I couldn't breathe. I simply lay there, staring at the plaster ceiling, trying to process the nightmare. "Roosevelt!" I heard Zyran’s voice.