ROOSEVELT'S POV
The aroma of rosemary and sizzling butter filled the dining room, but I couldn't stomach a bite. My focus was entirely on the man across from me: Zyran.
Chandelier light caught his raven hair, styled flawlessly despite a grueling workday. Stripped of his suit jacket, his rolled-up sleeves exposed corded forearms that flexed with every slice of his steak. He was a masterpiece—a razor jawline, sculpted cheekbones, and lips usually pressed into a grim line.
He was breathtaking, powerful, and entirely mine.
Today marked our fourth anniversary. Usually, Zyran had his assistant dispatch a token—a diamond necklace or a designer bag—and we went our separate ways. But this year, I craved something else. Time. Just an intimate homemade dinner.
Despite running an empire spanning half the globe, Zyran actually agreed. He came home early. That tiny concession made my heart flutter like a caged bird.
I sat directly across from him rather than at the head of the table. 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 realized I was zoning 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."
Zyran didn’t look up immediately. 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 a stove. But 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 did a somersault. 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."
"It’s perfect," he said. For a heartbeat, 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."
The way he said it sounded like the ultimate praise.
"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 to 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. This was it. The perfect opening. 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."
Zyran paused, his glass hovering. He set it down, 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 reached for my purse on the floor, fingers brushing the velvet box harboring 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 color 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. His gaze was wild, utterly distracted. "I’m sorry, Roosevelt. It’s an emergency."
"What kind of emergency trumps our anniversary?" I shouted, hurt lacing my tone. "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.
"I’ll make it up to you," he tossed over his shoulder, vanishing out the door.
I stood rooted in the silent room, the scent of congealing meat turning my stomach. The box sat unopened on the tablecloth.
For the first time in four years, I felt utterly abandoned.
Three hours dragged by. The candles burned out, leaving waxy puddles on the linen. The steak was a stiff, inedible puck.
I numbly stood and began clearing the wreckage. My hands shook as I scraped gourmet food into the garbage. I felt foolish. Pathetic. I patted the box now stuffed in my pocket. The test was still there—a leaden secret instead of a joyful revelation.
Just as I killed the lights, headlights swept across the front window. An engine rumbled in the driveway.
My pulse spiked. He was back.
"Zyran," I breathed. Maybe he realized 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, prep 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 traumatized, 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. "I need to fetch her water. Stay with her."
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," I said stiffly. "But my husband and I were celebrating tonight."
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."
"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 center of gravity vanished. My heels slipped off the ledge. I clawed for the banister, catching only air.
The chandelier spun in my vision as I tumbled backward, plummeting into the darkness below.