"Richard, about me moving out, have you given it any more thought?"
Natalie sat in the wicker chair in the garden, fingertips gently stroking her rounded belly. Her tone was calm but carried that stubborn edge she wouldn't let go of. Sunlight caught her blonde hair, making her look docile as a kitten, but the moment she spoke, she was still trying to slip from my grasp.
Here we go again.
How many times this week? Third? Fourth? I closed my folder and looked at her, my voice firm with zero room for negotiation. "Natalie, we've been over this. You're in no condition to live alone. The manor has the best medical team, the safest environment, everything you need right when you need it."
She pressed her lips together, a flash of disappointment crossing those blue eyes, but she didn't snap back like before. Just sighed softly and looked down at her belly. "But it's so suffocating here. I want to be like before—go out without reporting in, walk around without a whole crew following me..."
"Security is for you and the baby's safety." I tried to soften my tone, something I'd been practicing lately, reining in the aggression, learning patience with her. "The garden, the private club, the stables—anywhere you want to go, I'll arrange it. As long as someone goes with you."
She didn't argue. Just gave a quiet "mm."
That counted as progress.
Before, she'd explode, glare at me, slam doors, and lock herself in her room. Now at least she'd hear me out. Her edges were still there, but she wasn't constantly bristling at me anymore. Honestly, these small changes pleased me more than I'd admit.
One morning, Natalie was trying to reach a pregnancy picture book on the top shelf. She was on her toes, arm trembling, belly tightening with the stretch. I crossed the roomin a few strides and grabbed it easily, my fingertips brushing her hand.
She froze, looked up at me, and said quietly, "Thank you."
Her eyes were so soft in that moment—no guard up, no hostility. Like a small animal finally willing to approach its owner.
My chest tightened. Heat stirred low in my gut.
"For stuff like this, just call me." My voice dropped, watching her ears turn pink, a twisted satisfaction crawling up from somewhere deep inside.
Being needed by her felt incredible.
I knew Natalie still had fight in her, still craved freedom, still wanted out of this manor. But that initial fury and desperation in her eyes had slowly given way to a dull acceptance. She'd listen carefully to the obstetrician's instructions, eat every nutritious meal, and talk softly to her belly.
She was accepting the baby, accepting this place, accepting me beside her.
That satisfied me. Made me feel almost sickeningly secure.
To spend more time with Natalie, I'd moved most of my work back to the manor. Video meetings instead of in-person whenever possible, trips cancelled across the board, and anything requiring my physical presence got compressed to same-day turnarounds. The upstairs temporary office became my headquarters. Through the blinds, I could sometimes catch Natalie slowly walking through the garden below—it made even the dullest spreadsheets bearable.
The ice between us seemed to be thawing.
One night, I was working in the study when I heard a low cry from the master bedroom—suppressed, pained.
I was on my feet immediately.
"Natalie? What's wrong?"
In the darkness, Natalie was curled on the bed, one hand gripping her calf hard, biting her lip, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
"Leg cramp," she forced out through clenched teeth, voice thin with pain. "It's fine, I can—"
I didn't let her finish. Sat on the edge of the bed, pried her hand away, covered her tense calf muscle with my palm, and started working it according to the technique Dr. Durand had specifically taught me last week for pregnancy-related spasms.
At first, Natalie's body was rigid, fingertips twisting the sheets into wrinkles, breathing short and suppressed, like she refused to let me hear her panting.
I found it amusing—what side of Natalie hadn't I seen? What sound hadn't I heard? This was pure denial. But I said nothing, just kept working slowly, forcing that locked muscle to release.
After about two minutes, I felt Natalie's muscle soften under my palm. Her breathing shifted from rapid to deep, her fingers gradually loosening from the sheets. She let out the faintest sigh—so quiet it barely existed, like a cat's satisfied, lazy sound in the dark, completely unconscious, her body's instinctive response after pain released.
Her skin was warm and soft under my palm, the curve of her calf fitting perfectly against my knuckles. Fuck, I was hard.
