I wake up to the feeling of being watched.

Not the paranoid kind.

The specific, irritating kind where you know exactly who’s doing it.

I open my eyes slowly, half-expecting to find an empty room because surely I’m imagining—

Bael is standing beside the bed, fully dressed for work, looking down at me with that unreadable expression.

I almost jump.

"Jesus..!"

"Good morning," he says, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s apparently been standing there staring at me like some kind of well-dressed stalker.

I sit up, heart still racing. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He picks up his briefcase from the chair. "You have four weeks left. You should start getting up earlier."

I blink at him, brain still half-asleep.

"You woke me up to lecture me about time management?"

"I woke you up because you slept through your alarms." He adjusts his watch with that casual precision that somehow makes everything he does look deliberate. "Your deadline is tight."

I glance at my phone on the nightstand.

7:15 AM.

Three missed alarms.

Shit.

"See?" There’s the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice. "I’ll make sure you’re up from now on."

"I don’t need you to..."

"And eat properly today." He’s already heading for the door. "I told Mrs. Wen to check on you at regular intervals. Don’t skip meals."

Then he’s gone, just like that.

Leaving me sitting in bed, half-awake, thoroughly annoyed, and somehow also...

Warm.

Which is stupid.

He’s just managing the pregnancy, making sure his investment stays healthy.

Nothing more.

I throw off the covers and head to the bathroom, determinedly not thinking about the fact that he waited for me to wake up instead of just leaving for work like a normal person.

***

By the time I make it downstairs, Grandmother is already in the breakfast room with her tea and newspaper.

She glances up when I enter.

"You’re up late."

"I was working."

"So I heard." She sets down her cup with that precise little click. "Bael mentioned you entered some architecture competition."

Of course he did.

I slide into my seat, reaching for the coffee. "It’s a design competition. Master-planned community."

Her eyes track over me, assessing. "And how is it progressing?"

"Fine. I’m on schedule."

"On schedule for what? Top three?"

I pause, cup halfway to my mouth.

"What?"

"If you’re entering a competition," Grandmother says, tone casual but pointed, "I expect you to place in the top three at minimum. Preferably first, but I understand these things can be competitive."

I stare at her.

"It’s under my own name. Li Runze."

"You’re a Wuchen now, legally." She picks up her tea again. "But even under your maiden name, you represent this family. So if you’re going to compete, compete properly. Win."

The pressure settles over my shoulders like a physical weight.

"I’ll do my best."

"Your best should be top three." She takes a delicate sip. "Otherwise I’ll be very disappointed."

The words are delivered lightly, almost conversationally.

But there’s an edge underneath.

An expectation.

A belief, maybe, that I can actually do this.

Which somehow makes it worse.

"Understood," I manage.

She nods once, satisfied, and returns to her newspaper.

I finish breakfast in silence, mind already racing through the design elements I need to refine, the calculations I need to double-check, the presentation materials I need to prepare.

Top three.

Perfect.

Just what I needed today.

***

The day passes in a blur of sketches and revisions.

I work through lunch without realizing it until Mrs. Wen appears with a tray, looking like she expected exactly this.

"Master Bael said to make sure you actually eat this time."

I look up from my traffic flow diagrams. "I wasn’t skipping, I just forgot."

She sets the tray down with pointed firmness. "Eat please. I’ll wait."

"What? No, just leave it here and I’ll—" 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

She crosses her arms.

Okay.

She’s definitely waiting.

I eat while she watches, reviewing the green corridor integration on my laptop, my mind only half on the food.

"All of it," she says when I try to set aside the soup.

"Yes, ma’am."

She finally leaves when the tray is empty, looking satisfied.

The afternoon blurs into evening.

At some point I notice my shirt feels tighter across my stomach.

Not obviously, not enough that anyone else would see it.

But I can feel it.

A slight fullness, a gentle pressure that wasn’t there a week ago.

The baby is actually growing.

This is actually real.

I press my hand against my stomach experimentally.

Still mostly flat, just... different.

Firmer, maybe.

Or I’m imagining it.

Probably imagining it.

I go back to my sketches, determinedly not thinking about the fact that there’s a tiny human in there, getting bigger, making my body change in ways I can’t control.

***

By the time I finally lean back and stretch, my neck is stiff and my eyes are burning.

I glance at the clock.

9:47 PM.

Bael isn’t home yet.

Probably working late, same as always.

I start organizing my materials, stacking papers, saving files.

Then I stop, and sit there for a moment, staring at nothing.

What am I doing with Bael?

The question surfaces unbidden, unwanted.

Last night...the argument, the hand-holding in the dark.

This morning...him standing there watching me sleep, making sure I woke up, acting like he has any right to manage my schedule.

And the worst part?

I like it.

I actually like when he does that.

Even knowing it’s all fake, all transactional, all about the baby and nothing about me.

Even knowing he’s only paying attention because I’m carrying his heir.

I still want it.

I want him to keep looking at me like that, I want him to keep checking on me, ordering food, touching my hand in the dark like it means something.

Even though it doesn’t.

Even though it can’t.

My chest feels tight.

This is bad.

This is really bad.

Because if I’m honest with myself...if I stop lying for even five seconds...I already know what this is.

I like him.

I actually like him.

Not just attracted, not just convenient proximity, not just appreciating his face even though yes, fine, he’s objectively gorgeous.

I like him.

The realization sits there, heavy and uncomfortable.

When did that happen?

How did I let that happen?

I press my fingers against my temples, trying to think.

There’s nothing about him worth liking.

He’s controlling, emotionally unavailable, clearly still hung up on his ex, treats this marriage like a business arrangement because that’s exactly what it is.

So why?

Why do I care when he shows up at midnight to drag me to bed?

Why does my heart race when he smirks at me over breakfast?

Why do I notice every new expression that crosses his face like I’m cataloging them?

Like that apology after the hospital.

The first time I’d seen him look genuinely concerned instead of just controlled.

Or the way he covered me with a blanket when I fell asleep in his office, like it didn’t even occur to him not to.

Or how he held me that night I asked him to, steady and warm, like maybe he didn’t mind as much as he should have.

Or the ice cream he kept stocked without being asked.

Or the way he touched my hand last night in the dark, barely any pressure, just... there.

My face feels hot.

My heart is beating too fast just thinking about it.

This is terrible.

This is a disaster.

Because Bael doesn’t feel the same way.

Can’t feel the same way.

He made that very clear.

And even if he does show care sometimes, it’s only because of the baby.

Only because I have value as the person carrying his heir.

...At least that’s something, right?

At least he has a reason to pay attention to me, even if it’s not the reason I want.

At least he’ll keep taking care of me because the baby needs me healthy.

That’s better than nothing.

Better than being completely worthless to him.

I let my head fall forward into my hands.

God, I’m pathetic.

Settling for scraps of attention.

Convincing myself that pregnancy-management counts as affection.

Falling for someone who sees me as an obligation.

What is wrong with me?

What do I even see in him?

Besides the obvious physical appeal, because yes, he’s stupidly handsome and I’m not blind.

But beyond that?

The way he’s different when he does show care.

Softer, almost.

Like there’s an actual person under all that control.

The way my heart speeds up every time I discover a new expression he can make.

Every small crack in the perfect composure.

Every moment where he’s just... Bael.

Not the CEO.

Not the cold, calculated businessman.

Just the person who somehow knew I needed ice cream before I said it out loud.

Who stands in my study doorway at midnight looking irritated that I haven’t slept yet.

Who touches my hand in the dark like maybe, possibly, he wants the contact too.

My face is definitely hot now.

I can feel the blush creeping up my neck.

This is so stupid.

I’m in so much trouble.

Because I can lie to myself about a lot of things, but not this.

Not anymore.

I like Bael.

And he’s never going to feel the same way.

I take a long, slow breath and force myself to stand up.

The competition deadline is in four weeks.

Grandmother expects top three.

Bael will keep managing my schedule whether I like it or not.

And I’ll keep pretending his attention doesn’t mean anything.

Because that’s safer than admitting how much I want it to.

I head upstairs, mind still spinning, heart still racing.

Yeah.

I’m in so much trouble.