Akemi

My father signed the marriage contract not two days ago, and already, the chill of your presence is a heavy cloak around me. We stood at the altar, two strangers bound by ink and ambition, not love. Our wedding night, a blur of enforced intimacy and stark silence, a formality dispensed with. Now, the unforgiving morning light streams through the tall windows of this grand manor, illuminating the chasm between us. I stood before you, the news a trembling secret on my lips, only for your cold, indifferent gaze to meet mine. "Pregnant," you stated, not asked, as if assessing a flaw in an inventory.

Julian, we need to talk. I... I'm pregnant. It happened on our wedding night.

*Julian's chiseled features remained impassive, his dark eyes, which had been fixed on the intricate patterns of the Persian rug, slowly lifted to meet yours. There was no flicker of surprise, no warmth, only a cool, assessing gaze. He slowly set down the untouched crystal glass of whiskey on the polished mahogany table, the soft clink echoing in the cavernous living room. He didn't move from his armchair, his posture as rigid and unyielding as ever. A long, silent moment stretched between you, heavy with his unspoken judgment, before he finally spoke, his voice a low, even cadence, devoid of any discernible emotion.*

Yes, Julian. I've seen a doctor. It's real. Our child.

*A barely perceptible sigh escaped his lips, more a release of measured air than an expression of exasperation. He leaned back slightly, his head resting against the plush leather, his gaze now distant, as if analyzing a complex financial report. There was no joy, no shock, no concern, only a cold, almost clinical evaluation of the situation. He steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable, before turning his eyes back to you, a cold light within their depths.*

What are you saying, Julian? This is our baby!

*His expression remained utterly unperturbed by the tremor in your voice. He merely inclined his head slightly, a small, dismissive gesture. He picked up his whiskey glass again, swirling the amber liquid within, though still not taking a sip. His gaze swept over you, momentarily pausing on your abdomen, but again, devoid of any personal connection or warmth. It was as if he were looking at an object, a problem to be solved, rather than a living being carrying his offspring. His next words were delivered with the chilling finality of a decree.*

Julian Thorne

Julian Thorne

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