Chapter 135-
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivan:
Pickles. Again. Please and thank you, my heroic husband.
I can't help the small chuckle that escapes me. God help me, I've become a man who sources artisanal chocolate and imported pickles on demand. But behind the smile is the constant hum of vigilance.
Ever since we found out about the pregnancy, security has been airtight. And still, I'm not taking chances. Ivan and our child are non-negotiable. Untouchable.
I've seen what my family is capable of when power is threatened. I don't trust them—not with money, not with legacy, and definitely not with what matters most to me.
I'm reviewing schedules for the security detail when my office door slams open.
The sound ricochets through the room like a gunshot.
I exhale slowly.
Two guards and an assistant chase after the intruder, looking panicked.
"Mr. Vale, we tried, but he wouldn't take no for an answer—"
"It's fine," I interrupt with a wave of my hand. "Leave us."
They hesitate, glancing between me and the man who raised hell to get in here.
"Now."
They scatter, leaving me alone with the patriarch of this wretched dynasty.
My grandfather.
I'm already tired.
He's dressed like always—immaculate suit, eyes cold as knives, jaw tight with disapproval. The same look he's been giving me since I was twelve.
"What's this about ousting your uncle from the boardroom?!" His voice booms across the office.
I lean my palm against my desk, meeting his glare without flinching. "Did Uncle also tell you about his money laundering? The drug charges? The shell accounts? Or did he skip those parts?"
"That's your uncle," he spits, as if blood alone absolves a man of every crime.
"Exactly. Which is why he's not in jail."
His eyes widen. "You would take your own family to jail?!"
I roll my eyes. It's impossible for the law to touch a Vale. Believe me, I've tried. At a certain level of wealth, you stop living under the law and start living above it. It disgusts me.
"Spare me the theatrics," I say flatly.
He leans forward, his voice low and dangerous. "Stop this madness, or—"
"Or you'll what?" I cut him off. "Cut me off? Throw me out? Impossible. Sixty percent of Vale Industries is mine. You no longer have any authority. Retire, Grandfather. Live out whatever years you have left in peace."
His face turns red, an ugly mottled shade. "You'll regret this."
"I won't. And do yourself a favor—don't do something that will irreparably destroy what little remains of our non-existent relationship."
He scoffs, storms out, and slams the door so hard one of my desk pens rolls off onto the floor.
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. My thumb hovers over my phone as I type a quick message to my head of security:
Tail him. Discreet. I want to know where he goes, who he meets, and what he whispers about me.
I barely hit send when my phone rings. The screen lights up with Ivan's name.
A video call.
I swipe and am instantly greeted with the sight of my husband standing in nothing but his underwear in front of the mirror. His golden hair is mussed, his face flushed. His phone is angled so the entire focus is his small, barely-there bump.
"I'm fat, Zander," he announces dramatically, voice thick with distress.
I almost laugh—almost. "No, honey, you're not fat." I keep my voice soft and steady, like I'm talking to something fragile and priceless. Because I am.
"Liar!" He spins sideways, motioning frantically to his reflection. "Look at me."
"I am looking," I tell him. "And what I see is not fat. What I see is my beautiful husband carrying our child."
"Same thing."
"No." I shake my head. "Not the same thing at all. You're carrying life, Ivan. You're carrying our baby. And it hurts me that you see it as anything less than extraordinary."
He blinks at me through the screen, eyes glossy. "I'm sorry. I just…" His voice falters.
"I know," I say gently. I don't my husband ever not been runway ready, so this is hard on him, but he looks amazing, and I'll reassure him as many times as it takes.
He huffs, rubbing his stomach like he's unsure if he believes me, then abruptly changes the subject.
"Do you need anything else when you come home, apart from pickles?" I ask.
There's a pause. Then: "Tuna."
"Okay."
"And mangoes. The unripe ones. The sour kind that make your jaw hurt."
"I don't know if they sell those in grocery stores, but I'll find them," I promise without hesitation.
"Kay. Bye." He waves half-heartedly.
"Bye. I love you," I say.
The call ends, leaving me staring at my own reflection on the black screen of my phone, heart aching in that stupid, tender way he causes.
One battle ends; another begins. Grandfather can threaten me all he wants. My family can plot, and the press can circle. None of it matters.
I'll burn every empire in my name before I let them touch him.