The people behind the latest project Sylus has chosen to invest in, some self-assured old-money pricks, have decided today is the perfect day to test his patience and arrive at his penthouse uninvited for an 'urgent crisis' meeting that apparently their entire team of overpaid experts can't tackle.
They are shown into his study, the space all dark oak and scented with lavender diffusers, lined with cases of books that are probably thought lost to the world. And right there in the middle, basking in the afternoon sun peeking from the window, curled on your side with a body pillow and sleeping away like a cat, is you.
The one who had retreated from public events a few months ago for 'unknown' reasons.
Your one hand is tucked beneath your cheek, fingers loosely curled against the plush cushion. The other hand rests protectively over the full, taut curve of your belly, palm splayed wide as if protecting the life within even in the depths of sleep. Every now and then, your fingers twitch slightly- a subconscious, maternal reflex- pressing just a little firmer against the stretched fabric of your nightgown now visible thanks to the cashmere throw having slipped and pooled at your waist.
A trolley of assorted beverages- a sweating pitcher of lemon-infused water, a porcelain teapot still holding a faint curl of steam, a small glass of chilled milk- sits beside you alongside a haphazard stack of well-worn books, their spines cracked from repeated readings. Your hair spills over the arm of the couch in glossy waves, catching the afternoon light until it glints like spun silk. A few rebellious strands cling to the corner of your parted lips, stirring faintly with each slow, languid exhale.
A faint sheen of warmth glistens at your temples and the delicate column of your neck, the natural heat of pregnancy lending you an ethereal, almost otherworldly glow. The sunlight pools in the hollow of your throat, traces the delicate curve of your collarbone, and illuminates the fine, nearly invisible veins beneath your delicate skin.
Amidst the soft, sultry jazz wafting through the air, you look nothing short of an art piece- a Renaissance painting brought to life, depicting the very epitome of domestic bliss. Your breathing is slow, even, the gentle rise and fall of your chest a hypnotic rhythm beneath the thin silk, your heart beating peacefully and soft snores leaving your lips.
You are luminous. Radiant. Almost unfairly beautiful in a way that feels private and forbidden- as if the men in this room have stumbled upon a goddess in her sacred bower, never meant for their mortal eyes.
Even in stillness, there is a weight to your presence- a quiet, gravitational pull that makes the room feel smaller, more sacred.
And they make the mistake of staring a beat too long.
“Stare any longer and I’ll have to take your eyes out.”
They jump and turn as Sylus steps in, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up and a scowl plastered on his face.
"I do not require them. Take a seat."
He pays them no mind as he makes his way to you, stopping beside the couch and adjusting your throw to cover you properly. Long fingers brush a strand of hair from your cheek with unexpected gentleness, then smooth it back over the curve of your shoulder. You make a soft, sleepy hum, nuzzling into his touch without fully waking, recognising his familiar touch even in your deep sleep. A small, private smirk touches the corner of his mouth- possessive, almost tender- before it vanishes.
You were already having trouble sleeping, and now these idiots had to come and disturb you in your home, Sylus thinks bitterly before straightening up and walking to the wide desk that faces the couch, dropping into the high-backed chair with the casual authority and irritation of a dragon provoked and at the brink of his patience. But at least from here, he has a perfect view of your sleeping form.
His red eyes fix on the very unwelcome guests. "Let us begin then."
But they are too distracted by your presence, and one of them is foolish enough to open his mouth. "Mr. Sylus, don't you think we should move the Mrs-"
"May I remind you," his eyes narrow "that you have barged into my home unannounced, like an ill-mannered heathen, and now have the nerve to order my wife around in her own house?"
"You perceive my wife way too much for my liking. Perhaps you are unaware of what happens to the ones who set their eyes on a Qin woman."
The room goes still. The kind of stillness that precedes a storm- the air thick and heavy, charged with something dangerous that makes them shift uncomfortably in their twenty-thousand-dollar suits.
You would have to be living under rock to not know the reputation the men of Qin family carried of being dangerously unhinged when it came to their wives.
The other person- a silver-haired man with the sort of face that's used to being listened to- has the good sense to look down apologetic. “He meant no offense, Mr. Sylus. We are merely... concerned. The project requires your immediate attention and-"
"Get on with what you wished to discuss." Sylus interrupts his rambling. "I would rather have you all out as soon as possible."
The men, knowing better than to test his patience and end up with his pistol in their mouths, begin the meeting, with you sleeping away peacefully on the antique couch being the sole presence keeping the Onychinus head from losing his cool.
His wife didn't like loud noises, you see.
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