Married To The Billionaire Alpha King-Chapter 120 - custom-made

120

~Elara’s POV

I shook my head, laughing harder now, even though tears threatened to spill again, not from fear this time, but from the joy and sheer absurdity of imagining this new little life with him. "You’re ridiculous," I said between giggles, trying to push his chest lightly, but he only held me closer, clearly enjoying the moment as much as I was.

"You laugh now," he said softly, his voice teasing but full of love, "but soon you’ll be planning every detail, names, clothes, toys, and all the things I’ll probably get wrong, and you’ll correct me every time."

I rested my head against his chest again, the steady beat of his heart under my ear somehow grounding me, making the world outside the room feel distant and small. Darlon’s hand trailed lightly across my back, and he gave a soft, teasing sigh.

"You know," he murmured, "I think it’s time you stop calling me by my name. You’ve been so sweet with your words for me, now it’s my turn to have that."

I blinked at him, tilting my head up slightly. "Oh? And what am I supposed to call you then?" I asked, my voice playful, though my heart fluttered in my chest.

"Try something sweet," he said, his lips quirking into that familiar, teasing grin that always made me melt.

I hesitated for a moment, then whispered, "Darling..."

His eyes softened instantly, and he leaned forward, pressing his lips to mine in a gentle, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, he smiled faintly against my lips, his gaze warm and mischievous at the same time. "Not bad," he said, voice low. "Do you think we should make a bet, maybe, on whether our little one will be a boy or a girl?"

I laughed softly, the sound bubbling out of me, light and almost incredulous. "A bet? Really? You’re already dreaming too far ahead, aren’t you?"

"Maybe," he admitted, tilting his head down to rest his forehead against mine. "But I can’t help it. I imagine every little thing. Every laugh, every cry, every mess we’ll have to clean up. And I want to get it right, right from the start."

My fingers traced small patterns on his chest as I leaned closer, smiling softly. "You’re ridiculous. But I like it."

Then his tone shifted slightly, more serious, more grounded, and the teasing faded from his eyes. "No late nights, no overworking yourself now that you’re carrying our child," he said, his voice firm but tender, like a protective shield around me.

I nodded slowly, my stomach tightening at the weight of his concern. "I know, Darling. I won’t. I’ll... I’ll try my best."

"You’ve already had a scare," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "I can’t have you pushing yourself too hard."

"I know," I whispered, "but the fashion week... It’s my first major role as the owner of the company. I can’t mess it up. I want to show everyone that I can lead, that I can do this."

He raised a hand gently, pressing a finger to my lips to shush me. "You heard the doctor, my love. If fashion week doesn’t happen, it’s okay. I’ll bear the loss. Your health is more important than any show, any award, any recognition. You are more than that, and I won’t let you risk yourself."

I sighed, leaning back slightly into his warmth, and then shook my head, a small smile breaking through my worry. "No, Darlon. I’ll be careful. I promise. I’ll try, and I won’t overwork myself, I swear."

He nodded, and I let myself close my eyes for a moment. We stayed like that for a long while, talking quietly, laughing softly, imagining our child, and we drifted off like that.

I woke up the next morning with the kind of peace that felt unreal, like my body wasn’t sure if it was allowed to rest yet. I was still wrapped in Darlon’s arms, our legs tangled, his breath warm against the back of my neck. His hand rested protectively over my stomach, like his body already knew to guard what was inside me.

I remembered how we had kept talking until sleep claimed us. He kept asking questions, playful ones like what color the nursery would be, and serious ones like what names I liked. I never gave proper answers, I only laughed, because everything still felt like a dream. Eventually, I had tucked my face under his chin and whispered that I was scared but happy. He didn’t say much after that. He just held me tighter until I fell asleep.

By morning, his voice was the first thing I heard.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, soft enough that it sounded like a breeze instead of words, "wake up, love. Your bath is ready."

I groaned quietly, not fully ready to leave the warmth of the bed. He shifted and helped me sit up, one hand behind my back, the other holding my arm like I might fall over.

I blinked up at him. "You know I am just pregnant," I mumbled. "Not dying of some terrible illness."

He gave me a look like he refused to accept that. "Pregnant means careful. Pregnant means no rushing. Pregnant means I help."

I tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway. "You are dramatic."

"And you are fragile," he countered immediately.

I raised a brow. "Fragile?"

"Yes."

"I am not fragile."

"You are now."

I stared at him for a second, and then sighed because arguing felt pointless. He clearly wasn’t planning to change his mind. He guided me off the bed like the floor was made of traps, slowing down every step to match the pace he thought I needed. He held my hand all the way to the bathroom, opened the door gently, and steam drifted out like a soft cloud. The tub was already filled with warm water and flower petals floating on the surface.

I blinked. "You put petals in the bath?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve soft things," he said simply.

My chest tightened in a way I couldn’t explain. He helped me undress, slowly, respectfully, his fingers brushing my skin like he was afraid of hurting me. He wasn’t rough or rushed. He was patient. He washed my back, rinsed my shoulders, and brushed water down my arms. It should have felt embarrassing, being taken care of like that, but it didn’t. It felt safe.

When I was done, he wrapped me in a warm towel and helped me out, then washed himself. After that, we dressed together. I chose a fitted gown, something elegant and comfortable, something that still felt like me. The fabric hugged my body more than usual, and I could already tell I had gained a little weight. It didn’t look bad. Just different.

He stepped in front of me, eyes narrowing like he was planning something. "We need to get you more dresses," he said, gesturing at the gown. "Comfortable Clothing. Something designed for pregnant women."

I almost choked on air. "Pregnant women’s clothes? The ones that look like curtains and aunties wear to church, and everyone pretends it’s fine?"

He tried not to smile. "Not those. Better ones."

"I am not wearing those old-woman maternity gowns," I said quickly. "I am pregnant, not seventy."

He pretended to think. "What about gowns that are fitted but softer? We can have them custom-made."

I gave him a look. "Custom-made? You mean like how you buy horses? Just order it and pick the prettiest one?"

He shrugged as if that wasn’t unrealistic. "We can do that if it makes you happy."

I laughed then.