Crown of the Empire

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

The morning sunlight did not ask permission to enter the Takedo estate. It sliced through my curtains like blades, spilling across the marble floors, gilded frames, and finally onto my face as if daring me to rise. The world wanted me on stage today, but all I wanted was another five minutes of peace. Five minutes where my bump wasn't a symbol, my name wasn't a headline, and my father wasn't rotting in prison with a face plastered across every news site.

But peace was a luxury I hadn't known in years.

Instead of silence, my room was chaos. Jules had turned my closet into a war zone of couture, pacing back and forth in his silk robe with a Dior gown slung dramatically over one arm. Solene leaned against the vanity, arms crossed, holding up a sleek black Balmain suit like a weapon.

"Power gown," Jules declared, sweeping the chiffon through the air like a matador's cape. "Soft fabric, flowing elegance, fertility goddess chic. You'll walk in and the press will weep at the sight of you."

"Wrong," Solene shot back, rolling her eyes. "The gown screams vulnerable. We're not here to give them softness. We're here to make them choke. The suit is sharp, structured, unshakeable. She doesn't wobble in heels and chiffon—she stomps in stilettos and steel."

I stayed in bed, nibbling on a plain cracker because pregnancy morning sickness hadn't gotten the memo that I had a world to conquer. My silk pajamas were wrinkled, my hair in a messy bun, and yet both of them looked at me as though I were some Barbie doll in need of strategic costuming.

I threw a cracker at them. It bounced off Jules' chest.

"Do either of you plan to actually ask me what I want to wear?" I muttered. "Or should I just roll up in pajamas and let them choke on that?"

Jules gasped as if I had just insulted couture itself. "You would not."

"Try me," I shot back, smirking.

They exchanged a look—the kind only best friends could—then turned back to me in unison, like twin demons conjured in Chanel. "Fine," Solene said dryly. "What do you want to wear?"

I glanced at the gown. Flowy, ethereal, soft. The kind of outfit that whispered, Be gentle with me. Then I looked at the suit: clean lines, sharp shoulders, a silk belt that cinched just above my bump. It didn't whisper. It commanded.

"The suit," I said.

Jules groaned so loudly I thought he might faint. "Predictable."

"Powerful," I corrected. "If they want vulnerability, they'll have to squint through steel. No one's patting me on the head and saying, 'aww, poor pregnant CEO.' They'll bow, or they'll choke. End of discussion."

From the corner of the room, a voice rumbled low. "As long as you let security handle the crowd if things get aggressive."

Nikolai.

He was leaning against the wall, already dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been stitched to his body. Dark hair, darker eyes, arms crossed in that infuriatingly calm way of his.

I raised a brow. "Relax, Doctor CEO husband. The last time I let a man fight my battles, I ended up disowned. Today, I'm the one swinging."

A faint twitch curved his lips—amusement, maybe. Worry, definitely. But he didn't argue further, which was good, because I had no patience left for men who thought they knew how to handle my wars better than me.

By the time Jules and Solene finished fussing, I stood in front of the mirror, transformed. The Balmain suit hugged every curve. My heels were sharp enough to commit crimes. Diamond studs glittered at my ears. My bump wasn't hidden. It was framed. Emphasized. A statement piece of its own: I can grow life and build empires at the same time.