Chapter 11: Bloodlines
The knowledge sat inside Ron like a live wire, humming with a low, persistent current. For two days, he watched her. Every slight grimace when a smell hit her wrong, every unconscious hand pressed to her belly, every furtive trip to the pantry for the plums. It was a silent, intimate theater played out for him alone.
On the third morning, he didn’t take her upon waking. Instead, he palmed her stomach, flat and warm under his hand, and said, “You’re seeing the doctor today.”
She froze beneath him. “Doctor? But I’m… I’m fine, Ron. It’s just a little sick.”
“My rules.” His tone left no room. “Dr. Wen comes to the estate at eleven. You’ll be clean and present yourself in the blue sitting room.”
The fear in her eyes was real, a rabbit-in-a-trap stare. “What will he do?”
“Check your temperature. Ask you questions. It’s nothing.” He got out of bed, his back to her, pulling on a robe. The lie was effortless. “General wellness. All my staff get checked. You’re late for breakfast.”
The blue sitting room was all pale silk and delicate porcelain, a room meant for quiet teas, not for this. Leila sat on the very edge of a chintz armchair, wearing the simple dove-gray dress Ron had ordered for her. It was modest, but the fabric clung to the new fullness of her breasts. She wrung her hands in her lap.
Dr. Wen was a small, precise man in his fifties with immaculate hands and a gaze that missed nothing. He asked the questions, his voice soft. The dates of her last bleeding. The specifics of the nausea. The cravings. Leila answered in halting, embarrassed whispers, her cheeks flaming. She called it her “monthly visit,” stumbling over the words. She had no concept of a cycle, only a vague, messy reality she’d been taught to manage in silence.
“And your… relations with Mr. Ngi?” Dr. Wen asked, his pen poised.
Leila’s head snapped up, confusion etching her features. “I serve him his meals. I clean his study.”
The doctor glanced over her shoulder. Ron stood in the doorway, a silent column of dark suit and darker intent. Dr. Wen gave the slightest nod and turned back to Leila with a practiced smile. “Of course. I merely meant, is the master kind? Does he keep you in good health?”
“Oh. Yes. He is very… he is Ron.” She said his name like it answered everything.
The physical exam was brief, clinical. Cold stethoscope, a press on her abdomen, a sample of blood taken with a quick prick. When it was done, Ron jerked his chin. “Go to the kitchen. Lao needs help with the ginger for the fish.”
The moment the door shut behind her, the atmosphere in the room solidified. Ron led the doctor not to his study, but into the adjoining library, a room thick with the smell of old paper and stale cigar smoke. He closed the door.
“Well?”
Dr. Wen placed his bag on a table, methodically clicking the latches open. “She is pregnant. Approximately four weeks. The symptoms are textbook. The nausea will likely peak in the next two weeks, then subside.” He pulled out a printed slip of paper, the results from the portable lab he carried. “Her hormone levels are exceptionally high. It indicates a robust pregnancy. And, if I may say, it suggests a very fertile young woman.”
A muscle in Ron’s jaw ticked. Fertile. His. The words were a shot of pure, undiluted pride. “Good.”
The doctor cleared his throat, avoiding Ron’s eyes as he packed his equipment. “She is… remarkably unaware. She does not understand the connection between intercourse and conception. She believed I was asking about her housekeeping duties.”
Ron’s lips twitched. That innocence, that sheer, staggering ignorance, was still his. It hadn’t been ruined by the world. It was a preserve he owned. “Keep it that way. You report only to me. This stays within these walls.”
“Of course, Mr. Ngi.” Dr. Wen hesitated, his professionalism warring with a deeper, clinical concern. “Her body is undergoing significant stress. She will need rest. Adequate nutrition. I will provide a list of supplements.”
Ron leaned back against his father’s old oak desk, crossing his arms. The tattoos on his forearms shifted like living things. “What about activity?”
“Light exercise is beneficial. Walking. Nothing strenuous.”
Ron’s gaze was a physical weight. “I’m not talking about walking.”
Dr. Wen went very still. He had served the Ngi family for twenty years. He had stitched up knife wounds from street fights, treated burns from deals gone bad, and issued discreet prescriptions for private ailments. He was not easily shocked. This, however, hung in the air between them, vulgar and direct.
“Mr. Ngi… the first trimester carries a risk of–”
“Can I fuck her?” Ron’s voice was flat, stripped of all pretense. “The way I like to. Hard. Can I, or not?”
The doctor’s ears turned red. He adjusted his glasses. The medical part of his brain took over, a defense mechanism. “The cervix is sealed. The embryo is well-protected, deeply embedded. If… if lubrication is sufficient, and there is no overt trauma… the activity itself is not inherently dangerous. Her body will… accommodate.” He said the last word like it tasted strange. “Discomfort is to be expected. But pain, bleeding—these are warning signs. You must stop.”
A slow, dark smile spread across Ron’s face. It wasn’t a smile of relief, but of permission granted. An all-clear. He pushed off the desk. “See yourself out, Doctor. Send the supplement list to my phone. And the bill, as always.”
An hour later, Leila was scrubbing a pot in the scullery sink, her mind a whirlwind of worry about the strange medical visit, when a shadow fell over her. She jumped.
Ron stood there, holding a small, gleaming paper bag. He set it on the counter beside her. The rich, tangy smell hit her immediately.
“Open it.”
Her wet hands trembled as she peeled the bag open. Inside, not just one jar, but five different varieties of preserved plums—sour, salty, sweet, spiced with chili, rolled in licorice powder. There were also packets of dried green mango strips and tamarind candies. A treasure trove of every sharp, craving-sating thing she could imagine.
Her eyes filled. “For me?”
“You’re not sick,” he said, his voice lower than usual. He reached out and placed his broad hand on her abdomen, over the rough cotton of her apron. The heat of it seared through the layers. “You’re hungry. For these. So eat them. When you feel the nausea, eat one. Stop fighting it.”
His touch, possessive and inexplicably gentle, short-circuited her thoughts. The fear of the doctor melted away under the warmth of his palm and the incredible gift of the plums. He knew. He’d noticed her secret shame and had not scolded her, but had provided for it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick.
He left his hand there for a moment longer, mapping the territory. His thumb stroked once, a whisper of a touch over her hip bone. “You will rest in the afternoons. One hour. In your room. Not in the kitchen. Understood?”
She nodded, overwhelmed.
“Good.” He removed his hand, the absence feeling like a cold draft. “The ginger for the fish is burning.”
He walked away, leaving her clutching the bag of plums, her skin tingling where he’d touched her. The confusion was still there, a undercurrent beneath the gratitude. But a new, tentative warmth bloomed in her chest. He was taking care of her. In his own fierce, inexplicable way, Ron was watching over her.
In the hall, Ron pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, his eyes on the garden through the window.
“Feng. Cancel my engagements at The Serpent indefinitely. And find me a jeweler. A discrete one.” He paused, watching a sparrow land on a jasmine branch. “I’m looking for an emerald. Large. The color of new leaves.”
He ended the call. The game had changed. The board was set. He had the confirmation, the doctor’s reluctant blessing, and now, he had the girl, soft and pliant and growing his heir inside her. The next move was not a business acquisition. It was a ceremonial claim.
He needed a ring.