The clock on the wall of the room ticked with the precision of a guillotine blade.

It was 7:59 AM.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was unnervingly still. There were no frantic whispers, no packed bags, and no tears. Babe had spent the last hour in the bath, scrubbing the scent of hospital anxiety from his skin until his flesh glowed a soft, ethereal pink.

Babe was dressed in a pristine white silk maternity shirt and soft charcoal trousers. The fabric draped over the heavy swell of his stomach, making him look fragile, yet hauntingly beautiful—like a porcelain saint awaiting a sacrifice.

Alan stood by the heavy wardrobe, his arms crossed, his face a mask of iron. North and Sonic flanked the bed, their expressions unreadable, their loyalty shifted from fear to a cold, hard resolve.

Sharp at 8:00 AM, the knock came.

It wasn't the hesitant tap of a servant; it was the rhythmic, authoritative thud of the Theerapanyakul power announcing their arrival.

The door swung open. Charlie led the procession. Behind him walked the elders of the family—Kinn, looking stoic; Vegas, whose eyes drifted around the room searching for a trap; and Tankhun, who was draped in a feathered robe, clutching a silk handkerchief as if expecting to mop up a puddle of Babe's hysterics and Porsche and Pete also followed them.

Two surgeons in sterile scrubs followed with nurses and their faces obscured by masks, carrying the cold weight of the medical future in their clipboards.

Tankhun stepped forward first, his eyes widening as they landed on Babe. He had expected a screaming mess, a man clinging to the bedposts in a fit of despair. Instead, he found a masterpiece of calm.

"Wow, Babe," Tankhun mocked, his voice echoing in the silent room.

"No drama today? No shattering vases? No begging for mercy? I had a whole speech prepared about the dignity of the family, and you're just... sitting there?" He scuffed his designer shoe against the rug, sounding almost disappointed.

Instead of the snarl or the biting insult they all expected, Babe tilted his head and offered a small, serene smile. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that looked like they were already staring into the afterlife.

"No drama, Khun," Babe confirmed softly.

The sound of his voice made Charlie flinch. It was the first time since the "awakening" that Charlie's composure fractured. He looked at Babe, his golden-hued eyes scanning the racer's relaxed posture. This wasn't the broken man he had commanded yesterday.

"Are you ready, Babe?" Charlie asked. His voice was calm, but there was a tremor of uncertainty beneath the surface.

"The doctors have already arranged the medical wing. The surgery will be quick."

"Yes, Charlie," Babe said, standing up slowly. He moved with a grace that seemed to defy the weight he carried. He walked toward Charlie until they were only a breath apart.

"I am ready. I've accepted that you want the heir. I've accepted that I am just the vessel for the Theerapanyakul family."

Porsche frowned, stepping closer. "Babe, if you're planning something—"

"I have a condition," Babe interrupted, his gaze never leaving Charlie's frozen face.

Tankhun cursed under his breath, waving his handkerchief.

"Here it comes! I knew it! You want what now? a penthouse? money ? name whatever upi want ..Just give us the child and—"

"When the surgery happens," Babe said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more power than a scream,

"When you cut into me to take my child from my body... I want the doctors to kill me!"

The room plunged into a vacuum of silence.

The surgeons looked at each other, horrified. Alan and the others didn't move; they were the silent witnesses to this suicide pact.

"Babe!"

Charlie yelled, the mask of the cold Enigma heir finally shattering. He reached out, grabbing Babe's shoulders, his fingers digging into the white silk.

"What the hell are you saying?"

"You said I'm a vessel, Charlie," Babe said, his voice eerily sweet, a tear finally escaping and tracing a path down his cheek.

"Once the vessel is empty, it has no use. I don't want to live in a world where you look at me with those cold eyes. I don't want to wake up and feel the emptiness where our son used to be while you treat me like a ghost ."

Babe leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against Charlie's.

"If you want the King, you have to sacrifice the Queen. Kill me on that table, Charlie. Give the baby his life, and give me my peace. That is my only price."

Charlie's breathing became ragged. The gold in his eyes flickered violently, the internal battle between the ruthless heir and the man who had loved Babe more than life itself reaching a breaking point.

"You can't ask for that !" Charlie hissed, his grip tightening until his knuckles were white.

"Why not?" Babe whispered against his lips.

"You already killed the Babe you loved. You want me out of your life, so just finish the job."

The air in the room didn't just feel heavy; it felt electrified, the ozone of suppressed Alpha and Enigma power swirling in a violent, invisible storm.

"BABE!"

Charlie's roar was no longer the soft, nerdy stutter of the boy who had once brought Babe coffee in the pits. It was the command of a King, a sound that should have brought any Alpha to their knees. He stepped forward, his fingers digging into Babe's shoulders with a bruising strength.

"You will not die. I won't allow it. Do you hear me? You will live. I will give you everything—a villa in the South, a fleet of the fastest cars in the world, and a life of luxury that most people only dream of. Just give me my son, and you can go wherever you want. You can have your freedom!"

But Babe didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He looked into Charlie's golden, furious eyes with a terrifyingly calm smile.

"Freedom? You think freedom is living in a life i dont want , while my heart is beating in your nursery? You've already told me you don't need me, Charlie. You told me I am just a vessel. So, let the vessel break once it's empty. "

"I don't want a luxury life. I want my family. And if I can't have that, I'd rather have nothing. If you wont let the doctors kill me the next moment i open my eyes after surgery i will end my life by myself."

"Babe, stop this!"

Jeff cried out, his voice cracking. He looked horrified, his gaze darting between his brother and the man he had once considered a friend.

"You can't say things like that. You're scaring everyone."

"I'm not scaring anyone, Jeff," Babe said softly, his voice a haunting melody in the silent room.

"I'm simply giving your family what they want. You want the heir. I am the obstacle. If I die on that table, the obstacle is gone. It's a clean transaction."

The Theerapanyakul elders stood like statues of ice. Kinn, usually the most composed, had a deep furrow in his brow, his dark eyes calculating every word Babe spoke. Beside him, Tankhun's face had undergone a terrifying transformation. The playful, eccentric drama queen was gone. His eyes began to glow with a sharp, predatory gold—the mark of an Enigma who had been pushed too far.

Tankhun lunged forward, his silver robe snapping like a whip.

"What the hell are you doing? This is just another one of your pathetic games!"

Vegas moved quickly, catching Tankhun's arm and holding him back, but the eldest brother's aura was suffocating.

"You think this drama will gain you sympathy? You think we'll fall for this? You're a mere racer who played with fire and got burned. You don't get to dictate terms to this family!"

Babe didn't snarl back. He didn't even look at Tankhun. He kept his eyes locked on Charlie.

"I don't want anything from you, Tankhun," Babe said.

"I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm asking for an end."

"Enough," Kinn's voice cut through the chaos like a gunshot.

He stepped forward, his presence calming the room through sheer intimidation. He looked at Babe, then shifted his gaze to Alan, Sonic, and North, who were standing in the corner. They remained unnervingly silent, their lack of reaction confirming to Kinn that this was a coordinated strike.

Kinn turned back to Babe.

"I've spent my life reading people, Babe. You don't want to die. You know, Charlie—despite this coldness—will never allow you to be killed. You have a plan. You're holding your own life hostage because you know it's the one thing we can't afford to lose while that child is still inside you. So, stop the riddles. What do you actually want?"

Babe's smile widened, but it was a sad, tired thing. He stepped out of Charlie's grip and smoothed down his white maternity shirt.

"You're right, Khun Kinn. I do have a condition. I am offering two options. "

Charlie took a ragged breath, his chest heaving. "Speak."

"Option one," Babe said, his voice cold as the surgical steel waiting downstairs.

"We go to the medical wing right now. You perform the surgery. You take the baby. And as soon as he is out, the doctors ensure I never wake up. No messy custody, no 'vessel' lingering in your hallways, no reminders of the mistake you made by loving me. I die, and you have your heir."

Charlie flinched as if he'd been slapped. "And the second option?"

Babe reached out, his fingers grazing Charlie's cheek, a touch so light it was almost a ghost of the past.

"Option two... you give me two weeks. Fourteen days where you aren't an Enigma heir and I'm not just a vessel. You be my Charlie again. We stay in our old house. We eat at our favorite spots. You hold me when I can't sleep because the baby is kicking too hard. You love me for two weeks, just like you used to. And at the end of those fourteen days, I will walk into that surgery room myself. I will give you the baby, and I will leave. I will disappear from your life forever, silently, without a single word of protest. I'll sign whatever papers you want. I'll give up my name, my career, everything. But I want those two weeks first."

The room felt like it was tilting. Charlie stared at Babe, his mind racing. He looked at the man he had called his "pretty angel" months ago, seeing the desperate, brilliant strategist behind the beautiful face.

Babe was offering him a choice between a murder and a memory.

"Two weeks," Charlie whispered, the gold in his eyes fading slightly, replaced by a deep, aching hollow.

"You'd give up the child... and yourself... for two weeks of a lie?"

"It wouldn't be a lie for me, Charlie," Babe said, his voice trembling for the first time.

"It would be the only thing I have left to carry me through the rest of my life. Or the last thing I see before I die. It's your choice."

Charlie looked at Kinn, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The family needed that child, but they couldn't risk Babe killing himself or the child during a forced surgery if he was this determined.

Charlie turned back to Babe, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch Babe's stomach.

"Two weeks,"

Charlie rasped, his voice thick with a mixture of rage and a sudden, overwhelming grief.

"Fourteen days. And then... then you fulfill your end of the bargain."

Babe nodded, a single tear falling onto Charlie's hand. "I promise."

Behind them, Alan closed his eyes, a heavy breath of relief escaping him. The first part of the plan—the "Suicide Gambit"—had worked. They had bought time. Now, they had fourteen days to find an escape.

The tension in the room snapped, replaced by a chaotic storm of voices. As soon as the words left Charlie's lips, the silence was shattered.

"Two weeks? In that unsecure penthouse?"

Tankhun shrieked, his silver robe billowing as he paced like a caged tiger.

"Charlie, have you lost the few brain cells you had left in that crash? He's a flight risk! He's a walking, talking, pregnant time bomb! If he slips in the shower or decides to jump off the balcony to spite us, the heir is gone!"

Porsche stepped forward, his eyes darting to Kinn, looking for a voice of reason.

"Charlie, Baby this is insane. We have the best medical staff in the country right here. We can't just let him dictate terms like this. It's a trap. Look at his friends—they're too quiet."

Pete, standing beside Vegas, nodded fervently.

" Charlie, the security risks alone are a nightmare. We can't guarantee the safety of the heir outside these walls."

But the protests hit a wall of steel. Kinn raised a single hand, and the room went dead silent. He looked at his youngest son , seeing the haunted, golden glow in Charlie's eyes. Kinn knew the weight of charlie's concern ; he knew that if Charlie didn't do this, the conflict within him might break the very heir they sought to protect.

"Let them go," Kinn commanded, his voice final.

"Kinn!" Porsche hissed, but Kinn gripped his husband's waist, pulling him back firmly.

"The decision is made," Vegas added, his voice low and dangerous, his hand resting on Pete's shoulder in a way that signalled the conversation was over.

"If the carrier wants a fantasy before the end, let him have it. It's a small price for the heir."

Tankhun looked like he was about to faint.

"Why can't you just play house with that mere vessel in this mansion? We have plenty of rooms! I'll even redecorate one to look like a cheap house if that's what he wants! Why do you have to leave where we can't see you?"

Babe, who had been standing still as a statue, finally moved. He didn't look at Tankhun. He didn't look at the doctors. He turned to Charlie and stepped directly into his personal space. With a boldness that made Thankhun gasp, Babe reached out and slid his arms around Charlie's waist, burying his face in the crook of Charlie's neck.

"Because the memories don't live here," Babe whispered, his voice muffled by Charlie's suit jacket.

"The Charlie who loved me isn't in this fortress. He's in our house where we lived together. He's in our kitchen. In our bed..where we shared"

Babe pulled back just enough to look up at Charlie, his eyes wide and pleading, yet shimmering with a strange, desperate triumph.

"Charlie... tell them. Tell them you'll take me home. Tell me you love me."

Charlie stood frozen. His arms remained at his sides, his body stiff as a board. The Enigma inside him recoiled at the touch, seeing it as a weakness, but something deeper—something buried under layers of trauma ached at the heat of Babe's body.

"I... I will take you home," Charlie rasped.

"And?" Babe prompted, his hands sliding up to cup Charlie's face, forcing the younger man to look at him.

"And you love me? Say it like you used to, when you'd wake me up with kisses just because you were happy I was there."

The family watched in a mixture of horror and irritation. Tankhun made a gagging sound behind his hand. Porsche turned his head away, unable to watch the blatant manipulation and the heartbreak intertwined.

"I love you, Babe," Charlie said. The words were flat, devoid of the old warmth, sounding more like a rehearsed line from a script.

"No," Babe whimpered, shaking his head. He stood on his tiptoes, pressing his soft lips against Charlie's jaw.

"Say it like you mean it. Kiss me, Charlie. Right now. You said you will be my Charlie for two weeks..."

Charlie's eyes flickered to his uncles, then back to the beautiful, broken man in his arms. With a heavy sigh of defeat, he leaned down. It wasn't the passionate, soul-searing kiss of their past; it was hesitant, his lips barely brushing Babe's.

But Babe leaned into it, greedy for the contact. He hummed against Charlie's mouth, his fingers tangling in Charlie's hair, pulling him closer as if trying to fuse their souls back together.

"Disgusting," Tankhun muttered, though his eyes were actually welled with tears he refused to let fall.

"Fine! Go! Get out of my sight before I have a stroke!"

The drive to the old house was silent, save for the sound of Babe's soft breathing. He refused to sit on his side of the car. Instead, he had crawled into the middle, leaning his head on Charlie's shoulder and clutching Charlie's hand as if it were a lifeline.

When they entered the house, it was exactly as they had left it. A half-empty bag of coffee sat on the counter; one of Babe's racing jackets was draped over the sofa. The air was stale, but to Babe, it smelled like heaven.

"Home," Babe whispered.

He turned to Charlie, who was looking around the room with a confused, distant expression. The Enigma was trying to calculate the security risks—where to place the guards, which windows were vulnerable—but Babe wouldn't let him.

"No phones, no guards inside the door, Charlie," Babe commanded, stepping toward him.

"Its only you and me now..You promised. Two weeks of us."

"Babe, I have to ensure—"

"Cuddle me," Babe interrupted, his lower lip trembling. He began to unbutton his maternity shirt, revealing the pale, distended skin of his stomach.

"our baby is restless. He hasn't felt your heartbeat in so long. He's scared, Charlie. I'm scared."

Charlie's gaze dropped to the swell of Babe's belly. A visible tremor ran through his hands. He felt like a man divided in two—one half wanting to protect the 'heir' inside, the other half feeling a ghost of a phantom limb where his love for Babe used to be.

"Please," Babe begged, grabbing Charlie's hands and placing them over the baby.

The moment Charlie's palms touched the warm skin, the baby kicked. It was a strong, rhythmic thud against his hand. Charlie's breath hitched. For a second, the gold in his eyes vanished completely, replaced by a raw, human wonder.

"He's... he's moving," Charlie whispered.

"He misses his Dadda," Babe sobbed, throwing his arms around Charlie's neck and pulling him toward the bedroom.

"Come to bed. Just for an hour. Hold us."

In the dim light of the bedroom, Charlie lay down awkwardly on his side. He felt out of place in the soft sheets, his suit feeling like armor he wasn't allowed to take off. But Babe was relentless. He curled into Charlie's chest, pulling Charlie's arm over his waist so his hand rested over the baby.

"Tell me our story , Charlie," Babe murmured, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of Charlie's skin.

"Tell me about the first time you saw me at the track. Tell me how you thought I was an angel"

Charlie cleared his throat, his voice sounding rusty. "I... I thought you were the sun. I thought if I got too close, I'd burn. But I couldn't look away. You were so pretty, like an angel"

"And now?" Babe asked, his voice drifting into sleep.

Charlie looked down at the man in his arms. He saw the dark circles under Babe's eyes, the way his body seemed to be pouring every ounce of its remaining strength into the child. The Enigma wanted to calculate the birth date. The man... the man just wanted to stop the clock.

"Now," Charlie whispered, his voice finally cracking, "I'm the one who's burning."

He leanened down and tentatively kissed Babe's forehead, then his nose, and finally, his lips. It was the first time he had initiated the touch since he woke up from coma.

Babe smiled in his sleep, a small, triumphant curve of his lips. The plan was working. The cracks were forming.

The digital clock on the bedside table glowed a soft, cold blue: 4:12 AM.

Charlie bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His skin was slick with a cold sweat, and the phantom echo of Babe's laughter—the cruel, mocking version from the gala—still rang in his ears.

In the nightmare, the colors were always too vivid. He saw the flash of the hotel room door closing. He felt the weight of the humiliation as Babe's voice, sharp as a razor, told him he was nothing more than a "back-stabbing cheat."

He remembered the way the world had tilted when he realized the man he worshipped saw him as a toy to be discarded. Every time he woke up, Charlie wished those memories were the fiction—that the heartbreak was the dream and the love was the reality. But the pain in his chest was too heavy to be anything but real.

He took a jagged breath, trying to steady the Enigma blood roaring in his veins. Beside him, the bed shifted.

Babe was there, curled into a ball of silk and soft scent. Even in sleep, his arms were wrapped tightly around Charlie's waist, his fingers clutching the fabric of Charlie's shirt as if he were afraid Charlie would evaporate if he let go. The swell of Babe's stomach—the home of the Theerapanyakul heir—was pressed firmly against Charlie's hip.

Charlie looked down at him. In the dim moonlight, Babe looked like an angel carved from moonlight. This was the legendary racer, the arrogant Alpha who had commanded the tracks of Thailand, now reduced to a man who whimpered in the dark for a ghost.

You shattered me, Charlie thought, his jaw tightening. You threw my heart under the wheels of your car and didn't even look back to see the wreckage. And now you want those same hands to hold you? You want the 'nerdy Charlie' to come back and kiss away the scars you put there?

A wave of bitter fury rose in him. He wanted to shake Babe awake. He wanted to yell that the Charlie who looked at him with stars in his eyes was dead—buried under the trauma of the crash and the cold requirements of his bloodline. He wanted to tell him that these two weeks were nothing more than a stay of execution.

Just two weeks, Charlie told himself, his eyes turning a hard, predatory gold. I will play the role. I will give you the lie you're begging for. I will be your puppet for fourteen days, and then I will take my son and leave you with the silence you earned.

He tried to peel Babe's fingers away, needing to stand up, to pace, to breathe air that didn't smell like Babe's addictive scent. But as soon as he moved, Babe made a small, broken sound.

"Charlie... no..." Babe's eyes didn't open, but his grip tightened with frantic strength. He buried his face deeper into Charlie's side, his voice a pathetic, sleep-muddled plea.

"Don't go. Please. Don't leave me alone in the dark again. Charlie... stay."

Charlie froze. The raw desperation in Babe's voice acted like a physical weight, pinning him to the mattress. He looked at the curve of Babe's neck, seeing the pulse jumping there. For all the power the Theerapanyakuls had, they couldn't command a heart to stop aching, and Charlie's own heart gave a treacherous, painful throb.

With a heavy, defeated sigh, Charlie slumped back onto the pillows. He didn't wrap his arms around Babe—not yet—but he let himself remain a pillar for the other man to cling to.

Babe immediately sensed the surrender. He crawled upward, draping himself over Charlie's chest, his head resting right over Charlie's heart. He let out a long, shuddering breath of relief, his body finally relaxing into the mattress.

"Better," Babe murmured, half-awake. He reached out, blindly searching for Charlie's hand until their fingers interlaced.

"My Charlie is back. I knew you'd stay."

Charlie stared at the ceiling, his hand feeling cold in Babe's warm grasp. He felt like a fraud, a monster wearing the skin of a lover.

"Two weeks, Babe," Charlie whispered into the darkness, his voice a haunting promise.

"I'll give you your two weeks of fantasy you wanted."

Charlie closed his eyes, forcing his mind to shut out the memories of the gala, forcing his body to soften so Babe wouldn't feel the tension of his hatred. If Babe wanted a performance, Charlie would give him an Oscar-winning one. He would cuddle him, he would kiss him, and he would whisper the lies Babe needed to hear—all while counting down every second until the clock hit zero and he could finally turn his back forever.

As the sun began to peek through the curtains of the house, Charlie finally drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep, held captive by the man he was supposed to hate and the child he was born to protect.

The cool light of the morning filtered through the sheer curtains of the penthouse, casting long, elegant shadows across the room. Charlie glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 9:30 AM.

Charlie had slept later than intended, the exhaustion of his internal war finally catching up to him. He moved to sit up, careful not to jostle the bed, but as he turned to look back, his breath hitched.

Babe was sprawled across the silk sheets, his body softened by deep sleep. The white silk shirt he had worn to bed was hopelessly rumpled, several buttons having popped open during his restless night.

It revealed the creamy, milky expanse of his chest and the soft, blush-pink of his nipples, looking tender and exposed. The sight was a sharp contrast to the fierce, untouchable racer the world knew. Here, in the quiet of their room, he looked edible—fragile and intoxicatingly inviting.

Charlie felt a sudden, violent surge of heat coil in his lower stomach. The Enigma in him roared, a primal instinct to lean down, mark that skin, and claim the man who belonged to him. He reached out a hand, his fingers inches away from the warm glow of Babe's skin, before he snapped his eyes shut and shook his head hard.

No. He's a vessel. He's the man who humiliated you and crushed your heart . Don't let your body betray your mind.

He forced himself out of bed and retreated into the bathroom, closing the door with a soft click. But the sanctuary of the bathroom was a trap of its own. As he turned on the water, his eyes fell on the oversized marble bathtub.

The memories hit him like a physical blow. He saw flashes of Babe sitting in that very tub, surrounded by bubbles, laughing as Charlie worshiped every inch of his skin with a sponge. He could almost hear the echo of Babe's arching back against the tiles, the sound of his breathless moans bouncing off the walls as Charlie's mouth traced the line of his throat.

Charlie groaned, leaning his forehead against the cold tile of the shower. His pulse was thundering in his ears, and the friction of his pajama pants felt like fire against his skin.

The "old" Charlie had lived to please Babe; the "new" Charlie was being haunted by those same desires. With a frustrated growl, he stepped under the spray, turning the handle until the water was biting and ice-cold, forcing himself to find a grim relief in the numbness.

Fourty minutes later, Charlie descended the stairs, dressed in a crisp black polo and slacks. He looked every bit the composed heir, his hair damp and pushed back.

He was relieved to see the house was pristine. Before their arrival, he had sent a private cleaning detail through the house. The dust that had settled over the months of his coma and Babe's "detention" was gone. The air smelled of expensive lemon polish and the familiar, faint scent of Babe's favorite expensive candles.

He walked into the kitchen, his heels clicking softly on the polished hardwood. He opened the refrigerator, finding it fully stocked with organic produce, high-protein meats, and the specific imported fruits Babe craved.

Pinned to the stainless steel door with a magnetic clip was a typed document: "Dietary Requirements for the Enigma Heir - Carrier: Babe."

The doctors' instructions were clinical and cold:

High folic acid intake.

No caffeine.

Monitor for swelling in lower extremities.

Ensure 10 hours of rest.

Charlie stared at the list.

He pulled out the ingredients for a spinach and feta omelet—Babe's favorite—and began to crack the eggs with a mechanical precision. He wanted to do this perfectly. If he was going to play the role of the devoted lover for fourteen days, he wouldn't miss a single detail.

As the butter began to sizzle in the pan, a soft sound came from the top of the stairs. Charlie didn't turn around, but his Enigma senses flared. He knew that scent anywhere.

Babe was awake.

The sizzle of the butter and the rhythmic beat of the whisk were the only sounds in the kitchen until a soft, shuffling noise announced a presence behind him. Before Charlie could steady his resolve, he felt a familiar warmth press against his back.

Babe's arms slid around Charlie's waist, his hands interlocking over Charlie's stomach. The "pretty angel" pressed his cheek against the dark fabric of Charlie's polo, inhaling deeply.

"I smelled the feta," Babe whispered, his voice thick with the sweetness of sleep. "You remembered."

Charlie's body went rigid for a fraction of a second—the instinct of a soldier suddenly touched—before he forced his muscles to melt. He reached down, patting Babe's hand with a practiced, gentle touch.

"Of course I remembered. You need the protein, and I know you hate the way the doctors at the mansion cook eggs. They always make them too dry."

Babe let out a soft, contented hum, squeezing Charlie tighter. To anyone looking through the windows, they looked like the picture of domestic bliss—the legendary racer and his devoted partner. Charlie turned slightly in the embrace, offering a small, ghost-like smile that he had spent all morning rehearsing in the mirror. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Babe's temple.

"Go sit down, Babe. I'll bring it to you," Charlie said, his voice dropping into that low, soothing register that used to make Babe's heart skip a beat.

Babe nodded and reluctantly pulled away, but as he moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining area, his smile faltered. Far below, stationed at the entrance of the private driveway and tucked into the shadows of the neighboring buildings, were black SUVs with tinted windows. He could see the glint of sunlight off a pair of binoculars from a rooftop across the street.

The Theerapanyakul shadow was everywhere. They weren't just guarding a house; they were guarding the heirs .

Babe sighed, the sound heavy with a realization he tried to push away. He wasn't stupid. He saw the way Charlie's eyes didn't quite sparkle when he smiled. He felt the mechanical precision in the way Charlie kissed him—it was perfect, too perfect, like a masterpiece painted by someone who had forgotten what the subject actually looked like. He knew Charlie was "keeping up" with him, playing a role to ensure the next fourteen days passed without another suicide threat.

Babe sat down at the table, his hand instinctively dropping to the heavy, warm curve of his abdomen. He caressed the baby bump through the silk of his shirt, feeling the faint, rhythmic movement of the life inside.

I know it's a lie, Babe thought, his eyes welling with a bittersweet sting. I know you're counting the minutes until you can be the cold Enigma again. I know that in two weeks, the man who is making me breakfast will become the man who takes my child away.

He looked back at Charlie's silhouette in the kitchen—the broad shoulders, the focused expression as he plated the food.

But for now... just for these few days... let me be selfish, Babe pleaded silently with the universe. Let me pretend the lie is the truth. Let me soak up every forced touch and every rehearsed 'I love you' until my soul is full enough to survive the unavoidable future that's coming.

"Here you go," Charlie said, appearing at the table with a plate that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel. He set it down and then, without being asked, pulled his chair close to Babe's, draping an arm over the back of Babe's seat.

Babe looked at the omelet, then up at Charlie. "Will you feed me? Like you used to when I was too tired after a race?"

Charlie's hand tightened on the back of the chair for a split second, a flicker of irritation crossing his golden eyes, but he suppressed it instantly. He picked up the fork, blew softly on a bite of egg, and held it to Babe's lips.

"Anything you want, Babe," Charlie murmured.

Babe took the bite, closing his eyes to hide the tears. It tasted like heaven, but it felt like a final meal.

The flickering lights of the television cast long, dancing shadows across the living room as the high-pitched whine of racing engines filled the silence of the house. On the screen, cars blurred into streaks of neon, fighting for the lead in a race that Babe should have been winning. But here, in the quiet reality of the sofa, Babe didn't care about the podium.

He was tucked firmly against Charlie's side, his head resting on the broad, hard expanse of Charlie's chest. He could hear the steady thud-thud of Charlie's heart—a rhythm that felt more like a ticking clock than a lover's pulse, yet Babe clung to it anyway.

Charlie's scent, a heady mix of expensive sandalwood and the sharp, metallic tang of his Enigma aura, was intoxicating. It was a scent that used to mean safety; now, it was a beautiful lie Babe was drowning in.

Unable to resist, Babe tilted his head, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below Charlie's jawline. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point there.

Charlie's entire body went rigid. The hand that had been resting robotically on Babe's shoulder tightened.

"Babe," Charlie rasped, his voice tight with a warning he was trying to keep civil.

"We're watching the race. Just... sit still."

Babe pulled back just enough to look up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears and a hunger that was painful to witness.

"Please, Charlie. You never used to say no before. You used to crave this. You used to pull me into your lap the second we walked through the door." He reached up, his thumb tracing Charlie's bottom lip.

"Please let me have you. You love me, right? We're lovers. This is what lovers do."

Charlie stared down at him, his golden eyes flickering. He wanted to push Babe away. He wanted to tell him that his skin felt like fire and his touch felt like a betrayal of the anger Charlie was supposed to feel. But the "Two-Week Pact" was a cage of his own making.

With a heavy, ragged sigh, Charlie leaned back into the cushions, his eyes fluttering shut in a gesture of surrender.

"Fine," he whispered. "Do what you want."

Babe didn't need a second invitation. He moved with a desperate grace, shifting his weight so he was draped over Charlie, his baby bump a warm pressure between them. He began to pepper Charlie's neck with kisses—soft, wet, and worshipping. He moved to Charlie's jaw, then his cheek, before finally capturing Charlie's lips in a kiss that tasted of longing and heartbreak.

Charlie tried to stay detached. He tried to keep his mind on the security reports and the medical schedules. But his body was a traitor. The scent of the pregnant Alpha—sweet, milky, and undeniably his—began to bypass Charlie's cold logic. His breathing hitched. Despite the ice he had tried to build around his heart, the heat from Babe's body was melting the frost.

He felt the familiar, heavy ache in his groin. His slacks felt suddenly too small as his erection strained against the fabric.

Babe felt the shift in Charlie's energy. A small, triumphant sound escaped his throat. He broke the kiss, his eyes searching Charlie's face for any sign of the man who used to adore him. Slowly, tentatively, Babe slid his hand down. His palm moved over Charlie's stomach and settled firmly over the hard ridge in Charlie's pants.

Charlie let out a low, guttural moan that was half-pleasure, half-protest. He arched his back, his head hitting the headrest of the sofa as Babe began to caress him through the cloth, his touch expert and agonizingly slow.

"Babe... stop," Charlie groaned, though his hands had moved instinctively to grip Babe's hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.

"I can't," Babe whispered against his ear, his breath hot and shaky.

"I've missed you so much. Don't push me away, Charlie. Let me feel you. Let me believe you're still mine."

The Enigma in Charlie was screaming for dominance, for the release that only Babe could provide, even as the "Enigma " in his mind reminded him that this was just a game. For a moment, the house was no longer a prison or a stage—it was just two people caught in a web of desire and deception, while the race on the TV continued to roar, unnoticed and unimportant.

The air in the penthouse was thick, charged with the heavy, sweet scent of a pregnant Alpha in distress and the dark, musky roar of an Enigma's awakening hunger.

Charlie's breath came in ragged hitches. He looked down at Babe, and the sight was a physical assault on his resolve. Babe's silk shirt was cast wide, the fabric fluttering like broken wings around his shoulders.

His milky-white chest was flushed a delicate rose, and his nipples—those small, pink peaks that Charlie had spent countless nights worshipping—were turgid and inviting. The high curve of the baby bump sat between them, a reminder of the life they had created, making the scene both sacred and intensely carnal.

Babe knew his power. Even with the "New Charlie" being a cold stranger, Babe knew that Charlie's body had its own memory. He arched his back slightly, pushing his chest closer to Charlie's face, his eyes hooded and dark with a months-long starvation for his mate's touch.

"Charlie..." Babe whimpered, his hand tightening around Charlie's hardening length through the fabric.

"Please. I'm burning. I haven't felt you in so long... don't make me wait."

Charlie's pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely gold. The Enigma inside him wanted to flip Babe over, to claim him and mark him until the whole world knew who he belonged to. But as his hand moved to the waistband of Babe's trousers, a cold flash of fear pierced through the lust. The unborn heir -his son.

"Babe... wait. Stop," Charlie rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones.

"No! Don't stop!" Babe cried out, a tear of frustration leaking from his eye.

"I want you!"

Charlie grabbed his phone from the coffee table with a trembling hand. His thumb hovered over the contact for the Theerapanyakul private medical team. He needed a tether to reality, or he was going to lose control and potentially hurt the only thing Babe and him created .

The phone rang twice before a calm, professional voice answered.

"Khun Charlie? Is there an emergency with the carrier?"

Babe froze, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and hope as he realized who Charlie was calling. Charlie didn't bother with greetings; his voice was a low, pained growl, his eyes never leaving Babe's exposed chest.

"Doctor," Charlie breathed, his chest heaving. "I need... I need to know the protocols. Now."

"Sir? Is he in pain?" the doctor asked, sounding alert.

"No," Charlie gritted out, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. He looked at Babe's pink, erect nipples and felt a surge of heat that almost made his knees buckle.

"I want to have sex with him. Right now. Is it safe for the child? Is the gestation far enough along that the... the pressure... won't cause a detachment?"

There was a brief, stunned silence on the other end of the line. The doctor, a seasoned veteran of the Theerapanyakul family's eccentricities, quickly regained his composure.

"Khun Charlie," the doctor began respectfully,

"it is perfectly natural for an Enigma's pheromones to react strongly to his carrier, especially in the second trimester. Biologically, an Alpha's libido often increases during pregnancy to encourage bonding. To answer your question: Yes, it is safe. At six months, the cervix is tightly sealed and the amniotic fluid provides more than enough cushioning for the infant. As long as you are mindful of his comfort and avoid putting direct, heavy weight on the abdomen, there is no medical reason to abstain."

Charlie's eyes closed as a wave of relief—and dangerous permission—washed over him.

"And the baby?" Charlie asked, his voice dropping an octave. "He won't... feel it?"

"The child may feel a slight increase in heart rate or movement due to the oxytocin release, but it is actually beneficial for the developmental bonding process," the doctor explained.

"Just be gentle, Khun Charlie. His body is already under a great deal of stress."

"Understood," Charlie whispered. He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the rug.

He turned back to Babe. The cold, calculated heir was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was starving and had just been told he could finally eat.

"The doctor says it's safe," Charlie said, his voice vibrating with the power of his Enigma aura.

Babe let out a sob of pure relief, reaching up to pull Charlie's head down.

"Then stop talking, Charlie. Worship me. Like you used to."

Charlie didn't need to be told twice. He lunged forward, his mouth finally finding the sensitive skin of Babe's chest. As he took one of those pink, aching nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it with a possessive hunger, Babe let out a scream of pleasure that echoed through the penthouse.

For the first time in months, the "act" felt terrifyingly real. Charlie wasn't playing a role anymore; he was a man reclaiming his mate, driven by a biological need so strong it threatened to burn down every wall he had built between them.

The air in the room didn't just feel warm; it felt thick, saturated with the scent of pine, rain-washed earth, and the sweet, heavy musk of an Alpha in the late stages of carrying.

Charlie dropped the phone, and with it, he seemed to drop the last of his modern, civilized restraints. He moved like a predator—slow, deliberate, and focused entirely on the man trembling beneath him. He didn't climb onto the sofa; he invaded it, his large frame caging Babe against the cushions.

"Take me," Babe had whispered, and Charlie took it as a commandment.

Charlie started at the hollow of Babe's throat, his tongue tracing the frantic beat of a pulse that belonged entirely to him. He could feel the vibration of Babe's whimpers against his lips. Every sound Babe made—every stuttered breath, every choked-off sob of relief—fed the fire in Charlie's veins.

Charlie's hands, usually so steady and clinical lately, were shaking as he moved them over Babe's chest. He treated the pale skin like parchment, reading every curve with his fingertips. When his mouth finally settled over one of Babe's pink, aching nipples, he didn't just bite or suck; he swirled his tongue in slow, torturous circles until Babe's back arched off the sofa, his fingers digging painfully into Charlie's shoulders.

"Charlie... please... I missed this... I missed you," Babe gasped, his head lolling back.

Charlie didn't answer with words. He answered by sliding his hand down, past the waistband of the silk maternity trousers, finding the heat he had been denied for months. Babe was slick, ready, and desperate. The physical connection sent a jolt through Charlie that threatened to shatter his "Cold Enigma" mask completely. For a second, his golden eyes softened, the pupils blowing wide with a recognition that had nothing to do with genetics or mafia legacies. It was just Charlie. His Charlie.

"I have you," Charlie rasped against Babe's skin, his voice a low vibration. "I've got you, Babe."

Mindful of the doctor's warning, Charlie shifted. He stood up just long enough to shed his own clothes, his silhouette powerful and lean in the dim TV light. He didn't force Babe to move; instead, he gathered the smaller man into his arms, lifting him with effortless strength and carrying him to the rug, where the plush surface offered more space.

He laid Babe down on his side, nesting himself behind him—the "spooning" position they had shared a thousand times in this very room. It protected the baby bump while allowing Charlie total access to the man he craved.

As Charlie entered him, slow and agonizingly careful, the world outside the house ceased to exist. There were no guards in the driveway. There was no Tankhun screaming about legacies. There was only the wet, sliding friction of two bodies becoming one again.

Babe let out a long, broken cry, his hand reaching back to find Charlie's neck, pulling him closer. "Don't stop... don't ever stop..."

Charlie buried his face in the crook of Babe's neck, inhaling the pure, unadulterated scent of his mate. Each thrust was a silent apology, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between the man he was supposed to be and the man Babe needed him to be. He moved with a rhythmic, primal grace, his hand reaching around to cover Babe's stomach, his palm feeling the occasional, startled kick of the child inside.

The Enigma and the Alpha were no longer at war. In the heat of the moment, they were simply a pair, bound by blood and a history that refused to be erased by a car crash or a family name.

As they reached the peak together, Charlie gripped Babe's waist, his fingers marking the pale skin. He poured everything into Babe—his lust, his confusion, and the tiny, glowing embers of the love he was trying so hard to pretend was dead. Babe shuddered, his body clenching around Charlie's as he called out Charlie's name, not as an Enigma or an heir, but as his lover.

When it was over, the silence that followed wasn't cold. It was heavy with the weight of what they had just done. Charlie didn't pull away immediately. He stayed tucked against Babe's back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against Babe's shoulder blade.

For the first time in weeks, the golden glow in his eyes was gone. They were just dark, tired, and deeply human.

"Charlie?" Babe whispered, his voice small and hopeful in the dark.

Charlie tightened his grip on Babe's waist for just a second—a genuine, unscripted moment of affection—before he caught himself. The wall began to creep back up, brick by cold brick.

"Go to sleep, Babe," Charlie murmured, his voice returning to that neutral, disciplined tone. "You need the rest. For the baby."

Babe closed his eyes, the triumph of the moment wilting slightly. He had felt the "real" Charlie in the heat of their passion, but as the sweat cooled on their skin, he realized that winning Charlie's body was only the first lap. Winning his soul back would take the full fourteen days—and he was already onto day one.

The walls of Alan's apartment seemed to be closing in, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and the frantic energy of a man who knew he was losing control of the narrative. While the house across the city was bathed in the warm, deceptive glow of a lovers' reunion, Alan was a storm of nerves.

He paced a jagged path from the window to the kitchen, his thumb hovering over the call button of his burner phone for what felt like the thousandth time.

"One hundred and twelve," Alan muttered, his voice raspy. "One hundred and twelve calls, and not a single pick-up. He's either turned the ringer off or he's too deep in the 'act' to remember why we're doing this."

On the couch, North and Sonic sat like statues of exhaustion.

"Give it a rest, Alan," North said quietly.

"If he answers now, with Charlie right there, the whole thing blows up. You know Babe. When he decides to go all in, he doesn't do it halfway."

"He was supposed to ask for a week!" Alan snapped, turning on his heel. "Seven days. That was the window.."

"How am I going to explain this to Way? " Alan sighed. Ẩn bớtBình luậnFinally!!!!!!!!!! Hallelujah  she finally posted! I was enjoying it only for me to realise that am done reading it! Pls update more plssssTrả lờiXem bản dịch