[BL] Oops! I Seduced My Sister's Fiance (And Now I'm Pregnant)

*Runze’s POV*

”Turn it off.”

Grandmother’s voice is quiet. Neither sharp nor distressed, but final.

Bael’s thumb presses against the remote. The television goes dark.

For a moment, nobody moves. The sudden silence feels almost unnatural after the relentless stream of news anchors, legal analysts, and bold red tickers dissecting our lives for the past hour. I stare at the black screen, wishing the world outside would freeze with it.

Grandmother lowers herself slowly into her armchair, her gaze locking onto Bael.

”I’ll give you three days,” she says calmly. ”By the end of the week, I expect the narrative to turn. I don’t care how many favors you burn through or which strings you pull, but the family name will not remain in the dirt.”

Bael’s expression remains steady. ”Two days.”

Grandmother looks at him for a long beat, measuring the calm confidence in his eyes, before offering a single, slight nod.

”Don’t disappoint me.”

She rises again with quiet, unyielding authority and walks toward the east wing, her steps unhurried.

Only when her footsteps fade do I realize Ling Yue is still in the room. He remains by the window, watching me with quiet concern before stepping away from the glass to squeeze my shoulder gently.

”I... I’ll be in my room,” he says softly.

I give him a small nod. ”Alright.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer, offering a brief, silent nod, before turning and heading down the guest corridor.

Bael turns toward the hallway, stepping out of the sitting room without a word. I don’t hesitate, I step into stride right beside him.

He slows his pace slightly, his eyes resting on me. For half a second, I expect him to tell me to go to bed. He doesn’t. He simply reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, before pushing open the door to his home office.

***

Mrs. Wen arrives at the study door a short while later with a tray of rice, soup, and small dishes, accompanied by the small ceramic cup of warm ginger and jujube water.

Neither of us touches the food, but I manage a few warm sips of the jujube water, letting it settle the sharp knot in my chest. Mrs. Wen gives my shoulder a brief, reassuring pat before quietly stepping out.

Outside the study, the house is awake. Staff move briskly down the hallway in low conversation, and phones vibrate continuously in distant rooms.

Inside, Bael is building a counter-attack.

His jacket is tossed over the sofa, his dark sleeves rolled to his forearms. The study’s soft ambient lighting frames the pale blue glow of three screens—his laptop, a tablet tracking market volume, and his phone face-up on the desk.

I pull a chair up a few feet away from his desk, close enough to be near him, but far enough not to hover over his work. I sit holding the warm ceramic cup in both hands, quietly watching him work.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t look hurried. Calls are taken in brief, sharp sentences. Legal documents are scanned. Names are cataloged.

”Shen Rui,” Bael says, his voice flat. ”Who were the two directors who signed after the broadcast went live?”

*”Director Lin and Director Song,”* Shen Rui’s voice comes through clearly over the speaker. *”Both held back until the murder reclassification aired.”*

”Don’t waste time on Director Lin—he’s a follower,” Bael commands smoothly. ”Look into Director Song’s overseas holdings. He dumped ten percent of his offshore stock two hours before the police statement was released.”

*”He shorted his own stock?”* Shen Rui pauses. *”That’s illegal insider trading. He knew the broadcast was coming.”*

”He was paid to panic the board,” Bael says coldly. ”Get me the exact transaction ledger and route it to the regulatory bureau by dawn. Let Director Han realize his main supporter is about to face a federal investigation.”

*”Understood.”*

Bael ends the call and taps his tablet screen, pulling up a financial diagram mapping the capital flows connected to Vantage Capital.

He isn’t just defending himself, he’s finding the loose thread that will pull their entire coalition apart from the inside.

He saves the transaction files directly to an encrypted drive for his legal team, systematically turning their own greed into his weapon.

There’s no pause in his momentum. His fingers move back to the keyboard while his tablet updates with fresh market data and his phone vibrates face-up on the desk every few minutes. Calls come in, brief orders are issued, and documents are cross-referenced across all three screens without a single wasted movement.

I remain in my chair beside him, sipping the last of my tea, simply content to sit in the quiet warmth of his presence while he methodically dismantles the trap.

Around eleven, Bael stops typing for a fraction of a second, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

I stand up and step behind his chair.

The moment my hands settle over his shoulders, Bael goes still. The constant, rhythmic tension in his posture pauses mid-breath.

He doesn’t speak, but his right hand reaches up, his fingers closing around my wrist—not stopping me, just holding me there for a long beat while he leans back into my touch and closes his eyes.

I press my thumbs gently into the hard, tight muscles at the base of his neck, slowly working through the strain locked beneath his skin.

Minutes pass in a quiet, steady rhythm.

Then, one by one, Bael closes every screen on his desk. Laptop. Tablet. Phone.

I look down at him. ”Finished?”

”For tonight.”

He turns his chair toward me, his grey eyes searching my face. ”You should be resting.”

”I am resting.”

”You’re standing up massaging my shoulders,” Bael says, a faint, dry curve touching his mouth. ”That isn’t resting.”

Before I can answer, Bael stands up, reaches down, and easily lifts me into his arms.

I gasp, my hands instinctively clutching his shoulders. ”Bael! I can walk.”

”I know.”

He carries me out of the office anyway, completely ignoring my mild protest. He walks us down the hallway, past the quiet whispers of staff and the distant glow of perimeter lights, straight into our bedroom.

He sets me gently on the mattress. ”Sleep.”

I catch his hand before he can step away, lacing my fingers through his. ”Will you?”

His eyes hold mine in the dim light. ”Eventually.”

”Promise?”

Bael looks down at our joined hands. His thumb strokes slowly across my knuckles—warm, solid, and completely unshakeable.

”Promise.”

I know tomorrow morning will bring another media circus, an emergency board session, and a coordinated attempt to strip him of his legacy. I know the war is waiting right outside our gates.

But holding his hand in the dark, I don’t feel afraid.

Bael is ready. And that is enough for tonight.