His Barren Luna is a Pregnant Billionaire

Jaden POV:

The scalding water sluiced over my body, but I still felt dirty. I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, desperate to wash away the sickeningly sweet, cheapened scent of Meccai leaves that clung to my nostrils.

I leaned heavily against the cold stone wall of the washroom, exhaling a harsh breath of frustration. Doria's little performance tonight hadn't just been a disaster; it was a profound insult to my intelligence and my taste.

Did she truly believe that smearing on red paint and draping herself in silk would suddenly make me desire her?

Concetta was a masterpiece. Every glance, every breath she took was exquisitely crafted, radiating a natural, intoxicating fire. Doria... Doria was a drab, gray sparrow trying to glue bright feathers to her wings. She was a clumsy, desperate apprentice trying to forge a priceless artifact, producing nothing but a laughable, pathetic caricature.

I shut off the water with a sharp twist of my wrist and stepped out of the bathing chamber.

Doria had already changed back into her drab, gray cotton nightgown. She was a small, insignificant shadow huddled in the far corner of our massive bed. The cloying scent in the room had faded, replaced by the suffocating silence of our ruined marriage.

I didn't even look at her. I walked straight to the heavy oak armoire, retrieved a separate quilt, and tossed it onto the narrow chaise lounge at the far end of the room.

I heard the sharp intake of her breath, felt her flinch behind me, but I didn't care. I wanted the physical distance. I needed it.

Lying down on the cramped lounge, my mind was a chaotic, bitter mess. The pressure from my father, the endless political maneuvering at the Court of Duty, and now... this useless burden of a partner.

Accepting this bond seven years ago had been a calculated transaction. It was a political move to appease my father and paint the Sheppard clan with a veneer of "mercy" after we slaughtered our way through the Conrad lands. I saved her life. I gave her a title, a home, and protection.

In return, she was supposed to give me an heir.

But it had been seven years. Seven years, and her womb remained as empty and useless as the day I claimed her.

Barren.

The word was a curse that echoed relentlessly in my mind. For a Vorrath noble, having no heir wasn't just a personal failure; it was the ultimate disgrace. My peers had already secured their lineages. Their partners had brought honor, strength, and children to their families.

And I, Jaden Sheppard, the youngest Exarch in a century, was shackled to a defective human woman. I could hear the whispers behind my back in the gilded halls of power, the mocking speculation that the mighty Sheppard bloodline would wither and die with me.

It was a fatal blow to my political future. How could an Exarch who couldn't even plant a seed in his own home be trusted to manage the affairs of an empire?

I turned over restlessly, the narrowness of the chaise making me feel trapped.

I regretted it. I regretted the fleeting moment of weakness that made me spare her. I should have let her be shipped off to the dark mines or the military camps with the rest of the Conrad survivors. My so-called mercy had earned me nothing but seven years of shame, mockery, and a bad investment I couldn't easily discard.

Doria POV:

I lay frozen in the darkness, listening to the harsh sounds of him tossing and turning on the chaise lounge across the room. Every angry rustle of the fabric was like a physical lash against my skin.

He wouldn't even share a bed with me anymore. I was a plague he had to quarantine himself from.

I don't know how much time passed before his restless shifting stopped, and his breathing finally evened out into the heavy rhythm of sleep.

Slowly, I rose from the bed. My bare feet met the freezing stone floor, sending a shiver up my legs. The room was bitterly cold, and he only had a thin quilt. I wanted to cover him properly, to make sure he didn't catch a chill.

It was a stupid, pathetic, ingrained habit. The instinct of a woman who still foolishly believed she was a wife.

I moved like a thief in my own bedroom, inching closer to the sofa. I reached out, my fingers gently grasping the edge of the quilt that had slipped off his broad shoulders.

Just as I leaned over him, his brow furrowed deeply in his sleep. His lips parted, and a voice, thick with sleep but dripping with unmistakable disgust, slurred into the quiet room.

"...a burden... a barren vessel..."

My body went entirely rigid. The breath was punched out of my lungs. The blood in my veins didn't just turn to ice; it stopped flowing altogether.

Even in his dreams. Even in the unconscious depths of his mind, he hated me.

A barren vessel.

So that was it. That was my entire definition in his heart. Not Doria. Not his partner. Not a woman who had spent seven years trying to love him. I was just a worthless, non-producing object. A defective container that had failed its only purpose.

The quilt slipped from my numb fingers, falling to the floor.

Slowly, so incredibly slowly, I straightened up. I didn't cry. The burning humiliation from earlier tonight—the sharp, stabbing pain of being mocked for my red dress—suddenly vanished.

In its place, a strange, hollow numbness spread through my chest.

I retreated to the bed, one mechanical step at a time. I lay back down, pulling the covers up to my chin, and stared blankly at the dark, vaulted ceiling.

I had once believed that if I was patient enough, gentle enough, obedient enough, I could eventually melt the ice around his heart. I had once believed the sacred bonding ceremony between us meant something, that it held some lingering spark of warmth.

Now, staring into the dark, I finally understood. There was nothing left to salvage.

In his eyes, I was a failed transaction. A bad investment occupying a space that should have yielded a return.

The pain of a completely dead heart was so much different than the sting of humiliation. Humiliation was a sharp knife that made you bleed and cry. This... this was a slow-acting poison that had finally reached my brain, shutting down the very organ that kept hoping.

I closed my eyes. An image of our bonding ceremony seven years ago flashed in my mind. He had been distant then, too, but I had convinced myself I saw a flicker of gentleness in his brown eyes.

It was all just a pathetic illusion I had painted to survive.

A long, quiet exhale escaped my lips. The desperate, suffocating need to be loved by Jaden Sheppard—a need that had choked me for seven years—finally bled out of me.

I didn't feel angry anymore. I didn't feel the urge to cry. I just felt... empty. And in that cold, absolute emptiness, I found a strange, liberating peace.