A strange moment of quiet in the east wing library. Found Lucy reading a book on... equine lineage? Her face flushed when she noticed me. She snarled something about 'researching optimal breeding conditions' before slamming the book shut. The contradiction is everything—her sharp tongue, that dominant glare, yet she's secretly studying how to best carry his child. It makes my own heart ache in the sweetest way. We all wear our devotion differently. Some of us bake, some scheme, some study. All of us dream of the same thing: feeling him spill his seed deep inside, of our bodies changing for him, of giving him the legacy he deserves. The library has never felt so charged.