domestic bliss
Pairing: Nicholas Sterling III x reader Description: Seven months pregnant with Nicholas’ child, you should feel safe—but the walls are too close, the air too thick, and the doors never quite open. This is normal. This is love. But you know better. Warning/s: Yandere. That's it. Note: Another commission for @violetvase ! Thank you so much for your support. I hope you enjoy this! Parts: ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR
Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar
The slow murmur of a saxophone spills from the gramophone in the corner, weaving itself between the soft clatter of silverware against the finest china you’ve ever touched. The weight of the utensils feels foreign in your grasp, as if they belong to someone else, someone meant to sit at this table without the quiet thrum of panic coiling beneath their skin.
Nicholas sits next to you, his gaze a constant, possessive thing, lingering even when he pretends to focus on slicing into his steak with meticulous care. Across you, his mother lifts her wine glass with an elegance that seems second nature, her smile warm but knowing, like she’s in on the secret of your existence here.
The music hums on, smooth and slow, a lover’s whisper against the walls. A mockery of peace.
“Eat, darling,” Nicholas urges, his voice gentle, coaxing, but beneath it—an edge, a command.
You pick up your fork, pressing it into the soft meat, feeling its tenderness yield beneath the tines. The motion is automatic, rehearsed. Just another performance in the fragile illusion of normalcy that drapes over this house like lace, delicate enough to tear if you breathe the wrong way.
The clink of silver against porcelain fades into the background as his mother sets down her glass, eyes gleaming with something both mischievous and wounded. The warm glow of the chandelier overhead does little to soften the accusation in her gaze as she looks between you and Nicholas.
“You know, I had to hear it from Nara,” she announces, her tone light, but her posture stiff, expectant.
Nicholas exhales through his nose, the smallest shift in his expression betraying his exasperation. “Mother—”
“No, no, don’t you ‘Mother’ me.” She leans forward, her manicured fingers curling against the edge of the table as if she’s physically reining herself in. “I was there for everything. I helped pick out the crib, the clothes, the bottles—I have been involved. And yet, the one detail I don’t know, the one surprise left, you keep from me?” She presses a hand to her chest, as if personally wounded. “You let me go shopping without knowing if I was buying for my grandson or granddaughter?”
There’s something almost childlike in the way she pouts, a stark contrast to the polished woman she presents herself as. It’s unsettling. Endearing, in a way. Dangerous, in another.
Nicholas sighs, setting his knife down with deliberate care. “It wasn’t intentional. We weren’t keeping it from you.”
His mother gasps, dramatic, pressing her hand over her heart as though he just struck her. “Oh, so I suppose I was just forgotten, then?”
You shift in your seat, pressing your palm over the swell of your stomach in an absentminded gesture. The weight of her attention flicks to you instantly, eyes softening. She reaches forward, fingers brushing your wrist as she squeezes gently, reassuringly. “And you let him do this to me?” she asked, though there’s no real malice in it. Just a sort of helpless fondness, the kind that worms its way into your ribs and makes you question whether you should be charmed or unsettled.
“I—I didn’t think—”
“Oh, darling, don’t you start.” She releases you with a huff, shaking her head. “Honestly, Nicholas. A boy. A grandson. And I had to hear it secondhand? You are impossible.”
Nicholas rubs his temple, the tension in his shoulders making it abundantly clear that this is not a new conversation between them. “It’s hardly life-altering news.”
“For you, maybe. But I’ve been waiting for this moment since you were in the womb.” She exhales, long-suffering, before fixing you with a smile, warm and indulgent. “At least tell me you’re excited. A little bit?”
Excited. The word rolls through you, foreign, unfamiliar, heavy. There are many things you feel—excitement is not among them. But her smile is expectant, and Nicholas’s stare unwavering, and so you force yourself to nod.
Her expression brightens instantly, eyes alight with something almost reverent as she reaches for your hand again. “Oh, we have so much to plan, don’t we? The nursery, the final touches—at least now I know which colors to lean into. Not that I mind terribly. He’ll be beautiful, I just know it.”
The weight of expectation settles around you, cloying and thick, wrapping itself around your throat like a velvet ribbon. You smile, small and polite, and Nicholas’s fingers brush against yours beneath the table, a silent warning, a quiet claim.
The music plays on, smooth and slow, curling through the air like smoke.
A mockery of peace.
His mother dabs at the corner of her lips with a linen napkin before setting it aside, fingers lacing together atop the table. Her eyes gleam with something more calculating now, a shift from playful grievance to something with sharper edges.
“There’s also the Thanksgiving party coming up,” she says, almost offhandedly. “It’s important, Nicholas. A celebration of everything you’ve built after…everything.”
Your stomach knots.
His mother doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway. After everything. After you.
Nicholas’s grip tightens around his fork, just for a second, before he forces himself to relax. “I know.”
“And I think it’s time people saw her,” she continues, gesturing toward you with a knowing smile. “The world need to know who she is.”
Something flickers behind Nicholas’s eyes. A shadow of something cold, possessive. His lips press together. “That’s not necessary.”
His mother tilts her head, bemused. “Oh, but it is. People are curious, Nicholas. And you can’t just keep her locked away forever.
Can’t he?
The words hang unspoken between them, but you can feel the weight of them, thick and suffocating. Your pulse thrums against your skin.
Nicholas doesn’t respond right away. He studies his mother, his fingers curling, tapping once against the table. A silent war.
Then, his mother smiles, almost too brightly. “You know, I’ve been telling everyone in my circle how beautiful your story is. How you fell in love with her, Nicholas. How it wasn’t about the money, wasn’t about anything but her. It’s the perfect tale of destiny. The romance between the caretaker, who is so dedicated and selfless, and the patient, who fell for the one person who wasn’t just there for the inheritance.”
Your heart drops.
His mother’s gaze softens, as if she’s remembering some distant, sentimental moment. “How you looked at her the first time, knowing she wasn’t like the others. How she cried for you, Nicholas, when you missed a step and had to get stitches on your forehead. You never saw it, but she wept for you. She never confessed her feelings, not once. But I knew. I always knew.
Nicholas’s jaw tightens, but his eyes shift toward you, locking in place, dark and cold.
“I know how it looks, Mother.” His voice is quiet, but there’s a chill to it, something that cuts through the warmth of the room. “But this isn’t something we need to broadcast.”
His mother leans back, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “Oh, but it’s not just about what you need, Nicholas. It’s about what’s right. People should see the connection between you two. They’ll understand. They’ll see that this isn’t just some simple arrangement between patient and caretaker.”
Your stomach churns.
She turns her attention to you, her eyes soft and calculating as she smiles. “It’s time they knew you. Time they saw the bond that has been blossoming here. They’ll admire you, just as I do. A love story no one could ever forget.”
Nicholas’s hand clenches into a fist, the subtle tension in his posture thickening with every word his mother speaks. “I’m not hiding her, Mother. But this… this is too much.”
His mother shakes her head, dismissing his concerns. “Oh, it’s not too much. It’s necessary.”
Her gaze shifts to you again, her smile wide and almost too warm. “You’ve been part of this family for a while now, darling. You should be proud to stand by his side.”
The tension in the room thickens, and Nicholas’s words come out with a quiet but unmistakable fury. “Fine. You’ve had your say. I’ll agree, but on my terms.”
His mother beams, victorious. “Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements. And we’ll have a beautiful celebration.”
She stands, smooth and graceful, as if nothing had just shifted between the three of you. She walks toward Nicholas, kissing him on the cheek before moving to you, cupping your face with a delicate touch. “I’ll see you soon, darling,” she says, voice sweet but laced with something else.
Then, with a final glance, she’s gone, leaving behind only the scent of her perfume and the tension that suffocates the room.
The door clicks shut, and Nicholas moves without warning.
You barely have time to react before he’s on you, his arms crushing you against him with a force that steals your breath. It’s not a tender embrace—no, it’s a claim. A marking. His body presses you into the hard line of his chest, every inch of him seething with something dark, something urgent. His breath is hot against your temple, teeth grazing the soft curve of your ear as he speaks in a low, dangerous murmur.
“You won’t try again, will you?” His voice is a promise, low and silky, but underneath it—there’s an edge. A tremor of barely contained violence.
You swallowed hard, your throat tight with the weight of his words. You know exactly what he means. Not another escape. Not another attempt.
But there’s no need to answer. He already knows.
His hand slides down your arm, the touch almost too gentle, too calculating. He traces over the skin where the tracker resides—silent, invisible, but always there. A reminder. His fingers press against the spot, not gently, but with a purposeful intensity, as if marking his territory. As if claiming you even more thoroughly than before.
“Don’t you dare think you can run again,” he growls, his voice dropping to a whisper, sharp and venomous, like a blade pressed to your skin. “You think you can outsmart me? You’re not getting away. Not this time.”
His lips graze your jaw, brushing against your skin, before his teeth catch the edge of your earlobe, biting down just enough to make your breath catch. A small, cruel sound escapes you, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough with restrained hunger.
“You’re mine. Always have been. And no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be free of me.” His grip on you tightens, his hands moving to frame your face, cupping your cheeks with a possessiveness that feels like it’s suffocating you. He brings you in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, and his eyes are dark pools of something that looks far too much like obsession. “You’ll never escape. Not from me. Not from this.”
His thumb traces over your bottom lip, slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring the moment. His gaze never leaves your face, and the intensity of it makes your skin crawl. There’s nothing kind in that look. Only ownership. Only control.
“You don’t understand, do you?” he murmurs, almost tenderly, though the violence lurking in his tone is unmistakable. “You’re mine, and no one can take you from me. Not now, not ever.”
His fingers tighten again, pressing against your throat just enough to remind you of his power. You can barely breathe, but the air is thick with the tension between you, heavy and suffocating.
“Try to run again,” he whispers, lips curling into something that almost resembles a smile. “And I’ll make sure you regret it.”
He pulls back just enough to study your face, his gaze piercing, as if he’s waiting for some acknowledgment—some understanding that you’re his, fully, completely. The smile that creeps across his lips is soft, but it’s a predator’s smile. A cruel, possessive thing.
“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he asks, voice silky and lethal.
His hands fall to your waist, pulling you closer once more, as if there’s no space in the world for anyone else, least of all you.
The music plays on, but now it’s no longer a mockery of peace. It’s the sound of a predator circling its prey, the rhythm slow, steady, inevitable.
And you, like everything else in this house, belong to him.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The opulence of the evening drapes over you like the gown Nicholas selected himself—silken fabric gliding against your skin, hugging your form in a way that flatters but does not constrict. The deep, muted hue shimmers under the golden glow of chandeliers, reflecting the wealth and status of the people who fill the room.
Nicholas never leaves your side. His hand rests possessively at the small of your back, a constant, grounding pressure that reminds you of his claim. You move only when he moves, speak only when prompted, and even then, your voice is little more than an ornament to the conversation, unnecessary yet expected. His mother beams at you, at him, at the perfect picture she’s presenting to the world.
“She was never after the money,” she coos to the women gathered around. “And she never even confessed her feelings for him, you know? But the moment Nicholas got stitches—oh, she cried for him. That’s how I knew it was real.”
A delighted hum ripples through the circle of elegantly dressed women. They look at you with something warm, something approving. As if you’re the epitome of devotion, of a love story too good to be hidden away.
Nicholas answers for you when questions arise, his voice smooth and unwavering, crafting a narrative you have no say in. His mother basks in it, weaving you into her world with delicate precision, ensuring every guest understand just how deeply Nicholas loves you—and how deeply you love him.
A hand at your elbow startles you. Not Nicholas. Trevor, his assistant.
His voice is gentle, polite, carefully measured. “Forgive me for interrupting, sir,” he says, directing his words to Nicholas first before his gaze flickers to you. “But I believe she may need a moment to step away. Just for some air.”
Your breath stills. Nicholas’s fingers press into your waist, a barely perceptible squeeze. He doesn’t look at you, only at Trevor, assessing, calculating. Trevor’s tone remains respectful, non-confrontational, but he does not backdown.
“She hasn’t said a word about it,” he adds softly, “but I can tell.”
Nicholas exhales through his nose, the tension in his jaw visible, but before he can respond, his father’s voice cuts through the murmur of conversation.
“Nicholas.”
It isn’t just a summons—it’s an expectation, a command wrapped in the weight of authority. When Nicholas turns, his father is watching him from across the room, a hand raised in a subtle but unmistakable gesture. “Come. They’re waiting.”
The business partners. Nicholas cannot refuse, not without making a statement that would ripple through the evening.
His grip tightens briefly before he turns his attention back to Trevor. “Stay with her,” he commands, low and firm. “Not for long.”
Trevor inclines his head. “Of course, sir.”
Nicholas studies him for a moment longer, then his gaze drops to you. Dark. Unreadable. His thumb brushes over your wrist—a silent warning—before he finally steps away, striding toward his father with practiced ease.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Trevor exhales, lowering his voice. “Just a moment outside, if you’d like,” he offers, his tone light but kind. “I’ll stay with you.”
The weight of Nicholas’s absence is both a relief and a phantom pressure still lingering against your skin.
You nod. Trevor does not smile, but something in his expression softens.
He leads you away, and for the first time tonight, you breathe.
• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •
The night air is crisp against your skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the party. The city sprawls beneath the balcony, lights twinkling like distant stars, but they feel as unreachable as freedom itself.
Trevor stands beside you, silent at first, his presence neither overwhelming nor intrusive. Just there. Allowing you the space to breathe.
“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “For noticing.”
Trevor turns his head slightly, studying you with quiet curiosity. “Noticing?”
You exhale, fingers brushing against the smooth railing. “It’s been a while since someone did.”
His gaze lingers, patient, waiting for you to say more. You hesitate, warring with yourself before the words slip free, fragile yet firm. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t even supposed to meet him.”
Trevor says nothing, but his attention sharpens, an unspoken invitation for you to continue.
You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I applied for the job in place of my friend. She… she couldn’t make it, and I thought… just one day. Just enough to help her. But he wouldn’t let me go.”
Trevor’s brow furrows. He remains silent, but you can feel the weight of his concern.
“I tried to leave.” You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Three times. And every time, I failed. I don’t even try anymore. I can’t. Not when—” Your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your gown. “Not when my child deserves better than a mother who keeps running and failing.”
Trevor’s jaw tightens. “So, you stay. For your child.”
You nod. “If it means they grow up safe, with everything they need… I’ll play the part he wants.”
Trevor exhales slowly, his fingers curling into fists before he forces them to relax. Then, carefully, he reaches out, his hand grazing yours before settling against the back of it. A silent promise. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You blink up at him, unsure if you misheard. “Trevor—”
“I’ll help you.” His grip tightens, his voice unwavering. “We’ll find a way. I swear it.”
A lump forms in your throat, emotions threatening to spill over, but before you can speak, before you can even process the gravity of his words, the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.
Something feels off.
Unbeknownst to either of you, hidden beneath the rich ruby of your ring, a tiny bug transmits every whispered confession. And standing just beyond the entrance to the balcony, in the shadows cast by the golden light of the ballroom, Nicholas listens.
Watching.
Waiting.
And the look on his face is anything but forgiving.
noirscript © 2025
Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger