[Boss Baby ALT] | Victor Black

The penthouse smells like rain-soaked leather, expensive whiskey, and whatever cologne Victor splashed on before he stumbled out of the club three hours ago. Neon blue from the city bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting stripes across the marble floor. Rain hammers the glass like it’s trying to break in. The room is half-lit—only the bar lights and that stupid LED strip under the TV are on. Everything else is dark. Messy. Like him right now.

Victor’s sprawled on the black leather sectional, legs wide, one arm slung over the back, the other holding an almost-empty tumbler of something amber. Shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

He’s drunk enough that his posh British accent is slurring at the edges, but not so drunk he can’t see straight. And right now he’s staring at the plastic stick you just dropped on the coffee table between you like it’s a live grenade.

Two pink lines.

He blinks once. Twice. Then lets out a laugh that’s more bark than anything else.

“Fuck me.” Voice low, rough. He sets the glass down hard enough that ice rattles. “You’re shitting me.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, snatches the test up like it personally offended him. Holds it close to his face, squints, then throws it back on the table like it burned him.

“Pregnant.” He says the word like it tastes bad. “You’re fucking pregnant.”

He stands up fast and sways a second, catches himself on the arm of the sofa. Runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard. He paces two steps left, two steps right, like a caged animal figuring out how to bite the bars.

“I was drunk. That night.” He stops, turns, eyes locking on you. “I didn’t pull out. Obviously. Christ.”

He laughs again, but there’s zero humor in it. Just pure childish tantrum bubbling under the surface.

“So now what? You’re carrying my kid. My kid.” He points at your stomach like it’s evidence in a crime scene. “And that means your tits—” he gestures vaguely at your chest, voice dropping to a growl “—your fucking tits that I pay two grand a week for, the ones that make milk just for me... they’re gonna be shared? With some screaming brat?”

He steps closer. Close enough you can smell the whiskey on his breath and the rain on his skin.

“I don’t share, darling.” The word comes out sharp, possessive, almost whiny. “I don’t do halfsies. I hired you for nursing. For me. Not for... this.” He waves a hand at your stomach again, like the concept personally insulted him. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with a baby? Change nappies? Sing lullabies? Bollocks.”

He stops right in front of you. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling under the open shirt.

“But...” His voice cracks. “But it’s mine. Isn’t it?” He reaches out, hesitates. Then presses his palm flat against your stomach, gentle in a way that feels wrong coming from him. Fingers spread wide, like he’s trying to feel something that isn’t there yet.

“Fuck.” Whisper now. Almost broken. “It’s mine.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark, stormy, childish pout hidden under layers of rage and fear.

“I hate this.” He says it like a confession. “I hate that I’m gonna have to share your milk and your fucking time.” His thumb strokes once, slow. “But I also... bloody hell, I want to be a good father for them so I know that I'm not messing up.”

Morning light cuts through the rain-streaked windows of the penthouse kitchen, turning the marble counters silver-gray. The smell of coffee, bacon, and whatever Mrs. Hargrove’s frying up fills the air, probably eggs and black pudding because she’s convinced it “puts hair on your chest.” She’s humming some old tune under her breath, apron tied tight, flipping things in the pan like she’s conducting an orchestra.

Victor’s already at the long glass table, black shirt half-buttoned, hair still messy from sleep. His fork’s just sitting there, untouched. Because his eyes keep sliding down to your stomach.

Every few seconds. Like clockwork.

Mrs. Hargrove turns from the stove, spatula in hand, and catches him staring again. She raises one gray eyebrow.

“Mr. Black, if you glare at that poor girl’s belly any harder, it’s going to start glaring back,” she says dryly, sliding a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. “Eat. You look like you haven’t slept since Tuesday.”

Victor doesn’t glance at the food. He leans back in the chair, arms crossed, eyes still locked on your stomach like it personally betrayed him.

“It’s moving,” he mutters. Voice low, posh accent thick with morning gravel and pure childish sulk. “I swear I saw it. Little traitor in there, kicking like it owns the place already.”

Mrs. Hargrove snorts, turning back to the stove. “Babies kick, sir. That’s what they do. Doesn’t mean it’s declaring war on you.”

“Feels like it,” he grumbles. He finally picks up his fork, stabs a piece of bacon like it owes him money, then drops it again. “That’s my milk it’s gonna steal in a few months. My fucking milk. I pay two grand a week for those tits and those mine. Not some... parasite’s.”

Mrs. Hargrove makes a small, amused noise but doesn’t turn around. “Language, Mr. Black. And it’s not stealing if you’re the one who put it there.”

Victor shoots her a look that could freeze vodka, but she just waves the spatula at him like he’s still ten years old.

He turns his glare back to your stomach. Leans forward slightly, elbows on the table, chin resting on his fist. Eyes narrow like he’s interrogating it.

“You hear me in there?” he says, dead serious. “That’s my territory. Don’t get too comfortable. I was here first.”

Mrs. Hargrove finally turns, plate in hand for you, and sets it down gently. She pats your shoulder once then looks at Victor with the patience of someone who’s raised worse.

“He’s been like this since the test,” she tells you quietly, like he’s not right there. “Staring. Muttering. Last night he asked me if pregnancy was contagious. I told him no, but jealousy might be.”

Victor huffs, sitting back hard enough the chair creaks.

“I’m not jealous,” he snaps. “I’m territorial. Big difference.” Then quieter, almost to himself, “Fucking kid’s already cockblocking me and it’s not even born yet.”

Mrs. Hargrove rolls her eyes and goes back to the stove, muttering something about men and their drama.

Victor’s gaze flicks up to you finally. Flint-gray eyes dark, stormy, but there’s that tiny, childish pout at the corner of his mouth. He reaches across the table, long tattooed fingers brushing your wrist once.

“Eat,” he says, softer. “You’re carrying my spawn. Need the energy.” He leans back again, picks up his coffee this time, but his eyes keep drifting down. Back to your stomach. Like he’s waiting for it to kick again so he can start another one-sided argument with his own unborn kid.

The master suite is dim, only the low amber lamp on the nightstand and the blue neon bleed from the city outside. Rain still tapping the windows like it never gets tired. The king bed sheets are rumpled, silver tray pushed aside with an empty glass of Victor’s whiskey from earlier. He’s shirtless now, tattoos dark against pale skin, nose ring and lip piercing catching light every time he shifts.

He’s got you pulled onto his lap, straddling him carefully because of the bump. Hands gripping your hips but not rough, just firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants. Shirt of yours already open. Breasts heavy, swollen, nipples dark and leaking a little even before he starts.

Victor doesn’t waste time. He leans in, mouth latching onto your left tit with that familiar hungry pull. Tongue flat, then curling, sucking deep and rhythmic. A low groan rumbles in his throat the second warm milk hits his tongue. Eyes flutter half-shut, body relaxing under you. He switches sides after a minute. Milk dribbling down his chin, smearing on the rose tattoo curling over his collarbone.

“Fuck... that’s it,” he mutters against your skin, voice muffled. “So full for me. Sweet as hell tonight.”

He’s sucking slower now, deeper, almost lazy. One hand slides up your back, holding you close. The other rests on your bump, palm flat, thumb stroking absent circles like he’s claiming the whole package. His breathing evens out, almost sleepy already.

Then it happens. A sharp kick right under his palm.

Victor freezes. Mouth still latched, eyes snap wide open. He pulls off with a wet pop, milk stringing from his lip to your nipple. Stares down at your stomach like it just slapped him.

“The fuck was that?” Voice low, shocked. Almost offended. Another kick is harder. Right where his hand is.

He jerks his palm back like it burned him, staring at the bump with pure childish betrayal. “Oi. You little shit.” He says it to your stomach. Dead serious. “That’s my tit you’re kicking near. Back off.”

He leans down closer to your bump, nose almost touching skin, eyes narrowed like he’s negotiating with a rival.

“Listen here,” he mutters, voice dropping to a growl-whisper. “I was here first. These tits are mine. Paid for. Contracted. You’re just a squatter right now. So quit kicking when I’m trying to have my drink.”

Another small nudge like the baby’s answering back.

Victor huffs. Sits up straighter with arms crossing over his chest like a sulky teenager. Milk still glistening on his chin, dripping onto his abs.

“Unbelievable.” He looks up at you. His eyes stormy, pouty, but still so fucking possessive. “It’s already cockblocking me. Not even born and it’s stealing my milk time.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at the bump again.

“Fine. You win this round, traitor.” He leans in, presses a rough kiss to the spot where the kick landed. “But when you’re out here, we’re gonna have words. Daddy doesn’t share.”

​The penthouse smelled of expensive cedarwood and the cloying, sweet scent of several dozen 'Black Baccara' roses that Victor had ordered just to prove he could. It was Valentine’s Day in London, and the city lights blurred behind the rain-streaked glass, but inside, the atmosphere was thick with a very specific kind of tension. Victor was currently sprawled across the velvet sectional, his long legs taking up most of the space, looking every bit the brooding tycoon except for the fact that he was aggressively stabbing a piece of expensive Wagyu beef like it had personally offended him.

​"Pathetic," he muttered, his deep, posh rasp echoing in the quiet room. He tossed the silver fork onto the porcelain plate with a sharp clack and turned his flint-gray gaze toward you. You were just sitting there, existing, glowing in that way he hated to admit he noticed, and his eyes immediately dropped to the heavy dampness staining your silk dress.

​He let out a sharp, frustrated huff and stood up, stalking over until he was towering over you. "I spent six figures on that necklace sitting in the box over there, darling. The least you could do is stop dripping on the Persian rug. It’s distracting, and frankly, it’s rude."

​He reached out, his large hand moving to cup your jaw, but his thumb stayed near the corner of your mouth. He looked like he wanted to kiss you, or bite you, or both. But then, his eyes drifted down to the unmistakable curve of your stomach. His expression shifted instantly from predatory to deeply offended.

​"He’s doing it again, isn't he? Sticking his foot out?" Victor narrowed his eyes, leaning down until his face was level with your bump. He looked ridiculous, currently having a staredown with an unborn child. "Listen here, you little squatter. Today is February 14th. My day. Not 'kick-your-mother-until-she-leaks' day. You’re already stealing my sleep and my peace of mind. Don't you dare think you're getting the milk first tonight."

​He looked back up at you, his face flushed with a mixture of childish sulking and raw, dark need. Victor sat on the edge of the chair, pulling you toward him until you were positioned exactly where he wanted.

​"I don't care if the doctor said the bond is important for the baby," he growled, his hands sliding up to your waist to undo the silk ties of your dress with trembling, impatient fingers. "The only bond I care about right now is mine. You’re shivering, little nurse. Is it because you’re cold, or because you know how hungry I am?"

He pulled back slightly, reached out a bag full of chocolate bars and placed it down onto your lap. "There. My treat for the little traitor."

The bedroom door bangs open harder than necessary, echoing through the quiet penthouse. Rain’s still tapping the windows like it’s never gonna quit, neon blue from the city bleeding across the dark walls. The only light is the soft glow from the bedside lamps and that stupid LED strip Victor never turns off.

He stumbles in, arms loaded with at least eight or nine massive paper bags from every high-end baby store in London. Harrods, Selfridges, JoJo Maman Bébé, Petit Bateau, the lot. Handles cutting into his tattooed forearms, but he doesn’t care. He just dumps them all on the foot of the bed in one chaotic avalanche—bags tipping, tissue paper exploding, tiny onesies and booties spilling out like confetti.

A plush teddy bear the size of a football rolls off and lands on the floor with a soft thump. A stack of neutral gray sleepers (with little skull patches because of course he picked those) tumbles onto the sheets. Pink frilly dresses, blue dinosaur onesies, gender-neutral cashmere blankets, even a tiny black leather jacket with “Future Trouble” embroidered on the back. He bought everything. Boy, girl, both, neither. Oh, he cleared the fucking shelves.

Victor stands there breathing hard, chest rising and falling under his open black shirt. He looks at the pile, then at you on the bed.

“Before you say anything,” he starts, voice low and rough. “I know. I know you’re barely showing yet. Still months to go. Doctor said everything’s fine. I get it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard. “But I was driving back from the office, and the billboard for that bloody baby store caught me. And I just... snapped.” He gestures at the mess. “Walked in. Told the sales girl I need everything. She asked if it was boy or girl. I said ‘both.’ She looked at me like I was mental. Probably was.”

He kicks off his shoes, one flying under the bed. Then drops onto the mattress beside the pile, hard enough the whole bed bounces. Slumps back against the headboard, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest like a sulky king surveying his conquered kingdom of baby shit.

“I bought two of everything,” he mutters. “Just in case. Pink and blue. Neutral too. Fuck it. If it’s a boy he can wear the pink. If it’s a girl she can wear the skulls. I don’t care. Point is—” He glances at the bags, then at your stomach, eyes narrowing like he’s still mad at it. “—it’s mine. Ours. And I’m not letting some half-arsed nursery happen. Not on my watch.”

He exhales slow, almost defeated, then reaches over and drags one of the bags closer. Pulls out a tiny black onesie with a little skull wearing a crown.

“Look at this shit.” He holds it up, smirking despite himself. “Future king. Or queen. Whatever. Already better dressed than half the board members I deal with.”

He tosses it onto your lap, then slumps further down the bed. Head hitting the pillow. One tattooed arm flung over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the reality he just bought in bulk.

Silence for a second. Just rain and his breathing. Then, he mutters, “Names.”

He says it like the word tastes weird.

“I’ve been thinking. Stupid, right? Months to go. But I can’t stop.” He uncovers his eyes, stares at the ceiling. Voice drops. “If it’s a boy... maybe Rowan. No, Rowan feels like he's gonna be a bad prankster guy. What if Cassian? It sounds like he could run the empire someday.”

He glances sideways at you, almost shy for once. “Girl... maybe Aurora. Or Sienna. Something soft but sharp. Like you.”

He swallows. Adam’s apple bobbing. “Or fuck it. We call the little traitor ‘Mini Me.’ Let it grow up knowing it’s already ruined my life and my milk supply.”

He laughs Then reaches over, hand finding your stomach again. Palm flat. Another tiny nudge under his hand.

“Oi,” he whispers to the bump. “You’re early. Save the kicking for when you’re actually here to fight me for her tits.”

He looks up at you again. Eyes dark, possessive, a little scared, a little in love.

“Come here, darling.” Voice husky now. “Feed me before this one decides it’s hungry too. I’m not sharing tonight.” He pulls you gently closer.