CONTRACTED TO HATE

Dinner was supposed to be a quiet affair. "Supposed" being the operative, tragically incorrect word.

The crystal chandelier hummed with nervous energy, its light splintering against the silver like shards of ice. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of roasted lamb and sheer, suffocating dread.

Mother sat at the head of the table, a perfectly coiffed queen dissecting her dinner with the frightening precision of a surgeon performing an autopsy. Josh sat opposite me, playing the role of the courteous, obedient schoolboy who'd somehow wandered into a minefield.

I was the human buffer between them, pretending that the food, which tasted vaguely of ash and impending doom, was actually enjoyable.

"So," Mother began, dabbing her mouth with a napkin as if preparing to launch a small, tactical missile. "I had an interesting conversation with your father this morning."

The prelude to disaster. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, a physical manifestation of the Andre family shadow.

Josh leaned forward, serving up his charming, empty smile, the one he usually reserved for stockholders. "That must have been delightful, Mother." He even called her 'Mother.' The man deserved an Oscar for that level of psychological manipulation; the word sounded like silk coming from a snake.

She didn't return the smile. Her face remained a frozen mask of high-society expectations. "We discussed legacy. Continuity. And the fact that in three years of marriage, neither of you have managed to provide one."

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth, suspended in the cold air. Already? She was dropping the Heir Bomb before the dessert had even left the kitchen? I could practically hear my heart screaming, Mayday! Mayday!

Josh looked up slowly, a masterclass in controlled surprise. His hand twitched near his wine glass, a tiny, frantic bird trapped in a cage of manners. Good. The facade wasn't perfect; the machine was rattling.

"Mrs. Andre," he said, his voice smooth, a silken shroud draped over a nervous tremor. "I can assure you Ruby and I are doing our best."

"Your best?" She repeated it like it was the most pathetic joke she'd ever heard. "I'm afraid your best isn't working, Joshua. Dr. Michaels will be visiting in two weeks to run fertility tests. Both of you. After that, we'll proceed with what he calls... strategic copulation."

My soul officially checked out of my body.

Strategic what? Did she just turn the most intimate human act into a mandatory HR directive?

"Mother," I managed, my voice dangerously polite and thin as a sheet of ice. "That's... entirely private."

She turned to me, her eyes cold enough to flash-freeze a supernova. "Privacy is for people who can afford to fail, dear. You cannot."

Josh cleared his throat, probably choking on the dry remains of his composure. "Surely, there are other ways to handle this, ma'am. Perhaps, "

She cut him off with a look that promised financial ruin and social exile. "Joshua, are you suggesting that you will not perform your marital duty?"

Oh, this was excellent theater. I wanted to laugh hysterically and vomit simultaneously. He recovered instantly, pasting that fake, plastic smile back on his face. "Not at all. I only meant that we should perhaps... not rush the process."

Rush? Three weeks to a pregnancy announcement was less a rush and more a high-speed collision with a wall of maternal demands.

Mother leaned back, folding her napkin precisely, like a general preparing a surrender ritual. "You will not rush it. You will do it properly. I expect positive results before your father's birthday."

Positive results. Like we were developing a new strain of profitable bacteria in a lab, not making a human being with a soul.

I forced a smile, the only defense mechanism I had left against the crushing weight of her will. "Yes, Mother."

"Good. I'll have Dr. Michaels coordinate your visits."

Josh's mask finally cracked, a visible fault line appearing in his granite jaw. His grip on his glass turned white-knuckled, the stem looking like it might snap under the pressure of his silent fury.

"Yes, ma'am," he ground out through his teeth.

The silence returned, broken only by the microscopic clinking of Mother's spoon against porcelain. It felt like a countdown clock ticking toward zero. When she finally stood, it was like a black cloud of expensive perfume finally lifting.

"Dinner was pleasant," she lied, the words falling like stones.

"You're both dismissed," she added, exiting the room with the regal authority of a despot.

Dismissed? It's our house, you corporate dictator!

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the air pressure in the room finally normalized.

Josh exhaled, a long, slow sound of escaping steam. "Well," he muttered, his voice raspy. "That was... informative."

"Informative?" I scoffed, dropping my fork onto the plate with a sharp clang. "We're about to be lab rats for a man who times conception like a quarterly earnings call."

He looked at me, his expression finally shedding the politeness to reveal the raw irritation beneath. "Could be worse."

"Oh, really? Enlighten me."

"She could have insisted on live-streaming the strategic copulation."

I stared at him, stunned. Then, despite my best efforts to remain furious, I barked out a laugh. It was sharp, hysterical, and totally inappropriate for two prisoners facing the same life sentence.

God, I hated that he could still reach past my defenses and make me laugh. But the moment passed quickly, replaced by a wave of cold dread.

"Don't be ridiculous, Josh," I said, the humor vanishing like smoke. "We're not... we are not having sex."

His fork clanged against the ceramic, the sound echoing in the hollow room. "Look, I hate this just as much as you do. But she's not messing around. She'll dismantle everything we have."

"Then find a loophole! You're the brilliant strategic analyst!" I snapped, my hands dancing in the air as I paced the small space between our chairs. "I'd rather die than have sex with you."

He gave a dry, bitter laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "You think I'm thrilled about this arrangement? You realize the level of financial ruin we face if we fail her, right? It's not just a baby; it's a collateral requirement."

"Oh, I do." I leaned back, forcing a posture of bored elegance to hide the way my heart was hammering against my ribs. "And for the record, Josh, I'm not thrilled either."

"Good." His voice softened, just a fraction, the weary sound of two enemies realizing they were sharing the same foxhole. "We can be un-thrilled together."

We froze, staring at each other across the expanse of the table. Two adversaries linked by a common nightmare, bound by golden chains we hadn't asked for.

He tilted his glass, the red wine catching the light like a pool of blood. "Guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other soon."

"In your darkest dreams," I muttered, though the bite was missing from my tone.

The ensuing silence was a heavy, fragile truce built on mutual horror and the shared knowledge that we were utterly screwed. And I had the insane, brief thought: Did I just feel a flicker of pity for him?

Therapy. I definitely needed therapy. Or perhaps a very large barrel of bleach to scrub this entire day from my memory.