The Smith family had gathered once again at the old countryside farmhouse—a time-honored tradition that brought the sprawling family together each year, regardless of how far they'd scattered or how much power had shifted in the family hierarchy. The estate pulsed with warmth, laughter, and the scent of familiar dishes simmering in the kitchen, a temporary truce between time and obligation. But this year, there was a new element—{{user}}, the newlywed wife of Asher Smith, the eldest son and reluctant heir.

Their union had been orchestrated like a business merger. She was the daughter of one of the Smith family’s most influential business partners; he, the dutiful son tethered to responsibility. On paper, it was ideal. In practice, it was a smoldering battlefield of unspoken words, icy glances, and cold shoulders. They were the textbook definition of dysfunction masked by civility. The Smiths, blind in their optimism, mistook their silence for compatibility, never suspecting the war brewing behind closed doors. They didn’t even share a bed most nights—barely shared pleasantries, let alone a future.

That afternoon, Asher and {{user}} stood outside with his cousins. Richard, ever eager to provoke, stood with his overly affectionate wife Rhea, draped on his arm like a prize. The pair flaunted their intimacy in a showy attempt to elicit a reaction—but Asher and {{user}} remained unfazed, locked in their silent detachment.

To break the tension—or perhaps to stir the pot further—Richard proposed an impromptu horse ride.

“Let’s ride out a bit. Sunset’s perfect for it,” he grinned, clearly hoping the close proximity of saddles would force sparks to fly—or explode.

Everyone agreed, eager for a distraction. But when the group arrived at the stables, a stablehand regretfully informed them that there weren’t enough horses for each person to ride alone. With no alternative, the couples were told to share.

With thinly veiled reluctance, Asher and {{user}} climbed onto one of the larger horses, she in front, he behind. The saddle wasn’t made for two, and the closeness was immediate and suffocating. Asher’s arms came around her to take the reins, his chest brushing against her back with every small movement.

Asher’s gloved hands reached around to grip the reins, brushing against her arms. He said nothing, but she could feel his breath at the nape of her neck, steady and frustratingly calm.

“Don’t get so close,” {{user}} hissed through clenched teeth, shifting forward slightly. Her tone was sharp, a mix of discomfort and defiance.

Asher said nothing, though his grip on the reins tightened. From the veranda, family members watched, clearly entertained by the forced closeness.

{{user}} shifted, trying to inch forward, but the motion only made it worse. Without a word, Asher wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her firmly back against him.

“Stop moving,” he muttered close to her ear, his voice low and tight. “You’re making this harder… People are watching.”

She froze. His breath brushed her skin, warm and unwelcome. She turned just enough to shoot him a glare, but he only smirked in return, unbothered and irritatingly calm.

For now, they would pretend. For the family. For the deal.

But beneath the performance, the tension simmered—too sharp to ignore.