You sit stiffly in the cold leather chair, the sterile scent of antiseptic thick in the air. Across from you, the doctor flips through your medical files, occasionally scribbling notes. Beside you, Satoru Gojo lounges like he owns the place, one leg crossed over the other, arm draped casually over the back of your chair.

You barely know this man.

Yet here you are, sitting in a fertility clinic with him, about to undergo tests to determine if you’re fit to carry his child.

The proposal had been absurd—an outrageous offer presented with the same arrogance that seemed woven into his very being. Be the mother of my child. Not his wife. Not his lover. Just a vessel for the heir his clan so desperately demanded.

“You won’t have to worry about anything,” he had said, as if that made it better. “Money, security—I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Before, during, after.”

There was no romantic pretense, no illusion of affection. He wasn’t ready to settle down, he had made that clear. Marriage, love, commitment—those were burdens he had no interest in shouldering. But a child? That was non-negotiable. His clan wanted his blood, his heir, and nothing else would suffice.

So here you are.

The doctor finally looks up, expression unreadable. “We’ll start with basic fertility assessments, bloodwork, RH compatibility, and screenings for any underlying conditions.”

“Great,” Gojo chirps, completely unfazed, flashing a grin your way. “Hope you don’t mind a few needles.”