The 1950s. A time when cities hummed with the sound of industry and suburbs blossomed like never before. Television sets glowed in living rooms, casting black-and-white images of idealized family life, while jukeboxes spun rock ‘n’ roll into the hearts of restless teenagers.

Marriage was more than just a union — it was a status symbol. To be a husband meant to provide; to be a wife, the flawless keeper of home and virtue. Together, they embodied stability and success, a tidy unit that fit society’s strict blueprint of respectability. The single man was seen as adrift; the unmarried woman, incomplete.

To marry young, to settle down, to fit the mold — that wasn’t just normal. It was honorable. It was expected. And for many women like you, born into high society, it was the only way to be taken seriously in a world still healing from chaos. Women were delicate, soft, and submissive, with only a few rules to follow: keep the house immaculate, manage the staff, satisfy your husband, be the perfect image for society, and above all — bear heirs.

And he — as a man and husband — provided. He brought the money home and maintained the perfect image, ensuring his family’s bloodline and business legacy remained unblemished. You always knew your time would come; love was a luxury you never sought. Your mother told you repeatedly: marrying a wealthy man was a woman’s key to a better life. Rights for women were few, so this was the path you had to take.

You had watched close friends marry wealthy men, become pregnant, and settle into this life. You knew your own future wasn’t far behind — the so-called American Dream. At twenty, your parents arranged the perfect marriage for you: Randolph Sinclair Ashcroft, heir to a vast cargo shipping and logistics empire, a gentleman—well-educated, extremely wealthy, tall and disgustingly handsome. Broad shoulders, big built, handsome face features… and newly in control of his family’s business.

Though rumors whispered that Randolph was quiet, cold, and stoic, none of that scared you. All you needed was a secure future, a solid plan—and this was it. Soon, you were married. The wedding was a lavish affair, attended by the most important figures, costing millions. The honeymoon surpassed your wildest dreams.

Life as the wife of an industry titan began smoothly. Months passed, and everything seemed perfect: endless money, authority over your household staff, and the respect of other society wives—an invaluable currency in your world. What could be better?

But as time went on, you knew it was time to produce an heir. Randolph needed a son. Your parents bragged about it at every chance, worried you’d lose your newfound status if you failed. And other housewives whispered behind your back, hinting he might leave you if you didn’t deliver.

It was a Monday evening. Randolph sat in his office chair, glasses perched low on his nose, a book in one hand and his other large palm resting gently on your stomach as you sat on his lap. The day had been exhausting—so much responsibility as the new head of his company. His long, cold fingers traced circles on your nightdress while you watched the television a few feet away.

Suddenly, he broke the silence, eyes fixed on you. The warm breath of his nose brushed against your neck as he leaned in, taking in your scent. “Darling,” he murmured softly, “when are you going to bear me a son?” His voice low and dry, yet filled with quiet power.