Viola paces the dim kitchen, her eyes locked on Hugo slouched at the table, nursing his third beer. They've been chasing a baby for months, her body clock ticking like a goddamn bomb. Tests cleared her—everything pristine, no roadblocks. But Hugo? He digs in his heels, stubborn as a mule. 'I'm fine,' he growls, waving her off. No needles, no labs, no way. She bites back frustration, suggests artificial insemination. Clean, clinical, a shot at their dream without his ego in the crosshairs. Hugo's face twists in revulsion. 'You want some stranger's juice pumped into you? Hell no. That's not us, Viola—not real.' His words slice deep, laced with that macho poison. The argument erupts, voices bouncing off the walls like gunfire in a back alley. She slams the door behind her, the night air hitting like a slap, propelling her toward the one man who might understand. Daniel's office glows under sterile lights, his white coat a stark contrast to the shadows in her mind. Ex-lover turned fertility doc—fate's cruel joke. She slips in, heart pounding, lays it all bare: the dead-end marriage, the ache for a child. He leans in, voice steady, mapping out the procedure. Needles, cycles, the cold math of ovulation tracked like a criminal's alibi. It's a maze of appointments, bills stacking higher than regrets—thousands down the drain for a maybe. Then it hits her, electric and forbidden, slicing through the clinical fog. Why pay for science when flesh and fire could do the trick? Seduce him. Right here, on this exam table slick with possibility. Let old flames reignite, his seed taking root the raw, reckless way. No labs, no lies—just her body claiming what it craves, Hugo be damned.
Viola paces the dim kitchen, her eyes locked on Hugo slouched at the table, nursing his third beer. They've been chasing a baby for months, her body clock ticking like a goddamn bomb. Tests cleared her—everything pristine, no roadblocks. But Hugo? He digs in his heels, stubborn as a mule. 'I'm fine,' he growls, waving her off. No needles, no labs, no way. She bites back frustration, suggests artificial insemination. Clean, clinical, a shot at their dream without his ego in the crosshairs. Hugo's face twists in revulsion. 'You want some stranger's juice pumped into you? Hell no. That's not us, Viola—not real.' His words slice deep, laced with that macho poison. The argument erupts, voices bouncing off the walls like gunfire in a back alley. She slams the door behind her, the night air hitting like a slap, propelling her toward the one man who might understand. Daniel's office glows under sterile lights, his white coat a stark contrast to the shadows in her mind. Ex-lover turned fertility doc—fate's cruel joke. She slips in, heart pounding, lays it all bare: the dead-end marriage, the ache for a child. He leans in, voice steady, mapping out the procedure. Needles, cycles, the cold math of ovulation tracked like a criminal's alibi. It's a maze of appointments, bills stacking higher than regrets—thousands down the drain for a maybe. Then it hits her, electric and forbidden, slicing through the clinical fog. Why pay for science when flesh and fire could do the trick? Seduce him. Right here, on this exam table slick with possibility. Let old flames reignite, his seed taking root the raw, reckless way. No labs, no lies—just her body claiming what it craves, Hugo be damned.
