My Contract Husband and His Jealousy

Dianna's POV

“I want to see you married before I die.”

The words were spoken gently, almost absentmindedly, as if my grandmother had casually asked me to pass the salt.

Unfortunately, she said it while lying in a hospital bed.

Which made pretending I hadn’t heard her a little difficult. And by a little, I meant morally unforgivable and guaranteed to haunt me for the rest of my life.

I set the bouquet of lilies on the table beside her bed and adjusted the wrapping paper carefully, using the extra seconds to prepare myself.

Because when Lianna Beaumont, my grandmother, made a statement like that, it was never just a statement.

It was the opening move of a very intentional battle.

“Grandma,” I said patiently, “you’re not dying.”

“That’s what doctors always say.”

Her voice was calm, far too calm for someone discussing her own mortality.

Her eyes remained fixed on the television mounted across the room, where two actors were dramatically arguing about a stolen baby.

“They say it until suddenly...” she lifted two fingers weakly and snapped them together, “...poof.”

“Grandmaaa...”

She finally turned her head to look at me.

At eighty-two, my grandma was smaller than I remembered. The hospital blankets swallowed her thin frame, and the oxygen tube beneath her nose made her look fragile in a way that felt deeply unsettling.

Fragile was not a word anyone had ever used to describe my grandmother.

This was a woman who had turned a struggling textile shop into a multinational company.

A woman who once negotiated a business deal while the other party was actively trying to insult her.

A woman who fired a board member in the middle of a charity gala and then calmly finished her dessert while the entire room sat in stunned silence.

Fragile was not in her vocabulary.

And yet here she was.

In a hospital bed.

Looking smaller than the person who had raised me.

“You’re thirty,” she said.

“That’s not old.”

“You’re unmarried.”

“That’s not illegal.”

“And,” she added, narrowing her sharp eyes, “you’ve never brought a man home.”

“That’s called having standards.”

She gave me a long, unimpressed look.

It was the same look she used to give incompetent executives during board meetings.

“I am serious, Dianna.”

“So am I, grandma.”

I pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, crossing my arms.

The chair squeaked loudly, which felt like a betrayal. The dramatic tension in the room was already high enough without the furniture contributing.

“You know why I don’t date,” I said.

“Yes,” she said immediately. “Because you’re stubborn.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

I sighed.

Dating, in theory, sounded simple.

In reality, it was exhausting.

Men heard the name Beaumont and suddenly developed incredible personalities. They were charming. Attentive. Ambitious. Deeply fascinated by my opinions on business strategy and global investments.

It was honestly impressive.

Almost theatrical.

Unfortunately, the performance usually ended the moment they realized I wasn’t interested in discussing mergers during dinner.

Or introducing them to people who could improve their careers.

Or being impressed by the fact that they owned three watches and a vague sense of confidence.

Suddenly, the charm evaporated.

It was like watching a magician reveal his own trick.

“You’re overthinking things,” Grandma said.

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re thirty.”

“Yes, I’ve been informed. For the second time today.” I chuckled.

“You should be in love.”

“I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Living.”

She hummed thoughtfully.

“Living,” she said slowly, “is better with a husband.”

“That’s debatable.”

She studied my face carefully.

It was her usual stare that made people confess things they hadn’t even done yet.

“You’re afraid,” she said.

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are.”

“I’m cautious.”

“That’s just fear wearing a nicer dress.”

I frowned.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

She shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing for a moment before settling again.

The movement made the machines beside her beep softly, and I immediately leaned forward.

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes,” she said.

My eyes narrowed instantly.

“What?”

“A husband for my granddaughter.”

I leaned back slowly.

There it was.

The real agenda.

I should have known the conversation would eventually circle back to this.

Grandma had been hinting about marriage since I turned twenty-eight. At the time, I assumed she was joking.

Apparently, she had just been warming up.

“It’s a reasonable request,” she added.

“It’s emotional blackmail.”

But she ignored that completely.

“When I close my eyes for the last time,” she said calmly, “I want to know you won’t be alone.”

“I won’t be alone.”

“You live alone.”

“I enjoy peace and quiet.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The television continued its dramatic shouting match while a nurse passed quietly in the hallway.

Grandma reached out and patted my hand.

Her fingers were cool and light, but the gesture carried the same gentle authority she had always possessed.

“I built everything for this family,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“And you,” she continued, squeezing my hand gently, “are the only Beaumont left after me afteryour parents died.”

A tight knot formed in my chest.

I hated when she said things like that.

Because she said them so simply.

“I’m not asking for grandchildren,” she added.

“That’s comforting.” I smiled.

“I’m not even asking for love.”

“...That’s slightly less comforting.”

“I’m asking for a husband.”

“What, you just want me to grab a stranger?”

“If necessary.”

I stared at her.

“You can’t be serious.”

She lifted one eyebrow.

That was the Beaumont look.

The one that meant negotiations were already over.

“Grandma…”

“It’s my last wish.”

And there it was.

The ultimate weapon.

The emotional equivalent of dropping a grand piano on someone during an argument.

I groaned and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I raised you well.”

“I can’t just walk outside and pick up a husband.”

“You’re rich. Beautiful. Educated.”

“Flattery will not solve this.”

“You could find a husband by next week if you tried.”

“I don’t want a husband by next week.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

I dragged a hand down my face.

Somewhere in the world, there was probably a perfectly reasonable man willing to marry a stranger for purely practical reasons.

Unfortunately, I had not met him.

Yet.

And something told me that when I finally did…

He would be the exact kind of man capable of turning my peaceful, predictable life into absolute chaos.

Grandma patted my hand again and closed her eyes, looking completely satisfied with herself.

“Just a husband,” she murmured.

“Grandma...”

“Respectable.”

“That narrows it down to about twelve men in the entire city.”

“Beaumont standards.”

I watched her for a moment as her breathing slowly evened out.

The room grew quiet and I shook my head.

As if husbands could be found the same way people found taxis.

So I stood slowly and grabbed my bag.

“Well,” I muttered to myself as I headed toward the door, “how hard could it possibly be?”

"Be well grandma, I'll be back next week and bring you a husband."