The Billionaire's Favourite Indulgence.

"He has a boat, Wren."

"Everyone in Scotland has a boat."

"Not a 'rowing' boat. A boat with a name. He named it after his mother, which means he's either sweet or deeply disturbed, and I'm willing to gamble on sweet."

Wren Tavish pressed her forehead against the cold glass of a shop window on Victoria Street and closed her eyes. Rain ticked off the awning above her. Behind her, across the cobbles, the gold lettering of The Gilded Thistle glowed like a dare.

"Tam. I have flour in my hair."

"You have flour in your hair 'every' day. It's your brand."

"I smell like a caramel factory. I've been up since four. I have a letter from Glaswell Developments on my counter that I've read nine times and understood zero times, and you want me to sit across from an accountant's cousin and discuss his 'boat'."

"Callum is a dentist."

"That's worse. He'll look at my teeth."

"He'll look at your 'face', which is the whole point of a face." A pause, and the rustle of Tamsin rearranging herself on whatever sofa she was sprawled across, being magnificent. "When did you last talk to a man who wasn't a delivery driver or a sourdough starter?"

"The starter's very responsive."

"Wren."

"Mr. Pettigrew from number six says good morning."

"Mr. Pettigrew is eighty-one and tells you about his hip."

"He's 'engaged' with me."

Tamsin laughed, the big shameless laugh that had got them both thrown out of a school assembly in 2010. Then her voice dropped into something gentler, and that was worse.

"Ten years, Wren. You do everything for that bakery. Your mum would've said the same thing."

Wren opened her eyes. The reflection in the glass looked back at her: apron still tied under her raincoat, hair escaping in every direction, a face that hadn't quite decided whether to cry or cheer.

"That's a low blow."

"It's a 'loving' blow. One dinner. If he's dull, you fake a phone call and I'll ring you. If he's lovely, you owe me a lifetime supply of shortbread."

"You already have a lifetime supply of shortbread."

"Then I'll require a second lifetime."

Wren breathed out. Somewhere behind the restaurant's frosted windows a violin was being played by someone who took it seriously.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"One dinner. I'm going in. I'm hanging up. Don't call me."

"I'm calling you in forty minutes."

"'Tamsin.'"

"Love you, bye!"

The line went dead. Wren stared at the screen, then at the restaurant door, then at the screen again. She had, in the last quarter of an hour, walked around this block twice. A third lap would be undignified.

She shoved the phone into her apron pocket, squared her shoulders, and rounded the corner at a speed that could only be described as brave, only to bump into a wall.

But the wall was not a wall.

It was warmer than a wall, for one thing, and it smelled of cedar and rain and something expensive. It also said "'Christ'" in a low, flat voice, and then there was a wet, splattering sound, and Wren looked down to find that the front of a very beautiful charcoal coat was now the colour of a latte.

"Oh, no. Oh, 'no.' I'm so sorry."

The man stepped back. He was tall, and she had to tilt her chin to find his face, and when she did she wished she'd stayed looking at the coat. Dark hair, rain-damp. A jaw that looked like it had been signed off by a committee. Grey eyes with the warmth of a January loch.

He held the empty paper cup between two fingers as though it had personally betrayed him.

"That," he said, "was a flat white."

"It was. It's 'definitely' a flat white. It smells like a very good one." She was already digging in her raincoat for anything absorbent. "I've got a napkin. Somewhere. Here, no, that's a receipt. It's a receipt for icing sugar, sorry, that's not very absorbent-"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters. It's a lovely coat. It's wool, isn't it? Wool's a nightmare, you can't just-" She stopped rummaging. Her hand had brushed something in her apron pocket. She pulled it out, a little square of gold cellophane twisted at both ends, and pressed it into his palm before he could think to refuse.

"What is this?"

"Emergency compensation."

"I don't want-"

"Honey toffee. Made this morning. My mum's recipe, it's basically a hug you can chew, and I know you're annoyed, you have every right, but you'll feel better in about four minutes. Please. I'm so sorry about the coat. I'll pay for the cleaning. Hearth & Honey, Cobbler's Lane, just ask for Wren!"

"Miss-"

"Have a 'lovely' evening!"

The restaurant door was already swinging shut behind her.

Struan Calder stood in the rain with a ruined coat and an empty cup and a small gold parcel resting in his palm.

He looked at it the way he looked at a contract with a clause he hadn't drafted.

'What a disaster.' he thought.

-------

"Good evening, madam. Do you have a reservation?"

The maître d' of The Gilded Thistle had the smooth, faintly startled look of a man who'd recently been reminded who his most important customer was. Wren unwound her scarf and tried, discreetly, to pat down her hair.

"Hi. Yes. It's under Cal. Or Callum, maybe. I'm meeting him, it's a..." She waved a hand. "It's a friend-of-a-friend situation."

"Cal." He consulted the screen. His eyebrows made a small, respectful movement. "Of course. Mr. Calder is already at his table. Right this way."

"Mr. 'Calder'?" Wren frowned. "Sorry, I thought it was Dunmore-"

But he was already gliding away between the tables, and she followed, because that seemed to be what one did in a room this lit and this hushed.

He was seated at the far end, in the corner table with the view of the whole restaurant and the wall at his back. The man stood as she approached. It was the 'manners' of standing, not the pleasure.

Wren stopped so abruptly that the maître d' nearly walked on without her.

"You," she said.

"You?" said the man, raising an eyebrow in confusion and displeasure.

"The wall!"

"Seems I got a new name."

"Wow.'" Her whole face lit up, as if somebody had opened a window in it. "What are the chances. I ruined your shirt, and now we're here again. Tamsin is so going to lose her 'mind.' Do you know how rare this is? Do you know what the odds are?"

"Roughly one in the number of tables in this restaurant."

"It's 'fate.'"

The man's forehead wrinkled at that word. "I'd rather believe It's a seating error."

"That," said Wren, sliding into the chair before he'd finished the sentence, "is what fate wants you to think."

The maître d' murmured something about menus and evaporated. Struan Calder sat back down with the wariness of a man who has just noticed that the floor plan has changed.

He had taken off the coat. Underneath, the suit was black and immaculate. On the tablecloth beside his water glass lay a small gold square of cellophane, unopened.

Wren noticed it at once and beamed at it. "You kept it."

"Would you prefer I throw it away?"

"You could 'eat' it."

"I don't eat sweets."

"You don't-" She stared at him. "At all?"

"No."

"What about at Christmas?"

"No."

"Birthdays?"

"No."

"Do you have a 'soul'?"

The faintest movement occurred at the corner of his mouth. It vanished so quickly that she might have imagined it. "That is beyond the scope of the evening."

She laughed. It was too big for the room, and two women at the next table glanced over, and Struan's eyes flicked to them with the mild threat of a man who had never once been laughed at in public and wasn't sure what to do about it.

"Right," she said, still grinning. "Introductions. I'm Wren. Wren Tavish. Hearth & Honey, the bakery on Cobbler's Lane, the one with the blue door, you must've walked past it, everyone walks past it, it's a very 'walk-past' kind of lane."

Something crossed his face, then. It was small, and it was gone.

"Tavish," he repeated.

"Do you know it?"

"No."

The word arrived a fraction too quickly. Wren, who had spent ten years reading customers across a counter, tilted her head. But then he added, "Struan Calder," and offered nothing more, and her curiosity slid off him like rain off a slate roof.

"Struan," she said, trying it out. "That's a good name. It sounds like something you'd find at the bottom of a whisky barrel."

"That's not entirely inaccurate."

"So what do you do, Struan Calder? Tamsin said dentist, but you don't have the hands for it. Too steady. Dentists have jumpy hands, it's all the caffeine."

"I don't have a-" He paused. Something in his expression recalculated. "Your friend told you what I do?"

"She told me you have a boat."

"I don't have a boat."

"You don't?" Wren's face fell, comically. "She said it was named after your mother."

"My mother is alive and lives in Perth. She'd be appalled."

"Then who-" She stopped. Her eyes widened. "Oh, no."

"Yes?"

"Oh, I think we have a problem."

"I suspect we have several."

"You're 'not' Callum."

"I am not."

"You're not a dentist."

"I run a distillery group."

"And this isn't a blind date."

A beat.

"Miss Tavish," said Struan Calder, with the grave patience of a man addressing a child who had just set fire to something, "I was expecting my lawyer."

"Your lawyer." Wren pressed her hands over her mouth. Her shoulders started to shake. "I sat down at a stranger's table and told him about the bakery 'and' his soul."

"Briefly."

"I'm so sorry. I'll go. I'll just, I'll find Callum, he's probably at the bar looking for a woman with flour in her hair-"

"Sit down."

It wasn't a request. It wasn't quite an order either. It was the voice of a man who had never had to decide the difference.

Wren, to her own surprise, sat.

"The maître d' will straighten it out," Struan said. "He's already seen the error. It would be more efficient if you waited than if the two of us walked through a full dining room announcing it."

"That's a very sensible way to be embarrassed."

"I've had practice."

"At being embarrassed?"

"At being efficient."

She was laughing again, quietly this time, when his phone buzzed against the table.

He glanced at it, and she watched a very odd thing happen. It began the way anyone's face begins when they check a message: a small dip of the eyes, a slight frown. But the frown did not settle. It froze. The colour went out of his knuckles, though he hadn't moved his hand.

"Is everything all right?"

"Fine."

"You look like somebody's died."

"Nobody has died," said Struan Calder, and read the message a second time.

It was from Crispin Voss. Crispin, who had booked this table, who was already forty minutes late, who had not, apparently, been coming at all.

'Sorry, can't make dinner. Your grandfather has amended the succession agreement. The clause has been triggered. You have three months. Find a wife.'

A pause.

Then, beneath it, as if the previous three sentences had not been sufficient cruelty:

'He says he'll know if it's fake.'

Struan set the phone face down on the tablecloth, very gently, as one lays down a weapon.

Across from him, Wren Tavish had picked up the menu and was reading it upside down, giving a small delighted gasp at the description of the venison. There was a smear of flour along her cheekbone. A curl had escaped whatever she'd used to tie her hair, and she blew it out of her eyes without embarrassment. She looked up, caught him looking, and smiled at him with the unguarded, entirely unearned warmth of a woman who believed the universe was, on balance, kind.

'This can't be happening,' Struan thought. 'Chatter. Flour. A bakery with a blue door.'

'A woman who apologises with sweets.'

But as he looked at the little gold square beside his water glass, then at her again, he sighed, with genuine horror:

'This is going to be a nightmare.'​

Emily Parker had exactly one rule when it came to her aunt.

Never underestimate her.

At six thirty the next morning, Emily stood in her kitchen holding a mug of instant coffee she didn't remember making, staring at her front door like it might explode.

She had slept badly.

Not because of nightmares-Emily didn't suffer from such dramatic things-but because her brain had spent the entire night running calculations.

How long could she stall?

What excuses were still usable?

Was faking her own death excessive, or merely inconvenient?

Her phone vibrated on the counter.

Aunt Lin: I'm downstairs.

Emily choked on her coffee.

"Already?" she croaked.

She glanced at the time.

6:31 a.m.

Of course.

Aunt Lin believed mornings were morally superior.

Emily rushed to her bedroom, threw on the least offensive outfit she owned-loose jeans, a neutral sweater, hair hastily tied back-and did a quick scan of the apartment.

Too late to clean.

She opened the door anyway.

Aunt Lin swept in like a cold front.

She was petite, straight-backed, and impeccably dressed in pressed slacks and a cardigan despite the early hour. Her hair was neatly pinned, her gaze sharp and assessing as it moved through the apartment in one smooth sweep.

Her mouth tightened.

"So this is how you live," she said.

Emily smiled weakly. "Good morning to you too."

Aunt Lin stepped fully inside, setting her suitcase down with deliberate care.

"No husband," she said, glancing around. "No structure. No discipline."

Emily closed the door behind her. "I have a job."

Aunt Lin turned.

Her eyes were piercing. "Writing nonsense online is not a job."

Emily bit back a reply.

Arguing facts with Aunt Lin was like arguing with weather.

Aunt Lin removed her coat, folded it neatly, and draped it over the back of a chair Emily hadn't used in months.

"How much do you make?" Aunt Lin asked.

Emily froze.

"Enough," she said carefully.

Aunt Lin sniffed. "Enough for takeout and laziness."

She walked toward the kitchen, opened the fridge without asking, and frowned at the emptiness.

"No groceries."

"I eat out."

Aunt Lin closed the fridge with quiet judgment. "That's wasteful."

Emily resisted the urge to point out that she could afford waste.

Instead, she poured her aunt a cup of coffee, hoping caffeine might soften her.

It didn't.

They sat across from each other at the small dining table. Emily slouched. Aunt Lin sat straight-backed, hands folded.

"You're twenty-four," Aunt Lin said.

Emily nodded. "I know."

"At your age, I already had responsibilities."

Emily waited.

"No husband. No children. No plan."

"I have a plan," Emily said.

Aunt Lin raised an eyebrow. "Name it."

Emily opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Sleeping in until noon and writing emotionally damaged men was not a plan that would survive this interrogation.

Aunt Lin sighed, as if deeply disappointed-but unsurprised.

"I spoke to the matchmaker in town," she said.

Emily's heart dropped.

"There's a good man," Aunt Lin continued. "Stable family. Owns land. Hardworking."

Emily imagined mud. Silence. Expectations.

"No," she said immediately.

Aunt Lin's eyes hardened.

"You will come home," she said. "At the end of this month."

Emily's fingers curled into her lap.

"And you will meet him."

Emily leaned forward. "Aunt Lin, listen-"

"No," Aunt Lin said calmly. "You listen."

She reached into her bag and placed a folded document on the table.

A bus schedule.

Emily stared at it like it was a death sentence.

"I already bought the ticket," Aunt Lin said. "One-way."

Emily laughed, a little hysterically. "You can't force me."

Aunt Lin met her gaze.

"I raised you after your parents died," she said quietly. "I can do whatever I think is best."

The words landed heavier than a shout.

Emily swallowed.

This was the problem with Aunt Lin.

She didn't argue.

She decided.

"I won't go," Emily said, more softly now.

Aunt Lin studied her.

"You're afraid," she said.

"No," Emily replied instantly. "I'm practical."

"Marriage gives stability."

"Marriage gives chores," Emily shot back.

Aunt Lin frowned. "You speak like a child."

Emily leaned back, crossing her arms. "I don't want love. I don't want kids. I don't want to manage someone else's feelings."

A pause.

Aunt Lin's expression changed.

Not anger.

Concern.

"That's not normal," she said.

Emily smiled thinly. "It's efficient."

Aunt Lin stood abruptly.

"Pack your things," she said. "You have three weeks."

Emily stood too. "No."

Aunt Lin turned back, eyes sharp.

"Unless," she added, "you have a husband."

Silence.

Emily blinked. "What?"

Aunt Lin folded her arms. "Produce one. Three months. If you are married, I won't interfere."

Emily stared at her.

Three months.

A husband.

Her brain raced.

Impossible.

"Otherwise," Aunt Lin continued, "you return home and accept the match."

Emily laughed again, breathless. "That's ridiculous."

Aunt Lin picked up her suitcase. "Life is ridiculous. Marriage is inevitable."

She paused at the door.

"You always choose the easy path," Aunt Lin said. "This time, choose correctly."

The door closed.

Emily stood frozen in the silence that followed.

Then she collapsed onto a chair.

Three months.

A husband.

She pressed her palms to her face.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Her phone buzzed.

A new comment notification from her novel.

- If he doesn't marry her, I'll riot.

Emily stared at the screen.

Slowly.

An idea began to form.

She leaned back, exhaling.

"Marriage," she murmured. "Fine."

If marriage was inevitable...

Then she would make it painless.

Cheap.

Temporary.

And entirely on her terms.

Emily Parker smiled.

She had three months.

And she intended to cheat fate.

​

Emily Parker had officially decided that humans were exhausting.

More specifically, men were exhausting.

It was Tuesday morning. She had rolled out of bed at precisely eleven-fifteen, snoozed her alarm twice, and dressed in her usual uniform of comfort: oversized hoodie, leggings, and fuzzy socks. Hair thrown into a messy bun, a pair of sunglasses perched on her head like a shield against the world. She looked ready to face anything-except human interaction.

But Aunt Lin's ultimatum rang in her ears like a relentless drum: Three months. A husband. Or back to the countryside.

Emily's fingers hovered over her phone. She had downloaded every dating app imaginable, though not because she wanted love. No. Because she had no choice. Survival, after all, demanded strategy.

Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.

The first profile she lingered on was a man holding a dog. Cute. Decent jawline. Teeth suspiciously white.

Emily swiped right out of habit.

Immediately, a match notification popped up.

Great. First disaster incoming.

A message appeared instantly: Hi Emily! I love dogs too! Want to grab coffee?

Emily groaned. "Oh no."

She typed carefully: I... um... have a very busy week.

Busy, huh? How about tomorrow? the reply came.

Emily stared at the screen. Tomorrow. Tomorrow meant commitment. Commitment meant leaving her apartment. Exposing herself to conversation. Emotional labor. Unacceptable.

She typed, deleted, typed again: Can we... text first?

And just like that, she had entered the first battlefield of modern dating.

Coffee. She decided on coffee as a neutral meeting ground. Not a date. A reconnaissance mission. Very different.

The café was bright and overdecorated, with plants strategically placed to look natural but really to guilt customers into buying overpriced drinks. Emily sat at a corner table, scrolling through her phone, pretending to read the menu.

Enter Disaster #1.

Tall, athletic, slightly sweaty man approached. His handshake was firm, his smile too wide. "Emily! So glad we could meet in person!"

Emily blinked. "Yes. In person. Wow."

The conversation began awkwardly. He talked about his job at length. Emily nodded politely, sipping her latte, mentally calculating how many hours she would have to invest to survive this encounter.

He leaned in. "So, you write romance novels?"

Emily froze. Heart racing-not from attraction, but from the exposure.

"Yes," she said carefully. "Under a pen name."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Which one?"

Emily mumbled something vague, hoping he'd forget.

He didn't. He proceeded to talk about his favorite authors, then tried to explain why her plot devices were unrealistic.

Emily's soul wept quietly behind her iced coffee.

She excused herself mid-sentence, claiming an urgent bathroom need. She ran, not walked, out of the café and straight back to her apartment. Her legs ached, but not as much as her patience.

Disaster #2 arrived two days later. This one was an accountant with a nervous smile and hands that shook when he held them together.

He liked spreadsheets. He brought printouts. Emily stared at them like they were alien maps.

"Here's our financial compatibility chart," he said proudly. "I analyzed your credit reports and... well, I think we're a 73% match."

Emily blinked. "A chart?"

"Yes!" he beamed. "I can explain all the formulas. Look, the variance is minimal, so..."

Emily excused herself immediately. This one had the potential to put her into a coma from boredom.

Blind dates, as Emily discovered, were either:

Men who loved dogs, spreadsheets, or kale smoothies and talked endlessly, or

Men who assumed she would do all the talking, then gaslit her for being too sarcastic.

Emily's conclusion: dating was a scam.

She returned home each night, exhausted, only to order takeout and collapse into her couch, thinking about the aunt's ultimatum. Three months. A husband. Three months.

It was on the fourth attempt that Emily had a minor breakthrough. She realized she could use this as an experiment.

Each man was a test subject. Each interaction was data collection.

She made a list in her notebook:

Disaster #1: Too verbose. Avoid.

Disaster #2: Too analytical. Avoid.

Disaster #3: Too arrogant. Avoid.

Disaster #4: Slightly interesting. Maybe... still avoid.

By the fifth man, she had honed her technique. Smile, nod, answer questions minimally, extract necessary information, retreat gracefully.

She had managed to survive five dates in one week, a personal record.

That night, Emily sat cross-legged on her couch, taking notes like a scientist studying an alien species.

Observation: Men are predictable. They all think they are unique. They all overestimate their charm. Emotional labor is exponential, proportional to effort invested. Conclusion: Avoid humans. Especially men.

Her phone buzzed.

A new comment on her latest novel: Why won't he just marry her already??

Emily laughed softly. She was dealing with something far worse than her characters: reality.

She realized, slowly, that she needed a plan. Not just any plan.

A husband. Efficient. Temporary. Disposable. Perfect.

She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

And an idea, dangerous and wonderful, began to form.

​