The Billionaire's Favourite Indulgence.

Emily Parker believed in only three things.

Money.

Comfort.

Freedom.

Everything else-love, ambition, legacy, passion-fell somewhere between optional and exhausting.

At ten forty-seven in the morning, Emily lay sprawled across her queen-sized bed like a woman who had successfully opted out of society. One leg was tangled in her duvet, the other hanging off the edge. Her phone rested precariously on her stomach, screen glowing with unread notifications she had no intention of opening.

Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, illuminating dust motes and the quiet chaos of her apartment: discarded clothes on a chair, empty takeaway containers stacked with artistic neglect, a laptop perched open on her bedside table, paused mid-sentence on a document titled:

"Chapter 214 – The Duke's Possession."

A line blinked patiently at the end of the paragraph.

Emily squinted at it.

"Ugh," she muttered, rolling onto her side. "You're so clingy."

The document, unoffended, continued blinking.

She reached out, tapped her laptop awake, and reread the last sentence she'd written the night before:

He pressed her against the marble wall, his voice low and dangerous. 'You're mine,' he said, as if the world itself would shatter should she dare to disagree.

Emily snorted.

"Liar," she said, typing effortlessly.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

She smiled lazily. 'Then prove it,' she whispered, already bored.

Satisfied, Emily saved the document, closed the laptop, and tossed it aside.

Her job-if it could be called that-was done for the day.

She had written exactly two thousand words in under an hour. Violent, obsessive, emotionally intense words. Words that made strangers stay up until three in the morning, clutching their phones, breathless and desperate for more.

Emily herself felt none of it.

She stretched, yawning, and checked her banking app.

The number on the screen made her smile.

Not a big smile. Not a dramatic one.

Just the quiet, deeply satisfied smile of a woman whose rent was paid six months in advance and whose fridge could be restocked at will.

Money.

Her pen name-E.P. Vale-was currently ranking in the top twenty of the platform's adult romance category. No profile picture. No interviews. No fan interactions.

Emily Parker did not exist online.

And that was exactly how she liked it.

She rolled out of bed, shuffled into the bathroom, and brushed her teeth while scrolling through reader comments with one eye half-open.

- Author is insane.

- Why is the male lead so possessive??

- This isn't romance, this is obsession!

- I love it.

Emily spat toothpaste into the sink.

"If only you knew," she said to her reflection, hair a mess, eyes dull with sleep. "I'd block him in real life."

She rinsed her mouth and glanced at herself more critically.

Emily Parker was... unremarkable.

Not ugly. Not stunning. The kind of woman who disappeared in crowds and was remembered vaguely, if at all. Soft features, medium height, perpetually tired eyes. She dressed for comfort, not aesthetics, and owned more oversized sweaters than formal outfits.

She liked it that way.

Attention required maintenance.

Maintenance required effort.

Emily despised effort.

After a long shower and an even longer internal debate about whether pants were truly necessary, Emily settled for loose shorts and an old T-shirt. She padded into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into its emptiness, then closed it again.

"Takeout," she decided, immediately.

She placed an order without hesitation. Cooking was a scam invented by people with time and emotional fulfillment.

While waiting, Emily curled up on the couch and opened a new document.

Personal Philosophy – Updated

She added a new bullet point.

- Marriage is unnecessary unless it directly improves quality of life.

She leaned back, considering it.

In her twenty-four years of living, Emily had never once felt the urge to fall in love.

Crushes were inconvenient.

Dating was awkward.

Relationships were unpaid labor.

Every couple she knew looked perpetually tired. They argued about chores, finances, emotions-things Emily simply... opted out of.

Why share a bed when you could have the whole thing?

Why compromise when you could be alone?

Freedom.

Her phone buzzed.

Aunt Lin: Emily. We need to talk.

Emily's spine stiffened.

She stared at the message for a long moment, then flipped her phone face down.

"No, we don't," she murmured.

Her aunt had a talent for appearing at the exact moment Emily's life was going smoothly.

The doorbell rang.

Emily groaned.

"Wrong timing," she said to the universe, dragging herself up to answer it.

The delivery guy handed her food with a polite smile. She thanked him, shut the door, and leaned against it, relief washing over her.

False alarm.

She carried the bag to the table, unpacked it with reverence, and sat down cross-legged. Chopsticks in hand, she took her first bite-and froze.

Her phone buzzed again.

Aunt Lin: I'm coming to the city.

Emily swallowed hard.

The food suddenly tasted like cardboard.

Her aunt was not a casual visitor.

Aunt Lin was a force of nature.

She was tradition, expectation, and disappointment wrapped in a neat bun and pressed blouses. She believed women peaked at marriage and declined rapidly afterward. She believed laziness was a moral failing. She believed Emily was wasting her life.

Emily typed slowly.

Emily: Why?

The reply came instantly.

Aunt Lin: You're twenty-four. Unmarried. No stable job. Living alone in the city like this.

Emily winced.

She resisted the urge to reply, I'm rich, actually.

Her anonymity was sacred.

Aunt Lin: I've found a good match for you back home. You'll like him.

Emily laughed. Loudly.

"No," she said, to no one.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Emily: I'm busy.

Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

Then reappeared.

Aunt Lin: I'll be there tomorrow.

Emily's laughter died.

Tomorrow.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

Her peaceful, lazy life flashed before her eyes-sleeping in, writing when she felt like it, spending money without explanation, answering to no one.

The countryside meant rules.

Marriage meant responsibility.

Love meant expectations.

Emily shuddered.

"Absolutely not," she whispered.

She stood abruptly, pacing her apartment.

There had to be a solution.

There was always a solution.

Money solved most problems.

Comfort justified most decisions.

And freedom-

Freedom was worth lying for.

Emily stopped pacing.

An idea began to form.

Not a good idea.

But a practical one.

She glanced at her laptop, at the obsessive men she wrote so convincingly, at the marriages she destroyed on paper with ease.

Emily Parker smiled.

"Fine," she said softly. "Let's talk."

Outside, the city hummed on, unaware that Emily's carefully curated life had just developed its first crack.

And somewhere else-far away, behind glass and silence-a man with the surname 'Vale' watched numbers climb on a screen and whispered a name he had never said aloud.

Emily Parker.

She had no idea.

And that, for now, was exactly how fate preferred it.

​

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.

​