The Mind-Reading CEO's Emotionless Contract Wife

The headache was the first thing she registered. A sharp, splitting pain behind her eyes, as if a server was crashing and rebooting inside her skull.

Red error codes flickered across her vision, faint and translucent against the silk canopy of a four-poster bed. `[CRITICAL_FAILURE: USER_DATA_CORRUPTED]`.

Jazmin blinked, and the codes vanished.

She was in a bedroom. Not her small apartment with the worn-out couch and the lingering smell of instant noodles, but a vast, opulent space that smelled of money and gardenias. White marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glittering cityscape, a walk-in closet the size of her entire living room.

A string of words, alien yet familiar, echoed in the silent space of her mind: Legacy of Ruin: The Garretts' Contract Wife. It felt like a title, a designation for the bizarre reality she had woken up in. The headache pulsed again, a system warning against probing too deeply. All she knew for certain was that this place was a cage, and the raw, unfamiliar power humming beneath her skin was the key.

The sound of the shower cut off from the adjoining bathroom. A moment later, Adrian Garrett walked out, a white towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets traced paths down his perfectly sculpted abs. He was exactly as the fragmented memory had rendered him: devastatingly handsome and radiating a chilling arrogance.

His eyes, the color of cold steel, landed on her. There was no warmth, only disdain.

"Finally awake?" he drawled.

He crossed the room, his bare feet silent on the marble. He wasn't walking toward her, but toward a mahogany desk. He picked up a sheaf of papers and tossed them onto the bed. They scattered across the silk duvet, one of the sharp edges slicing a thin, white line across her cheek. Strangely, no blood welled up, as if her skin were made of something other than flesh.

"Sign it," he commanded. The words were clipped, devoid of emotion. "It's the divorce agreement."

Jazmin didn't flinch. She picked up a page. Her eyes scanned the text, not with the horror of a spurned wife, but with the detached focus of a tester reviewing a spec sheet.

Division of Assets: Zero.

Alimony: Zero.

Penalty for Breach of Marital Contract: Ten Million Dollars.

"You get nothing," Adrian said, as if reading her mind. He walked to his closet, pulling out a tailored suit. "Melody is the one I love. She deserves everything. You were just a placeholder, a pretty piece of furniture my grandmother insisted on."

Jazmin's fingers tightened on the paper. A strange sound, a low creak like stressed metal, echoed from her knuckles. Her bones felt... dense. Different.

A new notification glowed in the corner of her vision.

`[ABNORMAL_PHYSICAL_PARAMETERS: LOADED 100%]`

She pushed herself up from the bed. The movement was too powerful. The solid oak nightstand beside the bed scraped against the floor and toppled over with a heavy crash, a crystal lamp shattering into a thousand pieces.

Adrian whipped around, his face a mask of fury. "What the hell is wrong with you? Having another one of your fits?"

Jazmin ignored him. She started walking toward him, her steps feeling unnaturally heavy. The plush carpet compressed under her feet, the fibers sinking deep as if she weighed a thousand pounds.

Something in her dead-eyed calm must have finally registered. Adrian took an instinctive step back, his bare back hitting the cold wood of the wardrobe door.

He resorted to his usual tactic. He lunged forward, his hand reaching for her throat, his face twisting into a familiar sneer. It was a move meant to intimidate, to remind her of her place.

Jazmin didn't even try to dodge.

His fingers closed around her neck. She felt... nothing. A faint pressure, like a mosquito landing on her skin. It was pathetic.

She lifted her right hand, her movements fluid and precise. Her fingers, which he once called delicate and perfect for wearing his diamonds, closed around his wrist.

A scream tore from Adrian's throat. It was a raw, agonized sound. His face, once smug, contorted in pure, unadulterated pain.

Her grip was like a vise of steel.

"You're hurting me," he gasped, his voice tight with shock and agony.

Jazmin's expression remained unchanged. She looked at his hand on her neck, then back at his face, as if observing a curious insect. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tossed him aside.

Like he was a bag of trash.

Adrian flew across the room. The sound of his body hitting the floor-to-ceiling window was a sickening crunch, followed by the explosive shatter of tempered glass. He landed in a heap on the outdoor terrace, shards of glass raining down around him.

Blood began to trickle from a gash on his forehead. He stared at her, his eyes wide with a terror she had never seen there before. It was the terror of a predator who had just realized it was prey.

Jazmin stepped over the threshold, her bare feet crunching on the broken glass. She didn't feel a thing. She walked over to him, her shadow falling over his prone body. She planted her foot directly on the chest of his thousand-dollar custom suit.

"The protagonist template's damage resistance is surprisingly low," she murmured, the technical jargon sounding like nonsense.

Adrian didn't understand the words, but he understood the chilling emptiness in her eyes. He scrambled backward, crab-walking away from her, his limbs trembling.

Jazmin raised her right fist. The air seemed to whistle as it cut through the space between them.

Then came the dull, wet thud of bone breaking.

Adrian let out one last, gurgling cry before his eyes rolled back in his head. His left cheek swelled instantly, a grotesque purple bloom on his perfect face.

The bedroom door burst open.

Arthur, the family's long-serving butler, stood frozen in the doorway. A silver tray carrying a teapot and a single cup was in his hands. His eyes widened in horror as he took in the scene: the shattered window, the blood, and his young mistress standing over the unconscious, brutalized body of his master.

The tray slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the marble floor.

Jazmin slowly turned her head to look at him. She calmly wiped a smear of Adrian's blood from her knuckles onto her silk pajama pants.

"Call an ambulance," she said, her voice as cold and flat as a dial tone. "Or a coroner. Your choice."

Jazmin left the penthouse wearing a black trench coat and a pair of sunglasses that hid her unnervingly calm eyes. The knuckles on her right hand were slightly bruised, the only visible sign of the morning's violence.

Two of the Garrett family's private security guards, men built like refrigerators, moved to block her path at the private elevator.

"Mrs. Garrett, Arthur has instructed that you are to remain in the residence."

Jazmin didn't break her stride. She just looked at them, her gaze lingering for a half-second on the blood that was still dried under her fingernails.

The guards flinched and took a simultaneous step back, clearing her path.

She drove Adrian's ridiculously expensive sports car, the engine a low growl in the Manhattan traffic. She didn't go to the nearest hospital. She went to the discreet, ultra-exclusive private clinic on the Upper East Side that the Garretts used for all their... sensitive medical needs.

She found Carlene Garrett in the VIP wing's waiting area. Dressed in a Chanel suit that probably cost more than a car, Adrian's mother was screaming at a terrified nurse.

"What do you mean you can't give him more morphine? Do you know who my son is?"

Then she saw Jazmin. Her perfectly made-up face contorted into a mask of rage.

"You!" Carlene shrieked, her voice echoing in the sterile hallway. She stormed toward Jazmin, her hand raised, nails like claws aimed for Jazmin's face.

Jazmin simply tilted her head to the side. The slap missed entirely. As Carlene's arm swung past, Jazmin caught her wrist. She applied the slightest pressure, twisting it backward.

A high-pitched scream of pain ripped from Carlene's throat. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, her expensive suit crumpling around her.

Jazmin leaned down, her lips close to Carlene's ear, her voice a low whisper only they could hear. A flicker of data, crisp and clear, surfaced in her mind-a character file. "What a useful database," she thought, before speaking the words aloud. "Melody Vance. Apartment 15B at the Olympia Tower. Paid for with a wire transfer from the Garrett family trust three months ago. I have the receipts."

The color drained from Carlene's face. She hated Adrian's affairs, but what she feared more than anything was a public scandal. The thought of her friends in the charity circle whispering about her son being duped by a gold-digger was more painful to her than any physical threat.

Jazmin released her wrist. She pulled a folded document from her trench coat pocket-a new divorce agreement-and dropped it onto Carlene's pristine Hermès bag.

"The downtown penthouse, thirty percent of the liquid assets, and a one-time alimony payment. The number is on the last page," Jazmin said coolly.

"This is robbery!" Carlene hissed, cradling her wrist.

Jazmin smiled, a cold, empty thing. She pulled out her phone and showed Carlene the screen. It was a crystal-clear security still of Adrian and Melody, tangled together in a hotel elevator, dated from a week ago.

"You have five minutes to get his signature. After that, this photo goes to the New York Post. I hear their gossip column pays well."

Just then, the door to the VIP suite opened. A nurse pushed a wheelchair out. Slumped in it was Adrian, his head wrapped in bandages, his face a swollen, discolored mess. His eyes, barely visible through the swelling, burned with pure hatred when he saw Jazmin.

Behind the wheelchair, Arthur stood with his head bowed, refusing to meet her gaze.

"You're insane," Adrian rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. "I'll have you committed. You'll die in a padded cell."

Jazmin walked toward him. She gently tapped a finger on the plaster cast covering his shoulder. The touch was light, almost delicate, but it made him recoil as if he'd been burned.

"If you go to jail for assault, Adrian," she said softly, "who will Melody climb into bed with next? Another billionaire? Or maybe just his son?"

The last vestiges of his pride shattered. His whole identity was built on power and control, and she had stripped it all away. He snatched the papers from his mother's lap, his hand trembling violently.

"Adrian, don't!" Carlene pleaded.

Jazmin shot her a look. A silent, glacial warning. Carlene froze.

With a choked sob of fury and humiliation, Adrian scrawled his name on the signature line. The pen nib tore through the paper.

Jazmin plucked the agreement from his lap. She folded it neatly and tucked it into her coat.

She turned to leave.

"Ma'am?" Arthur's voice was tight, strained. "Will you be needing dinner prepared this evening?"

Jazmin paused at the end of the hall. She looked back at the terrified butler, the seething mother, and the broken son.

"No need, Arthur," she corrected him. "I won't be coming back."

Arthur watched her go, his eyes fixed on the way her trench coat moved without a single wrinkle, as if it were draped over a statue. He was certain of it now. The woman who had just left was not Mrs. Garrett. She was something else entirely. A demon wearing his mistress's skin.

Outside, in the car, Jazmin looked at the signed paper. A small, satisfied smile touched her lips.

A notification popped up in her vision.

`[MAIN_QUEST: 'ESCAPE THE MARRIAGE' - PROGRESS: 80%]`

But it was immediately followed by another, flashing in urgent red.

`[WARNING: EXTERNAL HIGH-DIMENSION GAZE DETECTED. HOST COORDINATES ARE BEING LOCKED.]`

Two days later, the annual Garrett Foundation charity gala was held at the family's sprawling estate on Long Island. It was the society event of the season, a grotesque parade of wealth and feigned benevolence.

Jazmin arrived alone, wearing a blood-red gown that clung to her body like a second skin. As she stepped into the grand ballroom, a wave of whispers followed her, a ripple of morbid curiosity. The story of her "psychotic break" and Adrian's "unfortunate accident" had become the most delicious piece of gossip in their circle.

She felt their stares like physical touches, a mixture of fear and excitement.

Then Adrian made his entrance. His face was still bruised, the faint yellow and purple marks artfully concealed with makeup. On his arm was Melody Vance, looking fragile and angelic in a white dress. They were a carefully constructed portrait of victim and savior. He saw Jazmin, and a surge of pure, humiliated rage overwhelmed him. He didn't care about the consequences; he only knew he had to reassert his power, to make her the villain in front of everyone.

Melody, spotting Jazmin, guided Adrian on a path to intercept her. She "accidentally" stumbled, sloshing the contents of her glass of red wine all over her own white gown.

"Oh my god!" Melody cried out, her voice a pitch-perfect imitation of distress. "Jazmin, how could you?"

All eyes turned to them. Adrian immediately stepped in, playing the part of the protective partner.

"That's enough, Jazmin," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. He pulled out a folded report from his jacket pocket. "I didn't want to do this, but you've forced my hand. This is a report from a private investigator. Proof of your infidelity during our marriage."

A collective gasp went through the room. Carlene, standing nearby, fanned the flames. "She's a disgrace! We must nullify the divorce settlement immediately!"

They were waiting for her to scream, to cry, to break down.

Jazmin simply held out her hand. "May I?"

Slightly thrown off, Adrian handed her a copy of the report. She scanned it, her lips curving into a small, humorless smile.

"This is very thorough," she said, her voice carrying easily in the sudden silence. "But you have a problem with your timeline. According to these dates, I was supposedly meeting a lover at the Baccarat Hotel. But my husband," she paused, looking directly at Adrian, "was in Miami that entire week. With Melody. I have the hotel folios, if anyone's interested."

Adrian's face went rigid. Melody's hand tightened on her clutch purse, her knuckles white.

The standoff was broken by the sharp thump-thump of a cane on the marble floor.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Eleanor Garrett, the family matriarch, made her way to the center of the room. She was a tiny woman in her eighties, but her presence commanded more authority than everyone else in the room combined. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept over Adrian and Melody with undisguised contempt.

She stopped in front of Jazmin. Instead of the expected reprimand, she reached out and took Jazmin's hand.

"Adrian," Eleanor said, her voice like cracking ice. "You would risk the family's reputation and a ten-percent drop in stock value for this... this trinket?"

She turned her hawk-like gaze on Melody. "I remember you, dear. Weren't you the one who left my grandson three years ago for the son of a Russian oligarch? Before the sanctions, of course."

Melody turned sheet-white. Adrian stared at her, his expression a mixture of shock and dawning horror. It was clear he'd never known.

"As long as Jazmin is a Garrett," Eleanor announced to the room, "our stock is stable. Our family image is intact. Therefore, I refuse to recognize the validity of this divorce agreement. It is null and void."

Jazmin pulled her hand away. She understood perfectly. This wasn't about protecting her. It was about protecting the Garrett brand. She was just a pawn, a tool to maintain the illusion of stability.

"I will not stay married to her!" Adrian roared, his composure finally cracking. "I won't touch her!"

"Your trust fund is contingent on the approval of the family board, of which I am the chair," Eleanor said coldly. "Remember that."

Melody, seeing her future prospects evaporating, tried to slip away, but found her path blocked by Arthur, the butler, who stood like a silent, immovable statue.

Jazmin stood in the center of it all, watching them tear each other apart over money and pride. She felt nothing.

Initiate 'Forced Separation' backup protocol, she thought, a silent command to the system only she could perceive.

The party dissolved into a mess of awkward apologies and hasty departures. Jazmin walked out alone, her heels clicking a sharp, decisive rhythm on the polished stone of the driveway.

In the shadows of a large oak tree, Arthur spoke quietly into a communicator hidden in his cufflink. "No emotional fluctuation detected. It's like... she's a machine."

Jazmin slid into her car. As the engine turned over, the dashboard screen flickered to life, displaying not the usual GPS map, but a single, anonymous email.

The subject line was simple: `An Opportunity`.

The message was one sentence.

`You've proven you can break things. Now let's see if you can survive. -M`