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.

​

Emily Parker had officially decided: humans were inefficient. Especially men. Dating was exhausting. Love was optional. Emotional labor was forbidden. And yet, the universe insisted that she marry within three months. Her aunt's ultimatum was a looming specter she could not ignore.

After surviving five disastrous blind dates in one week, Emily realized something crucial: if she wanted a husband without the inconvenience of love, courtship, or human interaction, she needed a shortcut.

A shortcut that didn't exist-at least, not in polite society.

That evening, Emily curled up on her couch with her laptop and a large tub of ice cream. She opened a private browser window and typed: "contract marriage agencies" into the search bar. The results were... surprisingly plentiful.

Some promised temporary marriages for inheritance purposes. Some for citizenship. Some explicitly for convenience and mutual benefit. One even claimed: "Marriages with zero emotional entanglement, maximum discretion, and guaranteed legal coverage."

Emily nearly spat out her ice cream. Zero emotional entanglement. That was her dream, printed in bold on a webpage with tasteful colors and minimal frills. She clicked in eagerly.

The website was sleek, almost intimidatingly professional. Photos of luxurious homes, elegantly dressed couples, and anonymous smiling faces filled the screen. Each section promised discreet handling, fully customizable contracts, and a staff of "consultants" who would pair clients with perfect, mutually beneficial partners.

Emily scrolled slowly, savoring each paragraph as though it were a delicacy. She had officially found the solution.

Step one: contact the agency.

---

The next morning, Emily called the number on the website. A calm, professional voice answered.

"Contract Marriage Agency, how may I assist you?"

Emily cleared her throat. "Yes. I... am interested in a marriage. Temporary. No love. No... complications."

The voice paused, then a faint smile could be heard through the phone. "Of course. We specialize in mutually beneficial arrangements. May I have your name?"

"Emily Parker," she said, adding quickly, "but I write under a pen name."

"E.P. Vale?" the consultant asked smoothly.

Emily blinked. "Uh... yes. That's me."

"Very well," the consultant said. "We'll need some details about your preferences, lifestyle, and goals."

Emily listed them carefully:

Must not require love, emotional investment, or significant household responsibilities. Check.

Must be wealthy. Check.

Must be disposable afterward. Check.

Must respect privacy. Check.

The consultant nodded silently on the other end, as though taking notes with clinical precision. "We have several potential candidates. You may review their profiles, but in-person meetings are optional if you prefer discretion."

Emily felt her heartbeat slow. She didn't like human interaction. She didn't like surprises. She did like efficiency. This was perfect.

---

That afternoon, Emily received a secure email from the agency. Inside were profiles of men available for contract marriages. Each profile included photos, a summary of wealth, lifestyle, and personal boundaries. There were ratings for "commitment expectation," "emotional demand," and "disposability."

Emily scanned the profiles like a scientist reviewing experimental subjects. Some were boringly perfect-handsome, rich, polite, but utterly uninspiring. Others were risky-eccentric billionaires, aloof artists, mysterious tycoons. A few names sounded vaguely familiar.

One in particular made her pause.

Adrian Vale.

The name rang a bell she couldn't place. Not because it was her pen name exactly, but because the surname felt... familiar. Emily shook her head. No time for nostalgia. She would decide logically, not sentimentally.

The profile read:

Age: 32

Occupation: CEO of a global conglomerate

Wealth: Billion-dollar empire

Emotional demand: Extremely low

Privacy: Absolute discretion guaranteed

Emily paused, fingers hovering over the mouse. Wealth: check. Privacy: check. Emotional demand: check.

She clicked "request match."

---

The agency replied within minutes.

"Candidate Adrian Vale is available. Signing the contract will confirm your arrangement. All terms are negotiable before finalization."

Emily skimmed the contract template. Legal jargon sprawled across the page like an incomprehensible labyrinth. She squinted at terms: duration, responsibilities, living arrangements, financial settlements. It was dense, but one line caught her eye:

"The client agrees to marry the designated partner under mutually agreed contractual terms, with provisions for dissolution."

Emily sighed in relief. Dissolution. Divorce. Check. Safety net intact.

Without reading too carefully, she clicked "Sign."

A pop-up confirmed: Contract finalized. Partner assigned: Adrian Vale.

She leaned back in her chair, sighing deeply in relief. Her life was finally back to normal.

And somewhere else-far away, in a penthouse she had never seen-Adrian Vale looked at his phone and smiled.

He had been waiting for this moment for years.

---

Emily spent the rest of the day researching the agency's other clients, double-checking terms, and mentally preparing for the eventual divorce. She tried to imagine what Adrian Vale looked like in person. Towering? Serious? Possibly terrifying? Perfectly fine, most likely. Disposable, absolutely.

She ordered dinner, scrolled her phone, and then stared at the ceiling.

This was it. The first step in her plan: marry, survive, divorce, live lazily ever after.

She had no idea she had just stepped onto a path that would make all her previous calculations laughably inadequate.

Emily Parker smiled.

The contract marriage agency had delivered efficiency, discretion, and legal protection. And in her mind, that was all that mattered.

But fate, as it often does, had other plans.