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.

Emily Parker had done it. She had successfully executed the first step of her master plan: secure a husband without love, emotional labor, or excessive inconvenience. She leaned back on her couch, a smug smile tugging at her lips, ready to congratulate herself with another bowl of ice cream.

Then she remembered.

Adrian Vale.

The name wasn't just on the contract-it was written in bold on the confirmation email she had mindlessly skimmed and clicked "accept." Her stomach twisted slightly as the reality hit. She was married. Legally, and to a man she had never met in person. And not just any man, but a reclusive CEO of a global billion-dollars empire. The kind of man who probably ate stock certificates for breakfast and casually owned entire city blocks.

Emily blinked at her laptop screen. This had to be a joke. Surely the agency had made a clerical error. She refreshed the page, thinking the words would vanish. They didn't.

She swallowed. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no. I didn't plan for this."

Emily Parker's life had officially gone from comfortably lazy to terrifyingly complicated in the span of thirty seconds.

---

The next morning, Emily woke up late, as usual, but with a growing sense of dread gnawing at her. Her apartment felt smaller, her room darker, the air heavier. She tried to shake it off. After all, she had plans, spreadsheets, and a legally binding contract. What could go wrong?

Her phone buzzed with a new notification. It was from the contract agency.

Agency: Your partner, Mr. Adrian Vale, will contact you to discuss preliminary arrangements. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Emily stared at the message. Her first instinct was to ignore it. Her second instinct was to delete her email account entirely. But rational Emily, the one who thrived on planning, reminded herself: you can't run from a contract.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped the reply button.

Understood.

No exclamation points. No smiley faces. No indication of panic. Just one word.

---

Hours later, a call came through. Emily's phone screen lit up: Adrian Vale.

Her heart skipped. Not from romance. From sheer terror.

"Hello?" she said, voice unsteady despite her best efforts.

"Good afternoon, Emily Parker," a calm, deep voice said on the other end. Perfectly modulated, slightly amused. "I trust you have received the contract?"

"Yes," Emily said, fidgeting with her hoodie strings. "I... I signed."

"Excellent," Adrian replied. There was a pause, then he added, casually, "I look forward to meeting you in person."

Emily's stomach flipped. "In person? Uh... sure. Yes. Of course."

She hung up immediately after, breathing heavily. Her apartment felt unbearably small again, suffocating her with the reality of what she had just done. She needed ice cream. Again.

---

Over the next few days, Emily oscillated between panic, denial, and frantic planning. She calculated every possible scenario: a fake meeting, a staged disagreement, a public scandal. All designed to ensure the divorce went smoothly and efficiently.

She drafted plans, contingency plans, and backup plans. She considered moving out temporarily, changing her phone number, even renting a separate apartment under a pseudonym. All logical, all meticulously detailed.

---

The agency contacted her again, arranging the first meeting. Emily had spent hours researching Adrian Vale online, combing through news articles, interviews, and vague social media mentions. Every piece of information confirmed one terrifying fact: he was powerful, wealthy, and utterly inscrutable.

She dressed carefully for the meeting, not out of romance or vanity, but strategy. She chose neutral colors, minimal jewelry, and practical shoes. Her hair was pulled back efficiently. She rehearsed her tone: polite, detached, noncommittal.

When she arrived at the luxurious office building, the doorman gave her a knowing glance. She passed through security, heart pounding, until she reached a glass elevator that ascended silently to the top floor.

---

Adrian Vale was waiting. Calm. Composed. Exuding the kind of presence that made the world feel smaller around him. Emily's mouth went dry as she stepped into the office.

"Emily Parker," he said, standing as she approached. His handshake was firm, confident, and strangely warm. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Emily forced a polite smile. "Likewise."

They sat across from each other at a sleek, glass conference table. Adrian spoke minimally, asking questions about her expectations, boundaries, and lifestyle. Emily answered with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Every word calculated, every gesture measured.

She left nothing to chance.

---

And yet... something about Adrian unsettled her. Not his wealth. Not his power. Something else. A familiarity she couldn't place. A sense that this was not the first time they had crossed paths.

But Emily didn't dwell on it. Emotional speculation was dangerous. Her plan was simple: marry, survive, divorce, live freely. Adrian Vale would be a name on a contract, nothing more.

After the meeting, Emily returned to her apartment, exhausted but triumphant. She had navigated the first encounter without compromising her principles. She poured herself a glass of wine, sat down, and opened her laptop.

Her eyes caught on her pen name: E.P. Vale.

A strange thought flickered. Vale... Why did that name feel... familiar?

She shook her head. Dismissing it. No time for reflection. She had plans to execute, spreadsheets to finalize, ice cream to finish.

And somewhere, far away, Adrian Vale smiled at his own screen, silently noting every detail of their meeting, every word she had spoken, and every flicker of emotion she had tried to hide.

For him, this was no contract. This was the beginning of a pursuit that had started long ago.

Emily Parker had no idea.

And that, of course, was exactly how he wanted it.