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.

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