The Billionaire's Favourite Indulgence.

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.

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