“Son, this is what she specializes in, and the contract I signed will ensure we’ll get a full refund if we’re not satisfied.”
“You signed a contract?”
“A seven-figure contract, to be precise.”
“Why on earth would you pay that much?”
“Because Miss May can guarantee a bride with high fertility in the limited timeframe we have.”
Shit.
High fertility? Jesus Christ. He’s fucking seriously. If I don’t marry and breed a woman, I’m out. Everything I’ve worked so hard for—gone, except for the spite-dollar he promised to leave me.
There’s no worming out of this. Not if I want to keep my lifestyle and my job.
Exhaling a long breath, I say, “I’ll look at the recommendations.”
He reaches over and grabs a card off of his bedside table and hands it to me. “Here’s your login.”
I snort derisively and snatch the card. “Is there anything else? Or should I have the orderly return to airplane some Jell-O into your asshole mouth?”
He chuckles, his eyes dancing with glee, which I’m happy to have put there.
“Why don’t you crack open your laptop and see what’s out there?”
“In other words, you don’t just want to pick when I’m going to marry, but who?”
With an offended look, he says, “I would never think to impose on your life in such a way.”
I start up my laptop and pull up the Wife For Hire website.
“Isn’t this cute?” I say as I navigate the pages of happy couples.
I log in and look over the profile granddad made for me, which reads straight out of the diary of a man with a breeding kink.
“Seriously, Granddad?”
“I left nothing to chance.”
In the corner, there’s a notification that I’ve been matched with three women.
With my timeline, I can’t afford to be picky. It has to be one of these three, because hunting for any longer than I have to could cost me everything.
The first profile I click into is my strongest match. She’s a pretty blonde, with a wide grin and itching to live the ‘trad wife’ dream, though I can tell that’s just the veneer she puts on. She wants all the credit of raising some rich idiot’s, spoiled brats with none of the work, because she requires a maid, chef, several nannies, and tutors to get her future children through their formative years.
No, thanks.
The next is a dark-haired woman with a sad smile and eyes that say,I’m being forced into this.
Her and me both.
I click on the third profile, deciding that I’d rather not marry a woman as miserable with this setup as I am, and go to the final potential bride, a lovely redhead whose fair features could easily land her the cover of Vogue, with the right pedigree.
She’s young. Too young. And frighteningly innocent. But, out of the three profiles I’ve matched with, she’ll undoubtedly be the easiest to control.
Which matters to me, because if I’m going to get married against my will, I want to retain as much of my freedom as possible. I won’t have a wife telling me when to come home and to take my shoes off at the door.
I’ll say jump.
