Chapter 5
Gabriel
I recited the data in the silence of my mind, visualizing the text on the dossier I had memorized forty-five minutes ago.
The metrics were clean. The biological indicators were optimal.
The background check was sterile—no debts, no addictions, no history of genetic defects.
A high IQ suggests she understands transactions and logic.
She was perfect on paper.
The reality sitting across from me, however, presented... discrepancies.
I looked at the girl.
She sat on my imported Italian velvet couch like a doll that had been dropped by a careless child. A white ruffled dress. Pink bows. A cardigan that looked as if it had been knitted by a grandmother with a cataracts problem. And a headband.
I narrowed my eyes slightly, my internal calculator running a quick scan.
Discrepancy 1: Height. The file stated 165 cm. Visual estimation put the subject at approximately 152 cm. She was tiny. Her feet barely touched the floor.
Discrepancy 2: Mass. The file stated 110 lbs.
I scanned her frame. She was not 110 lbs.
She had softness. Her hips were wider than the metric suggested.
Her thighs were thick, pressing against the white fabric of her dress.
There was a fullness to her chest that defied the "underweight" data point in the file. My estimate: 121 lbs.
I paused.
Did my acquisition team pick up the wrong target?
I looked at her face. Long, curly black hair. Pale skin. Doe eyes. She was undeniably beautiful. In fact, she was more aesthetically pleasing than the photo in the file. She looked... healthier. Softer.
I tapped my finger on the armrest.
The dossier is outdated. Women fluctuate in weight. Perhaps she shrunk? Unlikely. Perhaps the data entry clerk was incompetent? Highly likely.
It does not matter.
I dismissed the errors. The height and weight were irrelevant variables. The core requirement was a healthy vessel for my heir. And looking at her—at the flushed cheeks, the clear skin, the curve of her hips—she appeared exceptionally fertile.
She was pretty. She was here. And she looked terrified enough to be compliant.
I do not need perfection in the data. I need results in the nursery.
I am thirty-eight years old. My empire spans three continents. I own shipping lines, technology firms, and hold the leash of all the politicians in this country. I have acquired everything a man could possibly conquer, except the one thing that ensures immortality: a legacy.
I need an heir.
The biological imperative is annoying, but unavoidable. I am not immortal. Eventually, this body will fail. And when it does, someone of my blood must be ready to take the throne.
I do not need a wife. I do not need a partner. I certainly do not need a "soulmate." I have seen what those sentimental attachments do to people. I have seen what they did to my own blood.
My siblings. A collection of failed investments.
Vanessa. The "golden child." She spent six months in a coma because she lacked the spatial awareness to drive a car properly on a wet road.
And the moment she woke up? Did she return to duty?
No. She ran. She abandoned the empire to live some mediocre, pathetic life in obscurity because the pressure was "too much. "
Elias. My brother. The fool ran away with that woman, Sydney Ramirez. He traded a dynasty for a romance novel. I haven't heard from him since, and I haven't bothered to look. Why track down a failure?
And Liam. My "loyal" dog. He promised to be my right hand. He promised to serve. And yet, after a year, he too vanished. Chasing a "beloved one."
Pathetic. All of them.
They were weak. They let emotions cloud their judgment. They let their hearts dictate their futures. They allowed incompetency to infect their lives.
I hate incompetency. It is the only sin I do not forgive.
I will not make that mistake. My son will not make that mistake. I will breed the weakness out of him before he can even speak.
That is why I chose her.
I looked at the girl again. Aleizha Garcia.
She was staring at me with wide, brown doe eyes. They were terrified, yes, but there was a flicker of processing behind them. Her academic records proved she possessed a high-functioning neocortex, despite the ridiculous exterior. She had the genetic markers for intelligence.
And, I admitted as my gaze raked over her, she met the aesthetic requirements.
I have had many women. My bed is rarely empty. Models, actresses, socialites—they come to me seeking my money or my influence. I use them for physiological release, a biological necessity like sleeping or eating, and then I discard them. They are interchangeable.
But for the mother of my heir, I required specific traits.
She will produce a beautiful child. And an intelligent one. That is the only ROI that matters.
I tapped my index finger against the armrest of my chair.
The silence stretched. It seemed to unnerve her.
"So," she began, her voice breaking the pristine quiet I preferred. "I just want you to know, Mr. Gabriel, that I am very responsible! I have a dog named Primrose, she's a Golden Retriever, and I buy her clothes! I bought her a hoodie last week!"
I stared at her blankly. Was this relevant data? No.
"And," she continued, her hands moving animatedly, "I really love pink. Like, a lot. I collect Hello Kitty stuff. I have the plushies, the notebooks, the ballpens, the pajamas, and even a toaster that toasts the face onto the bread! It's very... scientific."
Scientific. I suppressed the urge to scoff.
My brow twitched. A 168 IQ student describing a toaster as scientific? Perhaps she is eccentric. Geniuses often are.
"And," she leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I am a manipulator."
My right eyebrow rose, perhaps two millimeters.
"A manipulator?" I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.
"Yes!" She nodded vigorously. "I read The 48 Laws of Power. Well, the back of it. But I know how to get what I want. So you should be careful."
It took a considerable amount of self-control not to laugh. It would have been a cruel, mocking sound. This girl, who looked like she would apologize to a table if she bumped into it, thought she was a player in the game of power?
She was a guppy swimming in a tank with a shark, warning the shark that she knew karate.
"Duly noted," I said dryly.
The heavy oak door opened. Marcus, my chief legal counsel, stepped inside. He is efficient, quiet, and knows better than to speak unless spoken to.
He placed the document on the coffee table.
"The contract, sir. As specified."
I didn't need to read it. I dictated every clause. I picked up the fountain pen from my pocket—Montblanc, black resin—and signed my name in a sharp, jagged scrawl.
I slid the thick pile of paper toward the girl.
"Sign," I commanded.
She blinked. She picked up the document. She flipped the first page. Then the second. She hummed. She frowned. She tilted her head.
I watched her eyes. They were glazing over. She wasn't reading the clauses regarding asset separation or non-disclosure. She was bored.
Incredible. She is signing her life away, and she is bored.
Then, she did something that made my jaw tighten.
She reached into that chaotic bag of hers and pulled out a pen.
It was not a normal pen. It was a monstrosity. It was covered in pink faux fur, and I believe it had a plastic jewel on the top.
She uncapped it and began to write. Not on the signature line. In the margins.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
My patience, usually vast when dealing with business, was thinning.
"What," I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous register, "are you doing?"
She didn't look up. "I'm adding my conditions! Since we're getting married, it has to be fair, right? The 48 Laws say negotiate!"
"Read them to me," I ordered.
She cleared her throat. "Clause 1: Ice cream dates. At least once a week. Because ice cream makes people happy."
I stared at her. A multi-billion dollar merger of genetics, and she wants dairy products.
"Clause 2," she continued. "Happy Wife, Happy Life. That's just science."
"Clause 3: No shouting. My ears are sensitive."
"Clause 4: Pets are allowed. Primrose needs to live with us."
"Clause 5: I can visit my parents every Saturday. No exceptions."
She paused, looking up at me seriously.
"And Clause 6: No cursing at me when you are mad. Because I hate cussing. And if someone curses at me, I cry. And if I cry, my eyes get puffy, and then I can't study."
I looked at the scribbles on the legal document. I looked at the pink fur pen. I looked at her.
The logical part of my brain ran the cost-benefit analysis. Cost of ice cream: Negligible. Cost of not shouting: Manageable discipline. Cost of the dog: She can deal with it. Benefit: An heir.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Sign it."
She beamed. It was blinding. She scribbled her signature at the bottom—looping the letters and, I noted with horror, dotting the 'i' with a heart.
"Done!" she announced.
She put the pen down. Then, she stood up and walked around the table toward me.
I remained seated, watching her approach. She stopped right in front of my chair. She crouched down until she was eye-level with me.
She closed her eyes. She leaned forward. She puckered her lips.
I recoiled. I leaned back into the leather, putting distance between us.
"What," I asked, "is this?"
She opened one eye. "It's time to kiss the bride! That's what they do in the movies!"
"Kiss?"
The word was foreign in this context.
Fuck no.
I do not kiss. Kissing is intimate. Kissing implies affection. Kissing is a sharing of breath, of space, of something beyond the physical. I have had sex with hundreds of women. I have never kissed one.
I stood up abruptly, towering over her. She nearly fell backward.
"There will be no kissing," I stated coldly.
She looked confused. "But... we're married! Don't we have to seal the deal?"
"The deal is sealed by ink," I said, pointing to the contract. "And now, it must be sealed by biology."
I checked my watch. 7:15 PM.
"We will proceed," I said. "We will consummate this arrangement now."
Her eyes widened. "Now? Like... right now?"
"Efficiency is key, Ms. Garcia. I require an heir. There is no point in delay."
She scrambled back, clutching her cardigan.
"Wait! Wait!" She held up her hands. "I... I can't! Not tonight!"
My brow furrowed. "Why? Are you menstruating?"
"No!" She turned bright red. "I... I need a week! Yes! One week!"
"Unacceptable."
"It is acceptable!" she argued, her voice trembling but stubborn.
"I need to tell my parents! I can't just disappear!
And... and I am stressed! Look at me! I am shaking!
And I read in a medical journal that high cortisol levels—that's stress—reduce fertility!
If we do it now, my eggs might be hiding!
You won't get an heir! You'll just get.. . nothing!"
I paused.
I analyzed her statement.
Stress does impact hormonal balance. Cortisol can inhibit ovulation or implantation. If she is in a state of high anxiety, the probability of successful conception decreases.
She was using logic. Badly, but it was logic.
I sighed. A long, exhaling sound that signaled my disappointment in the fragility of the human condition.
"One week," I said. "You have seven days to settle your affairs and lower your... cortisol levels."
She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for five minutes. "Okay! Deal! One week!"
I didn't say another word. I walked past her toward the door.
"Come," I commanded. "I will drive you home."
She scrambled to follow me, her bag jingling with those ridiculous keychains.
As I walked down the hall, the sound of her frantic footsteps and the sound of those absurdity-laden keychains echoed behind me. I realized my life had just become significantly louder.
It didn't matter. It was temporary noise.
I had the signature. The asset was acquired.
Now, I simply had to wait out this seven-day delay.
One week to let her settle her trivial little life, and then I would collect what I was owed.
We would consummate this marriage—not out of passion, but out of strict biological necessity.
I would plant the seed, ensure it took root, and monitor the incubation period with the same scrutiny I applied to my stock portfolios.
And after that? The equation was simple.
She would carry the child. She would give birth to my heir. And the moment that boy was placed in my arms—the moment my legacy was secured—Aleizha Garcia would cease to be useful.
I would compensate her, of course. I would buy her a house, perhaps a bakery, or whatever nonsense she desired, and I would discard her somewhere far away from my empire.
The vessel is only valuable until the contents are delivered. After that, it is merely waste.