Chapter 1
When Conor Robertson turned the key to his new home, his "wife" Emmie Walker was in the kitchen, apron on, carrying a steaming platter of roast beef.
The warm aroma filled the air, wrapping the room in cozy domestic bliss.
She was almost flawless—beautiful, gentle, a skilled cook. Everything seemed perfect until the third night.
Thirst woke Conor in the middle of the night. On his way to the kitchen, he passed the slightly ajar study door.
From the crack, he caught Emmie's suppressed, sultry voice. "Yes, Master. I behaved very well today. I played the part of a proper wife."
The word froze Conor's blood.
They were bound only by a contract marriage, each taking what they needed, but who was this "Master"?
What secret life did his perfect wife lead behind that closed door?
*****
The setting sun slanted into the living room, carving a sharp boundary of light and shadow across the floor.
Emmie Walker was bent over, polishing the mahogany dining table. The steady, rhythmic sound of her cloth gliding across the surface felt like a scene from a silent play, carefully choreographed and full of intent.
Conor Robertson sat on the couch, running his fingers over the contract, the scent of fresh ink still lingering.
The edges were slightly curled, and the contract spelled out everything clearly: one year, no meddling in each other's privacy, and putting on a show for the elders.
His gaze lingered on Emmie's elegant signature, then drifted to her busy figure nearby.
"Dinner's ready, Conor," Emmie said, straightening up. A loose strand of hair slipped across her forehead, which she tucked behind her ear.
Her smile was so perfectly calculated, it could have been measured with a ruler—the kind of smile that would win over any elder's heart.
At the dining table, the roast beef was glazed with a rich, caramelized sauce, giving off a sweet, savory aroma. Conor picked up his fork, speared a piece of meat, and took a bite. The tender, juicy texture melted on his tongue.
He watched Emmie across the table, chewing slowly and carefully, and then asked tentatively, "Emmie, the customs in your hometown seem a bit different from ours, right? Last time my mom asked, you handled it really well."
Emmie's hand didn't falter as she held her fork. She looked up, her eyes calm and unreadable, like still water. "I'm just an ordinary person. There's nothing special about my family—just a bunch of old, trivial stories.
"Since we signed the contract, making your parents happy is my job, isn't it?"
She handed him a napkin, her fingertips cool as they brushed against the back of his hand. Conor instinctively pulled away.
Under the warm yellow light, her perfection had an almost inhuman quality, like a thin, flawless layer of paint, covering her completely.
It was late at night, and the apartment was dead silent. Conor lay in the guest room, pressing his ear against the cold wall. He heard a faint click from the study next door—the door locking.
Then, a voice, barely more than a whisper, slipped through the wall, carrying a creepy mix of submission and sweetness that made Conor's skin crawl.
Emmie said, "Please tell me today's task... Yes, the target's emotions are stable and under control... Got it, I'll keep playing the 'wife' role."
The wall clock had just passed ten, and the ticking of the second hand grew louder and louder in the cramped room, like some kind of countdown.
Emmie stood up and gave Conor a small nod. She was wearing a silk robe, the hem swaying softly as she moved. She walked into the study and locked the door behind her.
The sharp snap of the lock cut through the silence, slamming into Conor's nerves like a hammer blow.
Conor walked barefoot across the icy tiles, step by step toward the study. His breathing grew heavier, his palms clammy with sweat. A sliver of white light slipped out from under the door, and muffled voices drifted through the crack.
Emmie said, "Yes, Master. Today's 'performance' is at seven percent. He's starting to get curious. That's an expected emotional stage."
The word "Master" sounded jarringly out of place coming from Emmie's usually gentle lips—like a rusty blade scraping against Conor's nerves.
He twisted the doorknob sharply, but it didn't move at all.
Conor took a deep breath, trying to sound casual. "Emmie? The Wi-Fi seems to be down. Mind if I go restart the router in the study?"
The voices inside stopped abruptly. Two seconds later, the door swung open. Emmie stood in the doorway, backlit, her face lost in shadow, and only her eyes glimmering with a chill in the darkness.
"Conor, there are some confidential files from my old job in the study. It's not a good time," she said, her smile as precise and mechanical as ever.
Her right hand clamped onto the doorframe, knuckles pale from the force. "Let's deal with the Wi-Fi tomorrow, alright?"