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