My Surreal Marriage: Life with a Billionaire

Chapter 13

Pushing open the apartment door, I wasn't met by Keats’s familiar, affectionate nuzzle against my leg, but by a peculiar silence. A faint, out-of-place scent of plastic and new electronics lingered in the air. Only a single wall sconce was lit in the living room. In its dim, yellow glow, a tall figure was kneeling on the rug beside the sofa. His back was to the door, his posture so focused it was almost reverent.

It was Lucas.

What was he doing here? At this hour, he was usually still at the office, or locked away in the second bedroom, bathed in the blue light of his monitors.

I held my breath, setting my bag down gently, and tiptoed a few steps closer. The sight before me made me freeze, my heart clenching as if squeezed by an invisible hand.

Lucas was carefully tending to Keats. My precious tuxedo cat was being unusually docile (or perhaps just confused), sitting perched on the edge of the sofa, the tip of his tail curled slightly. And Lucas’s hands—the same hands that managed billions in capital and signed ruthless contracts—were now, with an uncharacteristic gentleness… fastening something around Keats’s furry neck.

It was a small, black collar with a matte metallic sheen. The design was sleek and minimalist, without a bell, featuring only a single, rice-sized indicator light on the front that pulsed with a faint blue glow. It was jarringly high-tech, a complete mismatch for Keats’s wild, black-and-white coat.

“Lucas!” My voice, laced with shock and a spike of anger, shot out before I could stop it. “What are you doing to my cat?!”

Lucas’s movements paused for a second, but he didn’t stop. His slender fingers deftly parted the fur on the back of Keats’s neck, seemingly checking that the clasp was secure. Keats, as if just now realizing what was happening, shook his head uncomfortably and let out a soft “mew.”

Only then did he turn, still kneeling, and look up at me. The dim light cast deep shadows across his chiseled features, making his gray-blue eyes seem even more inscrutable in the darkness, betraying no emotion.

“A location and health monitoring collar,” he stated, his voice as level as if he were discussing the weather. “The latest model from the NexTech Life series. Waterproof, ultra-light, with a bio-grade silicone lining so it won’t cause any irritation.” He gestured to a palm-sized black device resting on the sofa beside him. Its screen was lit, displaying several small, fluctuating data icons—heart rate, body temperature, activity level?

“It monitors his vital signs, movement trajectory, and sleep quality in real-time. If he leaves the pre-set safety perimeter, or if his health data shows any abnormal fluctuations, your phone and my terminal will receive an alert immediately.”

He stood up, his tall frame casting a long, imposing shadow that enveloped me. He picked up the square device and showed me the screen, where a small, dynamic icon of Keats was displayed next to a stream of numbers. “For example, right now, his heart rate is 126, temperature is 38.2 Celsius, all within the normal range. His activity level for the past hour has been low, consistent with his evening resting habits.” His tone was cool and confident, like an engineer showcasing a brilliant new invention.

I stared at him, then at the cold, blue-glowing gadget on Keats’s neck, then back at the screen where my cat had been reduced to a set of data points. A wave of absurdity, anger, and violation crashed over me.

“You… you put a tracker on him?” I stared at him in disbelief, my voice rising. “Lucas, he’s my cat! Not your science experiment! And he’s definitely not a prisoner who needs 24/7 surveillance!”

“Surveillance?” Lucas’s brow furrowed slightly, as if my choice of words confused him. “This is protection. The last ‘incident’ proved that your handle on his ‘natural instincts’ is insufficient.” He glanced toward the second bedroom, the memory of the disastrous video conference clearly still fresh.

“This collar will prevent him from entering places he shouldn't and destroying things he shouldn’t. More importantly,” he pointed to the health data on the screen, “it can provide early warnings for potential health risks. Cats are adept at hiding pain. By the time an owner notices, it’s often too late. This provides critical data to prevent that.”

“Prevent?” I let out a cold laugh and took a step forward, nearly squaring off with him. “You ‘prevent’ things with cold, hard data? Lucas, having a pet isn’t managing a project! You can’t solve everything with algorithms and sensors! Keats and I have trust, an understanding! I can feel his moods, his needs! I don’t need a set of blinking numbers to tell me if he’s ‘normal’!” I pointed at the screen, my fingertip trembling.

“‘Feel’?” Lucas repeated the word, the corner of his mouth twitching into a minuscule, yet deeply ironic, smirk. “Feelings are subjective and unreliable. Data is objective and precise. Can your ‘feeling’ tell me his exact body temperature to a tenth of a degree? Can your ‘understanding’ pinpoint his GPS coordinates within three minutes if he gets lost?” He held up the device, its blue light illuminating his calm face. “This can.”

“I don’t need it!” The words were almost a snarl, my chest heaving with rage. “I don’t need to know his heart rate every minute! I don’t need a machine to tell me where he is! He’s a cat! He needs space to run, warm cuddles, and trust! Not electronic shackles around his neck, monitoring his every move! Take it off him! Now!” I thrust my hand out, pointing at Keats’s neck, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Lucas watched me quietly, his gray-blue eyes like a frozen lake—bottomless, reflecting my own furious, agitated image. He didn’t move. He simply asked, “And then what? Wait for the next outburst of his ‘natural instincts’? Wait for him to destroy another item worth thousands of dollars, or worse, get sick or lost without anyone knowing? Claire, responsibility isn’t just about providing food and shelter. True responsibility is using every effective tool to minimize risk and ensure his safety and health. Emotionalism doesn’t solve practical problems.”

“This isn’t emotionalism! It’s respect!” I was shaking with anger now, feeling it was impossible to get through to him. “Respect for him as an independent living being! Respect for a bond that doesn’t need data to sustain it! What you call ‘protection’ is, at its core, control and deprivation! All in the name of technology!”

The air between us felt frozen, charged with a palpable tension.

Keats, seeming to sense the hostility, let out an anxious “meow,” jumped down from the sofa, and scurried to my feet. He rubbed his furry body against my calf as if seeking sanctuary. The collar on his neck, with its pulsing blue light, now seemed like a cold badge, proclaiming that Lucas Grayson’s ‘domain’ and ‘rules’ had extended to my last safe harbor—the bond I shared with my cat.

I looked down into Keats’s wide, amber eyes, which reflected his panic, and my heart twisted. I knelt, ignoring Lucas’s gaze, and reached for the collar. The clasp was cleverly designed; fumbling with it, I couldn’t immediately find the release.

And just then—

Click.

A soft, unexpected sound.

It was followed by a silence that was far more absolute.

The wall sconce above me. The low hum of the refrigerator. The whisper of the air conditioner. Even the city’s perpetual, ambient glow from outside the window… everything vanished in an instant.

Absolute, all-consuming darkness, like thick ink had been poured over my head, instantly drowning the entire apartment.