The Marriage Deals

Episode2

A Wife Not Love

Thirdperson pov

In the meantime, in a luxurious office in Manhattan, Nicholas Marcello is experiencing his own crisis.

Nick paces back and forth in his office, his designer suit jacket thrown over a chair, his tie loosened. He looks like a caged animal, full of pent-up energy and frustration.

A wife. He needs a f*****g wife.

His uncle's will sits on his desk, mocking him. The old man's last joke—or last revenge, depending on how you look at it. To inherit the family business, Nick had to get married. Married. Like some crap from a romcom.

"f**k," he mutters, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He's worked his ass off for years, clawing his way to the top of the business world. He's got more money than he knows what to do with, with women throwing themselves at him left and right. He's in control of every aspect of his life.

Except this.

Nick changes out of his suit, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He hops on his treadmill, cranking up the speed. Maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun this problem.

The strains of La traviata fill the room as he pounds away on the treadmill. Opera. His secret guilty pleasure. If the boys at the country club could see him now…

As he runs, Nick's mind wanders to his past relationships. A string of beautiful, accomplished women, none of whom lasted more than a few months. He'd always prided himself on his ability to keep things casual and never let anyone get too close.

And now he needs a wife. The irony isn't lost on him.

Nick increases the speed on the treadmill, pushing himself harder. He's always believed that love is nothing but a societal construct, a fairy tale sold to the masses to keep them in line. Marriage? A surefire way to ruin a perfectly good relationship.

But his uncle's wishes weighed heavily on him. The old man had been more of a father to him than his own dad was. And now, from beyond the grave, he's asking Nick to do the one thing he's always sworn he'd never do.

As the opera reaches a crescendo, Nick makes a decision. He'll find a wife, alright. But love? That's off the table.

"A wife," he mutters as he steps off the treadmill, sweat dripping down his chiseled abs. ""I need a wife... but not love. Never love."

Alright, enough of this mopey bullshit. Time to get my s**t together and find myself a f*****g wife. Yeah, you heard me right. A wife. Don't look at me like that—it's not like I'm thrilled about this crap either.

I, Nicholas Marcello, am about to make a list of qualities my future ball and chain should have. Christ on a cracker, how did I end up here? Oh right, my dickhead of an uncle and his f*****g will. Thanks a lot, old man.

For a hot second, I thought about Rosella. She's smoking hot, great arm candy for all those stuffy charity events. But f**k me sideways; she's starting to get that look in her eyes. You know the one—all lovey and s**t. Plus, she's got a baby fever worse than a broody hen. Hard pass.

Time to make this goddamn list. Maybe if I put this s**t out into the universe or whatever, it'll cough up the perfect candidate. Yeah, right. And maybe pigs fly out of my ass.

Here nothing goes:

1. No love. f**k that noise.

2. No s****l attraction. Keep it in your pants, Nick.

3. No big family or pets. I do not run a zoo.

4. No kids. Ever. Period.

5. Independent career. Sugar daddies need not apply.

6. A businesslike approach to marriage. This ain't no romcom.

7. emotionally stable and not impulsive. No drama queens allowed.

8. Trustworthy. 'Cause prenups only cover so much.

There. A nice, practical, emotion-free business arrangement. No messy feelings, no jealousy, no bullshit. Just two adults entering into a mutually beneficial contract. Sounds f*****g romantic, doesn't it?

I leaned back in my chair, feeling pretty damn smug. But then I start going through my mental Rolodex of every woman I've ever dated, met, or worked with. And you know what? Not a single one of these broads fits the bill. What the actual f**k?

I'm Nicholas f*****g Marcello. I'm rich, I'm hot, and I've got more swagger than a peacock on steroids. So why can't I find one goddamn woman who meets my criteria? This is bullshit.

Just as I'm about to lose my set, my phone rings. It's Kattie, my sister. Thank f**k. If anyone can pull me out of this funk, it's her. She's got a way of making me laugh, even when I'm being a grade A asshole.

"What's up, buttercup?" I answered, trying to sound less pissed off than I felt.

"Well, hello to you too, sunshine," Kattie chirps. "You'll never guess what I've got for you."

I roll my eyes so hard I'm pretty sure I can see my brain. "Let me guess, another blind date with one of your yoga buddies who think crystals can cure cancer."

"Ha ha, very funny," she says. "No, smarts. I think I've found the perfect wife for you.""

Now that gets my attention. "Oh yeah? Do tell, oh wise matchmaker.""

"Now, now," Kattie says, and I can practically hear her wagging her finger. "You've got to promise to keep an open mind. No judgment until you hear me out.""

I snort. "Yeah, yeah. Spill it already.""

There's a pause, and then Kattie drops the bomb. "It's Alexa."

For a second, I thought I'd had a stroke. Alexa? As in, Alexa? The one from... No. f*****g. Way.

"Nick? Are you still there?" Kattie's voice snaps me back to reality.

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled, "No emotion-free' way."

And just like that, my perfectly planned, emotion-free future goes up in smoke. Because Alexa? She's the human equivalent of a wrecking ball to all my carefully constructed walls.

Fuck my life. Seriously.