Love by Contract Only

Chapter 2: Adrian’s “Optimized” Morning

Adrian Vance woke up at 5:47 a.m. because his mattress told him to.

Not his body. His body wanted to sleep. His body was a very reasonable, “You Just Owe Me One More Hour” kind of creature.

But his bed, his smart home, his entire life had been designed by people who hated fun, and they had concluded that 5:47 a.m. was the perfect time to rise.

So rise he did.

The lights in the penthouse warmed from a strict, hospital‑white blue to something close enough to “sunrise” that the app could call it “mood‑lifting.” Music that claimed to be “calm yet activating” poured out of unseen speakers.

Adrian sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and looked around.

His apartment was a museum of “lived in by a billionaire.” Sleek surfaces. No clutter. No photos. No evidence that anyone had ever laughed here, or cried, or spilled coffee.

The fridge hummed. The air purifier whispered. The carbon‑monoxide detector blinked, passive‑aggressive and alive.

All of it was working perfectly.

All of it was completely meaningless.

Adrian stood, walked to the bathroom, and stared into the mirror. The mirror, of course, immediately turned on, because his vanity reflected his life’s values: everything was on display, even when he wasn’t.

“Good morning, Adrian,” the mirror said, in a voice that was friendly enough to feel like a trap. “Your vitals are optimal. Your resting heart rate is low. You look tired.”

“Thanks,” Adrian muttered. “You’re very helpful.”

“Would you like a mood‑optimized affirmation?” the mirror continued. “You are strong. You are capable. You are—”

“No,” Adrian said. “I do not.”

The mirror beeped, mildly offended, and switched to the weather forecast instead.

“Today in New York,” it said, “temperatures are expected to rise to 68 degrees. Chance of rain later this afternoon. CEO Adrian Vance has a live‑behind‑the‑scenes stream at 1:00 p.m. Please prepare accordingly.”

Adrian frowned.

“Prepare accordingly” was corporate‑speak for “do something that looks like a personality.”

“Noted,” he said, even though the mirror didn’t need a verbal reply. It already knew more about him than his assistant did.

He stepped into the shower, which turned on exactly when he crossed the invisible line on the floor. The water temperature was perfect, because he’d programmed it to be. The music eased up to something “inspirational” but not “motivational speaker,” because motivational speakers were the emotional equivalent of dentistry.

He washed. He shaved. He let the hot water pound against his shoulder, the one that always ached when he’d been on back‑to‑back calls too long.

He looked at the water on his skin and thought, vaguely, that this was what intimacy felt like to machines: predictable, clean, and mildly therapeutic.

Human intimacy, he imagined, involved more missteps. More awkward silences. More things that didn’t go to plan.

He turned off the shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and stepped back into the bedroom.

Clothes were already laid out on the bed, not by a person, but by an algorithm that had learned his preferences after three years of data collection. There was a navy blue suit, a white shirt, a tie that was “power‑neutral mandatory,” and a pair of shoes that looked like they cost more than someone’s rent.

“Would you like your usual breakfast?” the house system asked, as if he might have decided last night that he suddenly wanted waffles and regret.

“Yes,” Adrian said.

“Approved,” the house replied, like they’d just closed a multi‑million‑dollar deal.

In the kitchen, his assistant’s voice joined the program.

“Adrian.” The sound of his assistant’s nameless voice was a welcome interruption. “I’ve uploaded your schedule for the day. You have a board meeting at nine, a PR check‑in at ten‑thirty, the behind‑the‑scenes stream at one, and four open slots where I can fill as needed.”

Adrian opened the fridge and stared at the contents.

Everything was portioned. Everything was labeled. Everything had a barcode or a QR code ready to be scanned by a machine that would decide if he was “allowed” to eat it based on his previous week’s data.

He pulled out a container of egg‑white scramble with spinach, because the nutrition app had told him that this was his “morning‑brain‑optimization meal.”

“Did you sleep well?” his assistant asked, in a tone that implied they were required to ask this question, not that they actually cared.

“In a number‑formatted sense,” Adrian said. “I got 6.8 hours. My heart rate stayed low. My sleep quality score was 92.”

“Excellent,” the assistant replied. “By human standards, that’s good. By your standards, that’s adequate.”

Adrian took a bite of the egg‑white scramble. It tasted like it had been designed by a committee that was very proud of itself. It was “healthy,” “efficient,” “minimalist.” It had the emotional depth of a spreadsheet in Arial font.

He washed it down with black coffee that had been filtered through a machine that both measured and judged every sip he took.

“Your behind‑the‑scenes stream today,” the assistant said, “is for the charity gala this weekend. The profile piece is titled The Human Side of the Tech Titan. You’ll be interviewed in your office, then shown walking the floor of the gala, mingling with donors, and doing a short Q&A with the host.”

Adrian winced.

“Mingling with donors,” he repeated. “What does that mean in English?”

“It means you will make small talk with people who give you money,” the assistant said. “You will smile. You will nod. You will say, ‘thank you for your contribution.’ Optionally, you may add, ‘we’re grateful for your support,’ depending on how much you detest the process.”

Adrian stared at the coffee mug like it might give him a less depressing answer. It did not. Coffee, like morality, was not a problem‑solving beverage.

“I don’t like mingling,” he said.

“You don’t like anything,” his assistant replied. “That’s why you’re good at what you do.”

Adrian ignored that.

“What’s the angle of the segment?” he asked.

“It’s about you,” the assistant said. “The camera follows you around. The host asks how you balance work and life. You answer that you don’t balance work and life; you optimize them. They laugh. The audience laughs. The article is written.”

Adrian nodded slowly.

“Perfect,” he said. “So I’m doing a live‑streamed performance of ‘emotionally available human being’ for charity.”

“Exactly,” the assistant said. “You’re welcome.”

Adrian finished his coffee, placed the mug in the sink, and watched as the dishwasher’s internal sensors whirred into life, assessing whether the mug required cleaning or merely a symbolic gesture of hygiene.

“You have five minutes before the car arrives,” the assistant added. “The driver will be downstairs in exactly three minutes, thirty‑two seconds.”

“I’ll be ready,” Adrian said.

“Excellent,” the assistant said. “The city awaits your arrival. The markets await your decisions. The world awaits your continued ability to avoid significant emotional growth.”

Adrian almost smiled.

He didn’t, of course.

He was Adrian Vance, billionaire and CEO.

He had a reputation for a smile that was polite, not personal.

Instead, he straightened his suit, checked his reflection, and left the apartment, stepping into the elevator that would take him down forty‑three floors into the city.

The elevator, like everything else in his life, had no sense of humor.

The ride down felt like a countdown.

Not to success. Not to the future. But to the moment he’d have to pretend he was someone who understood the word love.