The scent of expensive bourbon and aged leather permeated Johnson Lawson's study, a room that felt more like a sanctuary of order than a modern living space. Situated in one of Ottawa's more prestigious, quiet neighborhoods, the house was a testament to Johnson's philosophy: everything had a place, everything was high-quality, and everything followed a strict, logical design.
Marcus sat across from him in a deep mahogany armchair, loosening his tie with a frustrated tug. Marcus was undeniably handsome—the kind of man who turned heads in every gala in the city—but tonight, he looked defeated. His jaw was tight, and he stared into his glass as if the amber liquid held the answers to his disastrous evening.
Johnson, however, looked as composed as ever. He was striking—exceedingly handsome in a way that felt almost architectural, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to analyze the world with surgical precision. He leaned back, crossing one tailored trouser leg over the other.
"You look like you've just come back from a deposition, Marcus," Johnson said, his voice smooth and steady. "I take it the evening didn't go according to the 'perfect' plan Sarah promised?"
Marcus let out a short, cynical laugh. "Plan? Johnson, there was no plan. There was only a very expensive dinner and a very loud realization that some people live in a different reality than we do."
"The mysterious lady," Johnson mused, swiveling his glass. He didn't know her name or her face, but he already had a mental profile of the 'Ottawa Elite' women Marcus usually encountered. "Tell me. What was the breaking point? Did she spend the whole time on her phone, or did she simply have nothing to say?"
"It wasn't that she had nothing to say," Marcus replied, leaning forward. "It's that what she did say was... baffling. We got onto the topic of home life. Simple things, right? I asked her about her signature dish. I asked her about how she manages her household—you know, the basics of being a partner. And she laughed at me, Johnson. She actually laughed."
Johnson's expression hardened, a familiar shadow of disapproval crossing his handsome face. "She laughed at the idea of domestic competence? Typical."
"She told me she 'outsources' her laundry," Marcus continued, his voice rising in disbelief. "She said her washing machine is a 'mystery box.' She didn't know how to cook a basic roast. She joked that her only 'signature dish' was a reservation at a five-star restaurant. When I tried to explain that a woman should know how to provide the fundamental comforts of a home—that it's part of the traditional foundation—she looked at me like I was a prehistoric artifact."
Johnson stood up, walking over to the window that looked out over the manicured lawn. He shook his head slowly. "And this is exactly what I told you about these city women, Marcus. I've warned you a thousand times. They are disconnected from reality. There is nothing they know how to do manually anymore. They rely on technology for their food, apps for their chores, and I wouldn't be surprised if they use AI to write their thank-you notes."
He turned back to Marcus, his silhouette sharp against the glass. "They've traded capability for convenience. They call it 'independence,' but it's really just a lack of discipline. A woman who can't maintain a home can't maintain a legacy. It's all flash and no substance."
"I was just trying to see if there was a diamond in the rough," Marcus sighed, finishing his drink. "She was stunning, I'll give her that. Spirited, too. But the moment she started lecturing me on how she 'brought the table' to the relationship instead of being able to set it... I knew it was over. I actually feel a bit of pity for her, honestly. And pity for whoever ends up with her. It'll be a life of takeout boxes and dry-cleaning bills."
Johnson offered a cold, knowing smile. "Don't waste your pity. She'll find someone just like her—some modern man who thinks a 'partnership' means two people living separate, high-speed lives under the same roof until the first minor inconvenience breaks them. They deserve each other."
Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "You have to at least see what I was dealing with. She's a masterpiece to look at, even if the interior is a disaster."
He swiped through his gallery and held the phone out. Johnson took it with a disinterested air, his eyes scanning the screen.
The photo was a candid shot of Jessica from her social media—taken at a rooftop bar, her dark hair wind-swept, her laughter caught mid-breath, eyes sparkling with a wild, unapologetic light. She looked radiant, vibrant, and utterly chaotic.
Johnson stared at the image for a moment longer than he intended. To his logical mind, she represented everything he detested: the lack of restraint, the urban flash, the rejection of the "traditional" peace he craved.
"Well?" Marcus asked. "She's gorgeous, right?"
Johnson handed the phone back, his face a mask of elegant disdain. "She looks like a disaster in a designer dress, Marcus. You can see it in her eyes—that 'carefree' look is just a lack of direction. She looks like the kind of woman who would set a kitchen on fire trying to boil water and then laugh about it on social media. She's exactly why I'm leaving for Cavendish."
He walked back to his desk, picking up a folder labeled Cavendish Properties. "In the countryside, people still value the manual arts. They value order. They don't need an app to tell them how to live. This woman..." he gestured vaguely toward the phone Marcus had just put away, "is a symptom of a dying culture. Beautiful, perhaps, but ultimately unruly."
"Good luck in the country, then," Marcus said, standing up. "I hope you find your ideal wife. I think I'm done with dating for a while."
"I won't need luck," Johnson replied confidently. "I have a plan. And my plan doesn't include women who treat a home like a hotel."
As Marcus left, Johnson glanced one last time at the space where the phone had been. The image of the woman's laughing face lingered in his mind for a split second before he pushed it away, replacing it with the image of a quiet, orderly house in the country.