# MY PERFECT WIFE
### A Novel by Huddon S Lajah
---
# CHAPTER ONE
## The Ultimatum
---
The chandeliers in the Castellan Grand Hall cost more than most people's houses.
Mario knew this because his father reminded him every single time they hosted an event. Thirty-seven chandeliers, imported crystal from Vienna, hand-assembled by artisans who had been flown in on a private jet, housed in a five-star hotel for six weeks, and fed nothing but organic, locally-sourced meals while they worked.
"Those chandeliers," Don Castellan would say, swirling whiskey in a glass that also cost more than most people's cars, "represent *excellence*. Every crystal was selected individually. Every chain link was measured to the millimeter. That is what it means to be a Castellan. We do not accept adequate. We demand *exceptional*."
Mario had heard this speech approximately four hundred and seventy-two times.
Tonight, standing beneath those very chandeliers in a tailored Armani suit that felt like a beautifully constructed prison, Mario wondered if the artisans had known they were creating instruments of psychological torture. Every glittering fragment seemed to whisper: *You are not exceptional. You are barely adequate. Your father is disappointed in you.*
He took a sip of champagne—Dom Pérignon, 2008, because of course it was—and checked his watch.
8:47 PM.
His birthday party had officially begun at 7:00 PM. He had been smiling for one hour and forty-seven minutes. His face hurt. His soul hurt. His *existence* hurt.
"Mario! There you are!"
He turned to find his Aunt Celestina bearing down on him like a silk-wrapped torpedo. She was seventy-three years old, wore diamonds that could fund a small country's education system, and had the uncanny ability to appear whenever Mario was most desperate to be alone.
"Auntie," he said, arranging his face into something approximating warmth. "How lovely to see you."
"Twenty-eight years old!" She grabbed his face with both hands, her rings digging into his cheeks. "Twenty-eight! I remember when you were born. Tiny little thing. Wouldn't stop crying."
*Still won't*, Mario thought.
"You look just like your father did at this age," Celestina continued, finally releasing his face. "Same jaw. Same eyes. Same *intensity*."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment, dear."
Before Mario could process this, she was gone, swept away by a current of elderly relatives who all seemed to move as a single, jewelry-encrusted organism.
Mario exhaled slowly. Counted to ten. Reminded himself that fleeing his own birthday party would confirm every rumor that circulated about him in the family WhatsApp group.
*Mario is antisocial.*
*Mario thinks he's too good for us.*
*Mario will die alone surrounded by money and regrets.*
That last one had been from his grandmother. She'd added a crying-laughing emoji, which somehow made it worse.
The Grand Hall was packed with three hundred of the Castellan family's closest friends and strategic acquaintances. Business partners mingled with old-money aristocrats. Tech entrepreneurs traded cards with real estate moguls. Everyone was beautiful, everyone was wealthy, and everyone was watching Mario with the same expression: calculating assessment masked by social pleasantry.
He knew what they were thinking.
*The heir. The only son. Twenty-eight and unmarried. What's wrong with him?*
Mario had answers to that question. Several, in fact. He kept them filed away in the part of his brain labeled "Things That Will Never Be Discussed At Family Functions."
"You look like you're plotting an escape route."
He turned. His mother stood beside him, elegant in emerald green, her silver-streaked hair swept into a complicated updo that had probably required three stylists and a structural engineer.
"I've identified seven," Mario replied. "Eight if you count the window behind the ice sculpture."
"The ice sculpture is a swan. You'd have to decapitate it."
"I've made my peace with that."
Donna Lucia Castellan smiled—a real smile, not the performance she wore for guests. She was the only person in the room who looked at Mario like he was a human being rather than an investment portfolio in a suit.
"Your father wants to speak with you," she said.
Mario's champagne turned to acid in his stomach. "When?"
"After the cake."
"Can I leave before the cake?"
"You're the birthday boy."
"A technicality."
Lucia squeezed his arm. There was something in her eyes—sympathy? Warning? Both?—that made Mario's unease crystallize into genuine dread.
"Just... hear him out," she said softly. "And remember, whatever he says, you have options. You always have options."
She drifted away before he could ask what that meant.
Mario stared at the space where she'd been, his mind racing through possibilities. His father wanted to speak with him. Privately. After making a public spectacle of the birthday cake. This was either very good news or catastrophically bad news, and in Mario's twenty-eight years of experience, the Castellan family did not specialize in good news.
He drained his champagne and signaled a waiter for another.
It was going to be a long night.
---
The cake was six tiers tall and shaped like the Majestic Land Co. headquarters building.
Mario stared at it with the hollow resignation of a man who had long ago accepted that his family would find ways to make even cake about business.
"A masterpiece!" Don Castellan announced to the assembled crowd. He stood beside the architectural dessert, one hand raised like a conductor preparing to unleash a symphony. "Custom designed by Chef Laurent Dubois, flown in from Paris specifically for this occasion. Each tier represents a decade of Majestic Land's growth, with the fondant façade recreating our flagship property in exact detail."
There was appreciative applause. Mario wondered if anyone else noticed that the cake-building had more windows than his actual office. The pastry version of his workplace was literally brighter than reality.
"And now," Don Castellan continued, his voice carrying the practiced resonance of a man who had delivered ten thousand speeches and believed every one of them, "we celebrate not just a birthday, but a *legacy*. My son. My heir. The future of everything our family has built."
More applause. A few "hear, hear"s from the older crowd. Someone wolf-whistled, which was either supportive or deeply ironic.
Mario stepped forward, accepted a cartoonishly large knife, and posed beside the cake while three photographers captured the moment from multiple angles.
"Smile, darling," someone called.
He smiled. It felt like a facial cramp.
"Speech!" another voice demanded.
Mario's smile became fixed. "I'm not—"
"SPEECH! SPEECH! SPEECH!"
The chant spread through the crowd like a virus. Three hundred people, many of whom Mario actively avoided on a daily basis, all demanding that he speak.
He glanced at his father. Don Castellan's expression said: *Do not embarrass me.*
He glanced at his mother. Her expression said: *I'm sorry.*
He looked at the crowd. They were waiting. Hungry. Ready to dissect whatever he said and discuss it for months.
Mario cleared his throat.
"Thank you all for coming," he began, his voice flat. "I'm told the shrimp is excellent. Please enjoy it."
He cut the cake.
Silence. Then, uncomfortable laughter. Then, applause that sounded more relieved than enthusiastic.
His father's eye twitched. It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but Mario had spent a lifetime learning to read that face. The twitch meant displeasure. The twitch meant *consequences*.
"Wonderful!" Don Castellan recovered smoothly, stepping in to command attention. "My son, ever efficient. Why waste words when there's Chef Laurent's masterpiece to enjoy? Everyone, please—eat, drink, celebrate!"
The crowd dispersed toward the dessert table. Mario tried to slip away, but a hand caught his elbow.
"My study," Don Castellan said quietly. "Five minutes."
He was gone before Mario could respond.
---
The walk to his father's study felt like a march to execution.
Mario's shoes clicked against marble floors that had been imported from Italy. He passed paintings that could fund hospital wings. He climbed stairs that had witnessed three generations of Castellan family drama, each step worn smooth by decades of anxious footsteps.
The study door was oak. Actual oak, from an actual tree that had been growing for two hundred years before someone decided it would look better as a door in a rich man's house.
Mario knocked.
"Enter."
He did.
Don Eduardo Castellan sat behind a desk the size of a small country. The room around him was designed to intimidate: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace that could roast a wild boar, and windows that overlooked the family's private gardens like a general surveying conquered territory.
"Close the door."
Mario closed it.
"Sit."
Mario sat.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Don Castellan studied his son with eyes that had negotiated billion-dollar deals, destroyed competitors, and built an empire from the ground up. He was sixty-one years old, silver-haired, sharp-featured, and absolutely terrifying.
"Twenty-eight," he finally said.
"Yes."
"When I was twenty-eight, I had already founded Majestic Land. Acquired my first three properties. Married your mother." A pause. "Had *you*."
Mario said nothing. He knew this speech. He'd heard variations of it at every birthday since he'd turned eighteen.
"You," Don Castellan continued, "are twenty-eight. And what have you accomplished?"
"I have three master's degrees."
"Paper."
"I've overseen the Southeast Asian expansion—"
"*Overseen*. You didn't *create*. You didn't *build*. You sat in your office and approved other people's work."
"That's what executives do."
"That is what *employees* do." Don Castellan leaned forward. "I did not build this empire to raise an *employee*."
Mario felt the familiar burn of frustration in his chest. "What do you want from me, Father? I've done everything you've asked. Every school. Every internship. Every position in the company. I've checked every box—"
"Except one."
The words hung in the air.
Mario went still.
"You're unmarried," Don Castellan said. "Twenty-eight years old, heir to a multi-billion dollar empire, and *unmarried*. Do you know how that looks?"
"I wasn't aware my relationship status was a business metric."
"*Everything* is a business metric." Don Castellan stood, moving to the window. His silhouette against the moonlit gardens looked like a monument. "Our family's legacy is not just financial. It's *dynastic*. Generational. Your grandfather built the foundation. I built the empire. And you..."
He turned.
"You will continue the bloodline. Or you will be removed from succession."
Mario's heart stopped.
Then restarted, pounding.
"You can't be serious."
"I am always serious."
"You're going to disinherit me because I'm not married?"
"I'm going to disinherit you because you're *incapable of connection*." Don Castellan's voice sharpened. "Do you think I haven't noticed? Twenty-eight years, and you've never had a real relationship. Never brought anyone home. Never even mentioned a *name*. My contacts tell me you leave every social event within an hour. My staff tells me you eat lunch alone in your office every single day. Your own *mother* has to schedule appointments to see you."
"That's—I'm busy—"
"You're *hiding*." Don Castellan slammed his palm against the desk. "You've been hiding your entire life. In books. In degrees. In that glass tower of an office where you can look down at the world without ever touching it. And I have *tolerated* this because I believed—foolishly—that you would grow out of it."
He picked up a folder from his desk. Manila. Thick. Ominous.
"You have not grown out of it. So I am giving you... assistance."
He tossed the folder to Mario.
Mario caught it reflexively. The cover was blank except for two words, embossed in gold:
**PERFECT WIFE**
His blood ran cold.
"What is this?"
"Your assignment." Don Castellan smiled. It was not a kind smile. "Open it."
Mario opened it.
The first page was a list of names. Twenty-four names, each accompanied by a photograph, a biographical summary, and what appeared to be a scoring matrix.
"Twenty-four women," Don Castellan said. "Carefully selected from across the social spectrum. Heiresses, entrepreneurs, artists, philanthropists. Each one vetted, each one available, each one potentially... *suitable*."
Mario flipped through the pages. Faces stared up at him. Smiling, poised, perfect.
"You want me to—what? Date all of them?"
"Precisely."
"That's insane."
"That's *business*." Don Castellan returned to his chair, settling into it like a king reclaiming his throne. "You will go on dates with each of these women. You will evaluate them. And by the end of the process, you will have categorized them as follows."
He held up fingers as he counted.
"Eight women suitable as casual companions—what the young people call 'side pieces,' I believe."
Mario choked.
"Twelve women suitable as serious girlfriends."
Mario's choking intensified.
"Three women suitable as potential fiancées."
Mario was now actively dying.
"And *one* woman," Don Castellan concluded, "suitable as your wife. Your *perfect* wife."
Silence.
Mario stared at his father. His father stared back.
"You're joking."
"I do not joke."
"This is—this is *medieval*. This is an arranged marriage. This is—"
"This is a *structured approach to a problem you have proven incapable of solving on your own*." Don Castellan's voice was ice. "Twenty-eight years, Mario. Twenty-eight years, and you have not formed a single meaningful romantic connection. So I am providing you with options. Twenty-four options. Surely even *you* can find *one* acceptable candidate among twenty-four."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you forfeit your position as heir. Your shares in the company will be redistributed. Your trust fund will be frozen. And you will be removed from this family in every way that matters."
The words hit like physical blows.
"You would do that," Mario said slowly. "You would actually do that. Over *this*."
"I would do *anything* to protect this family's legacy." Don Castellan's eyes were hard. "I built this empire from nothing. I will not watch it crumble because my only son is too *proud* to find a partner. Too *stubborn* to build a family. Too *broken* to love."
That last word echoed.
*Broken.*
Mario's hands were shaking. He realized, distantly, that he was still holding the folder. Twenty-four faces. Twenty-four strangers. His future, apparently, reduced to a selection process.
"The competition begins in one week," Don Castellan said. "You will meet all twenty-four candidates at an introductory gala. From there, you will proceed through a series of dates, eliminations, and evaluations. The entire process will take approximately three months."
"Competition," Mario repeated. "You're actually calling it a *competition*."
"Because that's what it is. These women are competing for the position of your wife. And you..." A thin smile. "You are competing to prove you're worthy of leading this family."
"And the women—they know? They've agreed to this... circus?"
"They've been briefed. Most come from families with business interests aligned with ours. A few are from less privileged backgrounds—included for... variety." Don Castellan waved a dismissive hand. "Regardless, they understand the stakes. The woman who wins becomes a Castellan. That is not an insignificant prize."
Mario looked at the folder again. The faces seemed to blur together. Smiling strangers, ready to perform for a chance at his name.
"This is insane," he said quietly.
"This is necessary."
"This is *humiliating*."
"Only if you fail."
Mario stood abruptly. The folder fell to the floor, photographs scattering across the antique rug. He didn't pick them up.
"I won't do this."
Don Castellan didn't react. "Then you lose everything."
"Maybe I don't want everything. Maybe I don't want *any* of this—the company, the empire, the *legacy*." Mario's voice rose, something cracking in his carefully maintained composure. "Maybe I just want to be left *alone*."
"Alone." Don Castellan tasted the word like something bitter. "Yes. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it? To hide in your solitude. To keep the world at arm's length. To exist in that cold, empty space where no one can reach you."
He stood, crossing to stand directly in front of his son.
"Let me tell you something about being alone, Mario. I watched my father die alone. In a hospital room, surrounded by money, abandoned by everyone he'd ever pushed away. He had power. He had wealth. He had *nothing* that mattered."
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered in Don Castellan's eyes. Something that looked almost like pain.
"I will not let that be your fate. Even if I have to *force* you into happiness, I will not let you become him."
Mario stared at his father. In twenty-eight years, he had never heard Don Castellan speak about his grandfather. Never heard this story. Never seen that flicker of humanity beneath the iron exterior.
It didn't change anything.
"Forcing someone into happiness," Mario said slowly, "is not how happiness works."
"Perhaps not. But it's a starting point." Don Castellan returned to his desk, the moment of vulnerability already buried. "One week. The gala. Be there, or don't. The choice is yours. But understand the consequences."
He sat. Picked up a pen. Began reviewing documents as if Mario had already left.
Mario stood in the middle of the study, photographs scattered at his feet, his entire life suddenly rearranged into a game he didn't want to play.
He thought about walking out. Saying something cutting. Refusing, definitively and dramatically, like a protagonist in a film.
Instead, he knelt.
Slowly, mechanically, he gathered the scattered photographs. Placed them back in the folder. Straightened the pages.
Twenty-four faces looked up at him.
*Your potential wives*, they seemed to say. *Choose wisely.*
Mario closed the folder.
"One week," he said.
His father didn't look up.
Mario left.
---
The hallway outside the study was empty.
Mario walked. He wasn't sure where—away, just *away*—his feet carrying him through familiar corridors that suddenly felt foreign. The party continued somewhere behind him, three hundred people celebrating his birthday without noticing he'd disappeared.
Story of his life, really.
He found himself on the east terrace, overlooking the gardens. The night air was cool against his flushed face. The city glittered in the distance, millions of lives proceeding normally while his own imploded.
*Twenty-four dates. Eight side chicks. Twelve girlfriends. Three fiancées. One wife.*
The mathematics of romance, reduced to a spreadsheet.
Mario laughed. It came out wrong—more sob than humor—but he couldn't stop. He laughed until his ribs ached, until tears pricked at his eyes, until the absurdity of his existence threatened to crush him completely.
"That bad, huh?"
He spun.
His mother stood in the terrace doorway, emerald dress catching the moonlight. She held two glasses—whiskey, from the look of it—and her expression held none of the usual social performance.
"I brought reinforcements," she said, offering him a glass. "You look like you need them."
Mario took the drink. Downed half of it immediately.
"He told you," he said. "The plan. The... competition."
"He told me." Lucia moved to stand beside him at the railing. "Six months ago, actually. When he first started organizing it."
"*Six months?*"
"These things take time. Vetting candidates. Coordinating schedules. Ensuring the legal paperwork is in order."
"Legal paperwork," Mario repeated flatly.
"Non-disclosure agreements. Liability waivers. Each candidate signs a comprehensive contract before entering the competition. This is a Castellan production, darling. We don't do anything halfway."
Mario finished his whiskey. Considered throwing the glass over the railing. Decided against it only because the gardeners didn't deserve extra work.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would it have helped?"
"I could have prepared—"
"You would have run." Lucia's voice was gentle but certain. "You would have found some excuse—a business trip, a sudden illness, an extended meditation retreat in Tibet—and by the time you returned, your father would have simply rescheduled."
She wasn't wrong. Mario had already run through seven escape plans in his head, each more impractical than the last.
"So I'm trapped."
"You're *challenged*." Lucia turned to face him. "There's a difference."
"The difference being?"
"A trap has no escape. A challenge has a path through." She reached out, touching his arm. "Your father is not wrong about everything, Mario. You *are* isolated. You *have* built walls that keep everyone out. And while I understand why—I *do*, perhaps better than you know—I also see what it's costing you."
"I'm fine."
"You're surviving. That's not the same as living."
Mario looked away. The city lights blurred as his eyes burned.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly. "Any of it. The dates, the conversation, the... *connection*. I don't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know how to let people in."
Lucia was quiet for a long moment.
"Do you want to know a secret?" she finally asked.
Mario nodded.
"Neither did your father. When I met him, he was the most closed-off, awkward, emotionally constipated man I had ever encountered. Our first date, he spent forty-five minutes discussing property zoning regulations."
Despite everything, Mario felt his lips twitch. "That sounds... accurate."
"It was *terrible*." Lucia laughed, soft and fond. "But underneath all that posturing, all that armor, there was someone worth knowing. Someone who was terrified of being seen, because he believed that who he truly was would never be enough."
She looked at Mario meaningfully.
"Sound familiar?"
Mario said nothing.
"The competition is absurd," Lucia continued. "The premise is insulting. The execution will undoubtedly be a circus. But somewhere among those twenty-four women, there might be someone who sees past your armor. Someone who makes you *want* to let the walls down."
"And if there isn't?"
"Then you'll have survived twenty-four awkward dates, developed your social skills, and proven to yourself that connection is possible—even if it's not permanent." She squeezed his arm. "You lose nothing by trying, Mario. But you might gain everything."
Mario stared at the gardens. Somewhere out there, twenty-four women were preparing to compete for him. Twenty-four strangers who saw him as a prize, a strategic opportunity, a means to an end.
Just like everyone else.
"I should go back to the party," he said.
"You should."
"They'll notice I've been gone."
"They already have."
"Fantastic."
He moved toward the door, then stopped.
"Mother."
"Yes?"
"The folder. The candidates. Did you... help choose them?"
Lucia smiled—a strange, secretive smile.
"I made a few... suggestions."
"What kind of suggestions?"
"The kind that might surprise you." She gestured toward the party. "Now go. Smile. Pretend you're not falling apart. It's what Castellans do."
Mario went.
But he couldn't shake the feeling that his mother knew something he didn't.
---
The party lasted until 2 AM.
Mario smiled. He shook hands. He accepted birthday wishes from people whose names he immediately forgot. He posed for photographs beside his cake-building, his chandeliers, his legacy—all the things that belonged to him and none of which made him happy.
At 2:15 AM, the last guests departed.
At 2:20 AM, Mario found himself alone in his penthouse, forty floors above the city, staring at the manila folder he'd brought home without meaning to.
**PERFECT WIFE**
He opened it.
Twenty-four faces. Twenty-four strangers. Victoria Sterling, heiress to a pharmaceutical empire—beautiful, blonde, calculating eyes. Penelope Huang, concert pianist, shy smile, looked like she wanted to disappear into the photograph. Roxanne Del Monte, actress, dramatic pose, probably exhausting.
He flipped through. Names and faces blurred together. Heiresses, entrepreneurs, socialites, artists. Some smiled warmly. Others posed strategically. All of them, presumably, ready to perform for the chance to become his wife.
Mario reached the final page.
The last name. The last face.
She wasn't posing. She wasn't smiling strategically. She was laughing—actually laughing—at something outside the frame, her whole face lit up with genuine joy. Her biographical summary was shorter than the others:
**Jawin Mendez. Age 26. Occupation: Service industry. Family background: Middle class. Special notes: Entry sponsored by Salma Al-Rashid.**
No fortune. No famous family. No strategic value.
Why was she here?
Mario stared at the photograph. At that laugh. At those eyes that seemed to be looking at something wonderful just beyond the camera's reach.
He closed the folder.
Crossed to the window.
The city sprawled beneath him, millions of lives, millions of stories, and here he was—alone in a tower, surrounded by everything money could buy, tasked with finding love through a competition designed by his father.
*Eight side chicks. Twelve girlfriends. Three fiancées. One wife.*
The mathematics of loneliness.
Mario poured himself a drink.
It was going to be a very long three months.
---
🤗🤗🤗 Continues 🤗🤗🤗