"Men are utility items, Seraphina. Never forget that." The words were a stone she set on the fresh earth before closing the small metal box. She checked her diamond watch—two diamonds winked like tiny sentries—then slid the box under her gloves. The cemetery smelled like rain and cold stone. A mourner in black had no right to flash that kind of jewelry, but Seraphina liked reminders: assets, always assets. "Do we have the list?" she asked without looking up. Her assistant, Miles, hovered a step back, tablet clutched like a shield. He was too young to have learned discretion or too practiced at pretending to be surprised. Either way, he was useful. "Yes. Twenty-seven names," Miles said. He handed over the tablet. "I filtered for lineage, fertility records, public temper—" "Temper?" Seraphina cut him off. She smiled with only the corner of her mouth. "Do not filter out temper. Temper means backbone. Backbone is selectable." She tapped the screen. Photos streamed: athletes in suits, a senator with soft eyes, a celebrity with veneers like polished teeth. Names scrolled. Net worth, family tree, health notes. She skimmed. Two minutes. She rejected a senator because his jaw dipped with a lazy cleft—strong, but his private photos suggested he liked to be told what to do. Rejected an actor because his sperm analysis had been... inconsistent. Rejected a tech heir because he had precisely one tattoo—a rose—and that signaled sentimentality she couldn't afford. "This is tedious