Sheriff Crimson — therapist of the broken, sculptor of minds, and the cold-blooded genius of City G — always wanted a son.
A carbon copy of himself. Sharp. Stoic. Flawless.
But marriage?
No, thanks. He’d rather dissect emotions than marry them.
So he signed contracts — no love, no drama, just biology and paperwork.
> Clause 1: She gives birth.
Clause 2: She leaves forever.
Clause 3: The baby belongs to Sheriff Crimson
Seven women. Seven contracts. Seven clinical attempts at crafting his legacy.
And yet... the universe giggled.
Seven daughters.
Not a single boy in sight. Just estrogen, rebellion, and PMS season on rotation.
He gave up on the "son dream."
But by then… it was too late.
He had raised not princes, but seven ticking time bombs in mascara — sarcastic, savage, and completely uninterested in fitting into the mold he wanted.
God didn't give him a reflection.
He gave him a mirror maze with lipstick and brass knuckles.
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