After sitting up and taking a moment, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and started looking around, feeling the soft carpet under my feet. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a mirror—and staring at my chest!

It used to be like a kid’s dinner roll. How did it suddenly become a C cup?

I didn’t even have time to be secretly thrilled before I looked up and realized…this face didn’t look like mine either.
???

I froze, still trying to process it, when a scream sounded from outside. I bolted out and saw a woman in the hallway.

She was strikingly elegant, with a well-kept figure, and dripping in pearls and jewels — obviously a wealthy matron.

But I didn’t know her. Still, I had this inexplicable feeling of familiarity.

In a flash, something clicked in my head. I jumped up and the woman across from me looked equally stunned. I blurted, “Mom!”

“Rosie!” she cried at the same time.

The words had just left our mouths when we were stunned all over again.

Then we ran to each other and burst into tears.

By the time we calmed down, an hour had passed.

My mom, Hazel Bennett, put on a serious face and asked me earnestly, “Rosie, you’ve seen the world. Do you know what’s going on?”

I didn’t answer.

Inside, I already had a vague guess.

A lifetime of reading novels told me what had happened: we had somehow woken up as other people. The question was, who?

I paced the room until I found a diary with the owner’s name on it. I got excited and called to my mom, “Mom, I found it!”

The eyes in this body were a little nearsighted, so I had to lean in to read the neatly written name — Claire Bennett.

I froze.

My mom came closer, glanced, and asked in confusion, “Rosie, why does it say your name here?”

Rosie was Mom’s nickname for me; Claire Bennett was my real name. Then a terrible realization hit me—oh no.

I looked at her and said, “Mom, we’re screwed.”

She could tell from my expression something was wrong and smacked my arm, frantic, “What do you mean screwed? Say it!”

I sat there dumbfounded on the carpet and said, “We’ve been transported into a novel.”

“Huh? What—”

Her voice went hoarse with excitement. I quickly put a hand over her mouth. “Mom, don’t get excited!”

I explained the whole waking-up-inside-a-book situation, then said, “This girl is supposed to be the heroine. Her name is Claire Bennett, just like mine. And you’re her mother.”

My mom smiled. “Oh? That’s good — the female lead! Eating well, living easy…”

I sighed. “Except this book gives the happy ending to her enemy.”

She blinked, unsure.

The book’s title was The Side Character’s Comeback: CEO, Stay Away — the very novel I’d binged the night I stayed up.

Heather Collins was the jealous side character in the first version of events. She died bitter, got a second chance at life, and came back determined to steal Claire’s happy ending.

The original female lead, Claire Bennett, is the legitimate eldest daughter of the Bennetts, betrothed since childhood to Ethan Mercer. But when Claire was nineteen, supposedly her father’s old flame arrived with an illegitimate daughter, Heather Collins, and chaos ensued.

Claire hadn’t really done anything wrong. Heather just felt robbed, and I remember disliking Heather while reading. Now—well, maybe it’s karma.

And it dragged my mom into the mess.

Guilty as charged.

Flipping through Claire’s diary, I realized these entries were from when she was nineteen. Doing the math, Heather and her mother should arrive tomorrow.

I wanted to cry.

I couldn’t even enjoy this body before the suffering began.

My mom, after the initial emotional roller coaster, had calmed down, gone to her room, and probably already showered. I hurried over to talk strategy.

But when I opened the door, she was lying on the bed watching Country Roses, a wildly melodramatic small-town soap opera, looking completely relaxed.

I gasped. “Mom! What are you doing? We’re practically going to die!”

She paused the show, sighed, and said, “Sweetie, I thought it through. If this is a novel, our endings are written. If the Reaper says we die, what can we do? Let’s just enjoy life until the end — maybe by the time we go peacefully, things will reset and we’ll be back.”

I…had no words.

After a moment she and I ended up sitting on the bed, sharing potato chips and watching the show.

During a commercial I popped a chip in my mouth and said, “Mom, the supporting character and her mother come tomorrow.”

She looked at me with mild annoyance. “Finish chewing before you talk — you almost spit on me.”

Then she added, “Let them come. We can’t change fate. The more you fight it, the harder it pushes back. Don’t waste your energy.”

I had to admit — she had a point.

We ended up watching the show until past midnight.

Right before bed, my mom suddenly started crying.

I was surprised.

Hadn’t she come to terms with it?

Was she still scared?

I felt a pang and was about to comfort her when she blurted, "Why did Tony hit Cora? He loves her, doesn’t he? Men really can’t be trusted!"

Tony and Cora were characters in Country Roses. Mom was crying over the couple on TV, not over our own predicament.

I: "…"

Section 2

The next morning, still half-asleep, I was rudely awakened by my mom’s booming voice.

"Rosie! Rosie!"

Knowing what would happen if I stayed in bed, I rubbed my eyes and went downstairs. There she was, apron on, and—wait—there were a bunch of people standing around. A bunch of people!

I snapped fully awake.

An older man at the front was probably the butler; he glanced at my mom, embarrassed. "Ma’am, you don’t need to do this—"

My mom cut him off. "What’s wrong with me making my daughter something to eat? Don’t fuss!"

Then she looked at me. "Rosie, come down and eat!"

Rosie… The people standing below instinctively glanced at me, then quickly looked away.

The room fell quiet.

Just then, a handsome middle-aged man came out. He carried himself with authority in a black suit and frowned at the scene. "What’s going on here?"

If I wasn’t mistaken, this had to be Claire Bennett’s father from the original book—the famously cold, ruthless man who loved no one: Gregory Bennett.

Seeing his face made it impossible for me to keep a straight face.

Gregory looked at me and frowned. "What’s wrong with you?"

I forced my smile away.

In the novel, Gregory never liked his wife; compared to us, he only ever showed kindness to his first love. So we absolutely could not make any trouble in front of him.

Before I could warn my mom, she pointed the spatula at Gregory and said, “Rosie, isn’t that Tony from Country Roses?”

I: "…"

Silence fell again.

Realizing she’d misspoken, my mom sidled up to me and whispered, “Rosie, your father really does look a lot like Tony on TV…”

I: "…"

Gregory had apparently had enough. He took a deep breath and turned to the butler. “Cancel breakfast.”

And with that, he left.

After he was gone I couldn’t help but laugh.

My mom didn’t laugh. She patted my head. "Eat!"

Wealthy people really had it good.

My mom checked the money on her phone and smiled in satisfaction. "Now we can afford new outfits for the community dance group."

I: "…"

Back home, Mom had led a line-dancing team at our neighborhood community center. She entered competitions, won prizes, and took rehearsals more seriously than most people took their jobs. Apparently waking up rich wasn’t going to change her priorities.

Now we were all in the living room: my mom and me, my father Gregory Bennett, and Heather with her mother, Cora. Everyone stared at everyone else.

Mom nodded toward Heather’s mother and whispered, “And now the scheming ex has shown up. We really are living in one of my soaps.”

I couldn’t help laughing, but I caught Heather’s eyes—sharp and vicious. That murderous look sliced straight at me and I panicked, tugging on my mom’s sleeve.

She shot me a look and gritted her teeth. "Don’t pull me. I’m scared too!"

I: "…"

With his supposedly pitiful first love beside him, Gregory’s expression was oddly contemplative. He lowered his head and asked, "How about we let them stay here?"

That scene was in the book too.

In the book, Claire and her mother had refused, but Heather and Cora had moved in anyway. That was the start of Heather’s terrible revenge on Claire.

No point fighting what was already set.

So my mom and I raised our hands like we’d talked it over. "Yes, yes! Please, please! We’re family!"

Even though we were trying to be friendly, everyone in the room looked confused.

Heather and her mother wore expressions of suspicion and shock. Gregory, though, furrowed his brow—he looked displeased.

Had we messed up again?

Back in our old world, my mom was kind of a legend. Well, that’s what Aunt Nora, Mom’s younger sister, always said. I was too young back then to remember much.

Aunt Nora told me she and Mom had lost their parents young and grown up dependent on others. With no one to guide them, they both married young. My mom married a man who ran a restaurant in the county: my biological father back in that world, not Gregory Bennett.

Before marriage he seemed okay, but he turned out to be abusive. When my mom had just given birth to me and was still recovering from childbirth, my dad beat her while drunk. She didn’t say a word or resist, but when her postpartum recovery period ended, she hit him over the head with a hammer and sent him to the hospital.

Domestic violence isn’t a once-and-done thing; it’s either zero times or countless. That said, some people only ever give one chance in a lifetime.

After he spent a month in the hospital, they divorced. They say my dad didn’t even dare show his face at the divorce.

Then my mom left with me and raised me alone.

Life was hard from the start. I was ready to face whatever came with my mom, but I never expected one of those things to be waking up inside a novel.

No—this wasn’t hardship. It was a blessing.

I couldn’t help smiling.

My mom, who’d already started tidying, saw my slightly smug grin and snapped to attention. "What are you smiling about? Move that stool in!"

I sighed.

I knew that with Mom around, even in the original Claire Bennett’s place, I wasn’t going to enjoy a pampered heiress’s life.

Heather and her mother Cora were mostly moved in; they were probably still putting things away and hadn’t come looking to start trouble. Good.

After a day of chaotic bustle, it was almost time for dinner.

After Mom finished tidying up, she briskly went downstairs and started cooking. I wanted to stop her, but I overheard her tell the butler, "From now on, you don’t need to clean Rosie’s room or mine anymore. I’ll clean them myself, and I’ll be solely responsible for our three meals every day."

The butler froze.

He blinked his round eyes and glanced at me.

I had no choice but to glare back.

"Uh—m-ma’am, isn’t that—?"

Mom pretended she didn’t hear and swung the spatula, already expertly cooking.

Section 3

That night we ate Mom’s signature dish, her secret specialty: three-ingredient noodle stew.

By the time Gregory got home, Mom had just finished. Like always, she hollered at me in her booming voice, "Rosie! Come down for dinner!"

I paused the drama I was watching and slowly made my way down, only to run into Heather and her mother in the hallway.

In the original story, the reborn Heather is haughty and cruel, and Claire—well, Claire was supposed to be a rich girl who was all bark and no bite. But now that I’m inside her, even the barking’s gone. I’ve turned into a complete blank.

So when Heather walked up, shot me a glare and let out a disdainful snort, I immediately took the hint and bent slightly, making a polite gesture. "After you."

Heather: "…"

But my deferential pose didn’t win her over; it made things worse. The usually cold, dismissive Heather looked almost enraged, shot me an even sharper glare, and swept away with heavy footsteps like she was scouring the floor with her shoes.

I was puzzled and hadn’t even figured out what I’d done wrong when Mom’s voice boomed up from downstairs again.

"Rosie! Get down here!"

When she used that tone, it meant time was up. I snapped back, took two steps at a time, and hurried down.

The atmosphere at the table was weird.

The dishes were clearly split into two camps.

On one side, Gregory and Cora’s spread of delicacies. On the other: Mom’s three-ingredient noodle stew set in front of me.

I looked at their feast and swallowed.

Mom glanced at me with half-closed eyes and said, flat, "I’ll make your favorite pickled radish tomorrow."

Silence fell over the table again.

Cora broke it. She plucked a piece of fish and gently placed it into Gregory’s bowl, her voice sweet as honey. "Greg, eat more meat. You’re too thin."

Heather chimed in, "Yeah, Dad. No one used to take care of you, but you have Mom and me now."

She shot a casual look at me as she said it, another little snort through her nose.

Gregory didn’t show much reaction—just a soft "hmm"—which only deepened my curiosity.

How do people make those perfectly sharp, scornful snorts? They seem dangerously effective. If I could master that, my aura would level up, right?

So I started practicing discreetly.

I got into it, really focused—until my nose tickled, I sneezed loudly, and noodle broth shot out of my nose.

Me: "…"

Mom: "Suck it back in!"

Everyone else: "…"

You go through a lot of embarrassing moments in life. No matter what, you have to keep it together.

So I calmly let a tear roll down.

"Mom… I’m full…"

As people got up to leave, I thought I saw Gregory holding in a smirk—maybe he wasn’t angry, maybe he was suppressing laughter. I couldn’t be sure.

Back in my room, I felt like myself again. I blew my nose with relief and went back to the drama.

After a bit, Mom came in, bustling around and clanging things for a while before telling me from the doorway, "Don’t lie down right after eating. Go downstairs and get some activity."

I scrunched up on the bed and stared at the screen, pretending I hadn’t heard her.

It was early spring and still chilly mornings and evenings. I’m the kind of person who freezes in a draft; if I went out now, something supernatural would’ve had to happen.

In the end, she didn’t drag me out.

When I finished the entire show, an empty, indescribable feeling settled in.

Bored, I opened Claire’s Instagram.

Flipping through it, I realized the account was peak trust-fund kid—designer bags, luxury vacations, rich friends in the comments. In her DMs, I found a conversation with Ethan Mercer.

It didn’t take a genius to guess: this was the original male lead.

Right now the plot was probably just getting started. Heather must have hooked up with the male lead before coming to the Bennetts’—already grabbed his attention. In a few chapters, he would fall for her.

Thinking that, my thumb hovered over the block button. But cutting him off could change the plot, so I couldn’t risk it. I left his account alone and mentally filed him under “Goofball.”

I skimmed the rest of Claire’s DMs. She rarely messaged anyone, but a sales associate from a Valencia counter had messaged: a limited-edition bag had arrived—only 25 worldwide.

Tempting.

I couldn’t help but want to see that legendary limited piece, to taste a bit of the rich life.

So the next morning after breakfast I dragged Mom out.

I mapped the bus route out of habit, but when we stepped outside, I noticed rich people all had personal drivers now.

The driver waiting by the door asked politely, "Ma’am, Miss, heading out? I can drive you."

Mom glanced at the car, then, in a cool, noble tone, asked the driver, "Do you have a plastic bag?"

Driver: "Huh?"

Mom: "…I get carsick."

After I reassured her a bunch of times that the luxury car’s suspension was rock-steady, she reluctantly climbed in.

The mall was only half an hour away, but Mom slept so soundly in the car she started snoring.

I felt a little awkward, but she’s my mom—couldn’t exactly look down on her—so I smoothed things over with the driver. “She’s certainly sleeping soundly,” I said. “Just listen to her. Isn’t that great?”

The driver: “……”

When we reached our destination, I shook my mom awake. The driver waited in the car while we went into the mall. The moment she saw where we were, my mom froze. “Honey… this… isn’t this really expensive? What if we can’t afford it?”

She must still be half-asleep.

So I coached her gently: “Who are you right now?”

My mom gave me a baffled look. “I’m Hazel Bennett.”

I panicked. “I mean right now!”

My mom: “…Right now?”

“Like… that… cannon-fodder?”

That didn’t make any sense at all.

I lost patience and laid it out bluntly. “Right now, you’re the lady of the Bennett household. I’m your daughter—the bona fide rich daughter!”

Only then did my mom register what I meant.

The change in her was immediate.

She pulled sunglasses out of her bag, put them on like a proper doyenne and said in full rich-lady fashion, “Let’s go look.”

Okay!

So we strode in with all the confidence in the world.

The boutique that had messaged last night wasn’t in view, so we just wandered wherever felt right.

This being a top-tier city mall, everything inside was designer. My mom and I entered a women’s shop and the sales associates immediately hovered over us, all smiles.

“Hello, can I help you with anything?”

My mom said nothing, cultivating pure aristocratic disdain. Then she picked up a pink dress, held it up against me and asked the salesperson, “How much is this?”

The salesperson smiled brightly. “This is our brand’s newest limited edition, personally designed by Valencia—only fifteen pieces nationwide…”

Luxury brands always loved to mention how few pieces existed globally. Supposedly it triggers buyers.

That trick doesn’t work on poor people.

Never.

I have to admire luxury for never trying to sell to people who can’t afford it.

My mom got impatient listening to the spiel and cut her off. “I asked how much!”

A slightly older saleswoman stepped forward and said, “Two hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars, ma’am.”

My mom frowned, considered, then bargained, “Firm price—twenty! If not twenty, then never mind!”

Me: “…”

Saleswoman: “…”

My mom’s bargaining skill is legendary — if she thought she was second-best at something, no one would dare claim first.

Old habits die hard, so she applied them perfectly to this situation.

I inwardly cursed myself for not thinking ahead and landing us in this mess.

If that clerk hadn’t possibly recognized us, we’d have been shown the exit long ago.

Sensing the situation, I grabbed my mom and bolted.

Outside, watching my mom’s baffled expression, I sighed. “Mom, you can’t haggle at luxury stores.”

She widened her eyes. “What? That expensive and you can’t haggle? That’s ripping people off!”

Me: “…”

“Alright, let’s go, Rosie—Mom will get you a few dresses later.”

Me: “…”

That ended our shopping trip.

As we left the store, I silently vowed never to go shopping with Mom again. If I broke that promise, somebody needed to stage an intervention.

Naturally, Mom had one more stop: the market. By the time we reached the car, I was little more than a grocery cart with legs.

I had no energy left to explain myself to the driver’s surprised looks.

When we stepped inside, we ran right into Heather—dressed up and about to leave.

She looked at my mom and me as if we were garbage.

Luckily my mom was still fixated on her phone and scrolling bargain apps; otherwise we might’ve had a full-blown fight.

As for me, I figured being treated like trash was survivable so long as they didn’t try to ruin my life. Just then, a stranger’s voice called from behind.

“Heather.”

My mom looked up and met my eyes. Then we both turned—and nearly got blinded by the handsome man standing there.

Before I could figure out who he was, he seemed startled and said, “Claire Bennett?”

I froze.

Heather stepped forward and casually linked her arm through his, speaking softly, “Ethan, let’s go.”

Ethan?

That name sounded so familiar.

My brain short-circuited for a second before I realized—this was the male lead, Ethan Mercer!

In the original story, Ethan is the archetypal CEO alpha. Claire grew up with him and devoted herself to him, but he callously broke their engagement under the scheming influence of Heather, betraying Claire. He played a part in the terrible fate that befell Claire and her mother.

Realizing that made me even more terrified.

Two walking disasters right here.

The situation was awkward.

At this point in the timeline, Ethan hadn’t fallen for Heather yet—he still had feelings for Claire. His face held hesitation as he awkwardly offered, “We have some things to… handle…”

Things?

A date?

Heather’s expression turned cold.

Her eyes sliced at me like knives. I shivered and hurried, “No problem, take your time. Don’t rush. I’ll head inside first—have a good one…”

I gave my mom a look and we went straight in without looking back.

Only after the two of them left did we finally breathe.

My mom asked anxiously, “That meathead just now—he’s the male lead, right?”

“Meathead”? Mom never wasted time on formal introductions.

I flopped onto the couch, grabbed an apple and bit into it. “Yes. Strictly speaking, the two of them are the main culprits who killed Claire and her mother.”

My mom’s hand shook and her phone slipped out of it and fell to the floor.

"What are we supposed to do then?

“If nothing else works, we kneel and beg them!

“Better than dying!”

Me: "…"

My fear was that even if we begged, they still might not spare us.

I sighed. "Let’s take it slow. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Because we were both shaken up, Mom made chicken soup. After I finished two big bowls, Gregory came home.

He looked at me with soup dribbling from my mouth, then at my mom—apron on, hair a mess, deliberately ignoring him—and finally couldn’t hold it in. "What do you think you’re doing?"

At his voice, Cora barreled down the stairs at light speed and cooed in that syrupy tone, "Tired, right? What do you want to eat? I’ll have the cook make it."

Gregory scowled and said nothing.

I started to panic.

But my mom acted totally unfazed and kept eating the meat in her bowl as if no one else existed.

I was still a kid. My skin wasn’t nearly as thick as hers.

So I said, "Dad, why don’t you have some too?"

At my words, his face softened a little, then he looked at my mom. "Yeah, go get me a bowl too."

Me: "…"

My mom pretended not to hear and stayed put.

The atmosphere grew more and more awkward. I couldn’t help but give her a few secret kicks under the table. After a few of them, she finally stood up, shot me an irritated glare, and went to the kitchen.

I was exhausted. Living in this house felt like walking a tightrope—you never knew the day you’d fall.

Once he got his favorite chicken soup, Gregory visibly cheered up.

Cora, however, looked anything but pleased.

Trying to be fair, I hesitated, then asked, "Do you want a bowl too?"

Cora glared and snapped, "No!"

Maybe I phrased it wrong, so I tried again. "Okay—two bowls?"

Cora: "…"

"Three bowls?"

Cora: "…"

Still no?

I frowned and muttered, "Can’t have any more. If you take any more, there won’t be enough left…"

This time Cora answered, but not kindly. "Are you crazy?"

She hissed at me and stormed back upstairs.

Maybe it was the soup—really good chicken soup can fix a lot—because Gregory actually laughed. But the smile faded, and he asked me, "How are things going with Mr. Mercer lately?"

Ethan Mercer?

An idea popped into my head. What if I got Gregory to cancel my engagement to Ethan right away? Maybe then Heather would leave me alone.

I was thinking that when my mom made a sarcastic comment, "Who knows who was blind when they arranged this marriage—whoever did this to my daughter ought to be ashamed!"

Oh no. Was war about to start again?

I was about to sneak away when Gregory looked up, speechless, at my mother and said, “Wasn’t it you who fought so hard to arrange our daughter’s engagement to Ethan?”

My mother: "…"

Nothing stings worse than shooting yourself in the foot. My mom was left speechless.

Gregory then turned to me. “If you don’t want to marry Ethan, I can call off the engagement.”

I almost couldn’t hide my delighted smile and was about to say yes, but lightning-fast I thought of something—don’t CEOs usually get more interested in women who resist? If I voluntarily backed out now, what if his twisted curiosity was piqued and then I couldn’t get out of the engagement later? Disaster.

No. Absolutely not. CEOs are impossible.

I cleared my throat. "No need. I’ll handle it myself."

He grunted in agreement.

Back in my room, I fell into thought.

If I couldn’t directly call off the engagement, I had to make him do it.

How to push him into breaking it? After flipping through tons of scenarios in my head, I finally got it. Men like women who keep them guessing; they don’t like women who make a man their entire world.

Right. That’s it.

So my behavior earlier today was all wrong. I should act unreasonable—cry, make a scene, act like I’m about to hang myself—make him tired of me so the engagement dissolves faster.

Worried that I’d suddenly pique his interest again, I put Ethan alone on my Instagram Close Friends list and posted a Story just for him.

"Sometimes I pretend not to care. I smile outwardly while my heart’s being torn to pieces."

I paired it with an over-the-top picture of someone in tears.

No reply.

I wasn’t worried—this was only step one.

Being a freeloading heiress has its joys. Every day I ate, slept, and pestered Ethan Mercer with all kinds of lovey-dovey messages. I even changed my screen name to "Mrs. Mercer."

"Mrs. Mercer"—see how much I love him.

At first he was patient and kept saying he cared, but over time he grew perfunctory and rarely replied now.

I stared at a message stamped last Monday and smiled.

I’ve always been a bit of a muddler. Not that my brain’s broken—I’m just someone who doesn’t like digging too deep. I blame my mom—total genetic trait.

Take this transmigration business: other people might have freaked out or questioned their existence, but Mom and I were shocked for a second and then went back to eating and drinking, calm as could be, deciding to keep muddling through life.

We had questions, sure, but we never seriously wondered why it happened.

But today, after I posted that melodramatic Close Friends Story and then walked to the window to pull back the heavy curtains, the first noon sunbeam warmed my face. It felt like God’s hand touching me, his favor upon me. Suddenly a thought popped into my head—one I’d never had before: Who am I?

Where did I come from?

And where am I going?

No—actually three questions.

My expression turned serious as I started to ponder why I had come here.

Such a deep philosophical question obviously wasn’t something I could unpack in a single sitting. So over the next few days I fully transformed into a hard‑nosed truth‑seeking philosopher, radiating that enlightened recluse vibe.

One day my mom called me to eat, and I suddenly had a burning question.

"Mom, why do people have to eat?"

Mom: "…"

I assumed my profound query had stunned her, so I got cocky and pressed on. "Mom, who am I? And who are you?"

This time she didn’t freeze—she slapped me so hard I nearly threw up my guts.

"I’m your mother, damn it!"

Me: "…"

Vulgar humans!

But a mere slap wouldn’t stop my pursuit of truth.

So another day at the dinner table I dove into deep thinking again.

"Why am I here?"

Without a word, Mom slapped me again. "Eat!"

Just then, my father, Gregory Bennett, walked in. I turned to him and asked, “Who are you? And who am I?”

Gregory: "…"

I expected another beating, but to my surprise Mom didn’t hit me this time. She actually walked up to him and—shockingly—started a conversation, her voice fragile and worried.

"Maybe we should take the kid to the hospital sometime…"

Gregory: "…"

Me: "…"

Since I really didn’t want Mom to drag me to a hospital for being "weird," I temporarily shelved my philosopher act and decided to be an ordinary, worldly human.

Day one of being a worldly human: petty! Mundane! Unambitious!

Day two: bored! Dull! Humanity’s gone downhill!

Day N: foodie! Food obsessed! Eating is top tier!

During that stretch, I watched Heather and the hero getting closer, while I kept stirring the pot on social media until he grew to hate me more and more. Finally, one day he couldn’t hold back and messaged me. I couldn’t help smiling after such a long time.

“Can you stop being so ridiculous?! There’s nothing going on between Heather and me!”

A classic scumbag line.

I sent a crying emoji back, then replied, "If you really don’t want me, I’ll just die!"

He replied with a string of ellipses. No matter how much I provoked or disgusted him after that, he didn’t answer again.

That conversation left me oddly refreshed.

I planned to scroll more short videos, but I ended up falling asleep while doing it.

I don’t know how long I slept. Around five, a call woke me.

Groggy, I answered. A woman’s voice came through.

"What, Claire Bennett? If I don’t reach out first, are you done being my friend for life?"

That tone… smacked of trouble.

I snapped my eyes open.

The caller continued, "I’m back in town today. If you still call me a friend, meet me at the old spot tonight at eight. Sasha’s coming too. Come if you want."

Me: "…"

She hung up before I could answer. I stared at the contact name "Zoe" and felt like something clicked.

In the original book, Claire had a childhood best friend, a rich girl named Zoe Parker, and the mutual friend Sasha Hayes—who was just mentioned on the call—rounded out the trio. The three of them grew up together and were very close.

But because in the original story Claire was a side character, Zoe and Sasha didn’t get much page time. I vaguely remembered their fates weren’t great because of Claire.

From Zoe’s tone just now, it sounded like they’d had a falling‑out. I wondered what could have happened.

While I was thinking, my phone buzzed. Sasha had messaged.

—You brat, remember to come tonight, or… hmph!

Curiosity got the better of me. I dove into their chat logs and scrolled for an hour until a pattern emerged.

Turns out Zoe and Sasha had probably sensed Ethan Mercer’s bad side and persuaded Claire to break up with him. But Claire’s reaction had been too extreme—she’d said a lot of hurtful things.

So they’d been in a cold war for about half a year now.

I felt a twinge of sadness. Honestly, they’d been such good friends.

No matter what, I had to go tonight.

Plus, I was bored out of my mind.

The problem was: where exactly was this "old spot"?

Reluctantly, I dug through Claire’s diary and finally found the answer: an exclusive club.

"Emperor’s Court."

The name itself screamed prestige.

Prices were probably through the roof, but no matter—I have money now.

The get-together was set for eight. If I went downstairs to eat and got ready, the timing would be perfect.

Mom was still doing the cooking tonight.

Ever since she moved in, she’d pretty much sidelined the cooks here. At first she only cooked for the two of us, but then, for some reason, Gregory Bennett started appearing at the table with military punctuality. Mom would roll her eyes at first, and eventually just accepted his presence.

Heather spent most of her time with Ethan and rarely came home, so I hardly saw her. Her mother, Cora, was the only one who still insisted on eating meals from the household cooks instead of Mom’s food.

Cora couldn’t stir up real trouble—she’d toss a snide comment at Mom now and then and glare at me. Mom and I mostly ignored it.

If things could stay peaceful like this forever, that would be nice.

I finished getting ready and told Mom I was heading out. She didn’t say much—just asked me to bring some stinky tofu back.

Me: "…"

At 7:40 I arrived at Emperor’s Court.

This place definitely belonged to the rich. One glance made my eyes nearly water.

I sucked in a breath and pretended I belonged there, walking in with all the confidence I could muster. The receptionist recognized me at once and led me to a private room.

I thought I’d arrived first, but when I opened the door, the two of them were already in the private room.

I froze. Before I could say anything, the woman inside—with permed hair and dripping with charm—said, “Well, you’re not as tacky as you used to be.”

Me: “……”

Next to her was a very solidly built man, his hair slicked back so shiny it practically gleamed. When he spoke, it hit different.

“Hmph! If we didn’t take the initiative to contact you, would we ever see you again in this life?”

This—this—this… It had to be Sasha.

Right. Sasha was a guy.

As the pampered heir to the Hayes family in Boston, Sasha had always been… different.

While other boys played with toy guns and ignored girls, Sasha was obsessed with dressing up Barbie dolls and naturally became best friends with Claire and Zoe.

And that’s how he became an honorary member of the girls’ club.

Two years ago he went abroad with Zoe; the plan had been for the three of us to go together, but Claire gave up and stayed for Ethan, which led to a huge blowup. They eventually made up, but the strain lingered.

That’s what led to the conflict six months ago.

Watching the two of them, thinking about their fates in the original story, I suddenly felt a pang of sadness.

So I straightened up and gave a formal bow.

“My friends! Thank you for coming!”

Zoe: “……”

Sasha: “……”

We talked for ages.

They were such fun—though I wasn’t the original Claire, I felt like I’d known them forever and loved trading tall tales with them.

After singing a few songs, Zoe looked at me and suddenly said, “We know about your family situation.”

My family situation?

I thought for a second, then realized she probably meant Heather and her mother, Cora, moving into our house.

Zoe continued, “Don’t overthink it. No matter what, after all these years with your dad, you’re still the most important person in his heart.”

Huh?

Wasn’t Zoe supposed to have a fiery temper in the original? Since when was she this gentle?

“Don’t worry. If those two bitches start anything, they’ll have to get through me first,” Zoe declared.

…We’d underestimated things.

Sasha got serious too. “Zoe and I agreed: if you really like Ethan, we won’t oppose it anymore. As long as you’re happy.”

“Who said I like him?” I finally had a chance to speak.

“Before I was blind. Now my eyes are open—there’s no way someone like him is worthy of me!”

I thought they’d at least be shocked to hear that. Instead, both of them looked at me with pity.

“Look what he’s done to you…”

Me: “……”

Sasha looked on the verge of tears. I hurried to explain, “No! I mean…Heather hooked up with him. I’m planning to call off the engagement!”

They both blinked.

After a moment, Zoe asked, “Are you serious?”

I nodded like I meant it.

Only then did they believe me.

Once Ethan was no longer the obstacle, the mood between us totally changed. We drank and bragged and told jokes—what a raucous scene.

I must have had a little too much; everything blurred and Zoe’s head suddenly looked like two or three heads, and I heard her slur, “You’ve changed… but I love this version of you!”

I didn’t answer. I stood up to go to the bathroom.

“Wait…wait for me! I’m…going to pee!”

I staggered out, my head fuzzy, things swimming. After struggling like crazy I found the restroom, unzipped, and then realized this place felt wrong.

Why was the urinal on the wall?

Dazed, I glanced around and realized a man was standing next to me.

Even drunk, I could tell he was handsome.

He looked at me calmly. My gaze slid involuntarily downward—until I hit the awkward area—and I couldn’t help laughing.

“Carrot!”

I can’t remember exactly how I got home that night.

Later my mom told me Sasha hadn’t been completely wasted and had brought me back.

The hangover headache was brutal.

I was only nineteen in this body. I shouldn’t have been drinking at all. The club had served me anyway, and I’d been stupid enough to keep going.

Clearly, a new life hadn’t come with better judgment.

Just then my mom brought in a bowl of soup and chattered, “Growing wings now, huh? Learned to drink alcohol already!”

I didn’t have the energy to be argumentative. I took the soup in silence.

Heather hadn’t come home for days—guess things with the male lead were going smoothly—and I figured I’d just wait for him to break the engagement.

My mom had made pork rib soup that day.

There were slices of radish in it and bits of shredded meat—absolutely delicious.

I drank and gave her a thumbs-up.

She glared at me for a beat, then seemed to remember something and said, “Rosie, your mother just joined a line-dancing group at the community center.”

Line dancing? Already?

I nearly spat out my soup.

This neighborhood was full of people with private tennis courts. How had she found a dance group so quickly?

“They start official practice at four this afternoon. Manage your meals yourself—don’t make more work for me,” she said.

Me: “……”

Seeing her about to leave, I hurried, “Where is it? Far? Don’t let them scam you!”

Hazel tossed me a cold, elegant look and replied, “Why are you so nosy?”

Me: “……”

Section 4

When I woke up in the afternoon, she really was gone.

I texted to ask when she’d be back—no answer. She was probably having a great time dancing.

I wasn’t very hungry that night, so I grabbed some snacks to get by. Then I saw Zoe post a link in our group chat for the three of us and tag Sasha and me, followed by a voice message.

“Come on—let’s play!”

I clicked it. It was a cheerful online card game.

Perfect. I actually like this game.

I must have played dozens of rounds before someone knocked on the door. That’s when I realized it was dark outside. Thinking it was my mom, I rubbed my eyes and opened the door—only to find Gregory Bennett standing there.

We stared at each other, the air thick with confusion and awkwardness.

After a moment he finally asked quietly, “Where’s your mom?”

Without thinking, I said, “She went to the community dance group.”

Gregory: “…”

Then a thought flashed through my head. Could he have been waiting to eat with her and hadn’t had dinner yet?

If that was the case, my mom was really in trouble—how dare she let a CEO go hungry!

Panicking about being kicked out, my survival instincts kicked in. “Dad, wait—hold on. I’ll call Mom right now.”

Gregory didn’t answer but he also didn’t leave. That had to mean he approved.

I hurriedly dialed my mom. The phone rang several times before she finally picked up.

“Hello?” she drawled.

I stole a glance at Gregory and told her, “Mom, Dad is asking for you.”

Without missing a beat she said, “Which dad? Your dad’s been dead for ages.”

!!!

What the hell? She meant my biological father from our old world, but Gregory was standing right beside me! Had my mother lost her mind?

A chill ran up my spine. I didn’t dare look at Gregory’s face. Then, loud and clear through the speaker came a deep male voice.

“Hazel? Hazel! Are you ready? If you’re done, come over—we need to practice.”

“Oh! Coming!”

The call was cut off with my mom’s cheerful reply.

I felt like both my mom and I were doomed. Sure enough, Gregory’s voice, tight with teeth-gritted control, came through next.

“Where did she go?”

I stammered, “I…I don’t know…”

Seeing I genuinely looked clueless, Gregory pulled out his phone and made a call, using the most classic CEO line: “Three minutes. I want to know where she is.”

I: “…”

That night, the CEO-father personally hauled my mom back home. The living room filled with her shouting, with Cora tossing in snide comments now and then. I listened until I fell asleep and never found out how they finally settled it.

The next day, though, everyone acted completely normal—as if nothing had happened. Mom cooked like usual, Gregory and I ate like usual, Cora was her usual passive-aggressive self, and Heather was conveniently absent.

Section 5

That afternoon I planned to spend more time on my online card game, but then something unexpected happened.

Ethan Mercer suddenly asked to meet me at 2 p.m. at a café.

My eyes lit up.

Finally! I’d been waiting for this!

I immediately told the other two in our little group chat. The two jerks made me start a voice call so they could live-stream it.

Thrilling!

Always punctual, I was only half an hour late to the café.

Ethan looked displeased—like he wanted to snap at me but restrained himself. I plastered on a delighted smile. “Ethan!”

He hesitated, then said, “Claire…let’s call off the engagement.”

That direct? No buildup at all?

Maybe he thought my stunned silence was the shock of being hurt. There was guilt in his eyes. “It’s my fault. But I can’t help it—I’ve fallen for Heather. If you want compensation, I’ll make it up to you—just say what you want—”

“Compensation? What kind of compensation?” I cut him off. Ethan blinked, taken aback.

Crap. Too eager.

I rearranged my expression fast, went blank-eyed, softened my voice, and asked in a heartbreakingly tragic tone, “When did this happen?”

Ethan launched into a long spiel about how romantic he and Heather were, how perfect they were together, and that he’d always thought of me like a little sister and never loved me like that.

I didn’t care about any of that. One word kept repeating in my head: compensation. If he was really going to compensate me, it’d better be money.

By 4:30 p.m. I was getting impatient. Ethan was a terrible talker. I cut him off. “If it makes you happy, I’ll let you go.”

Ugh. Steady, Rosie—don’t actually gag.

Ethan’s eyes softened a fraction. He looked at me, then quickly looked away. “I’ll handle everything. Don’t worry.”

I couldn’t cry on cue, but the mood didn’t feel dramatic enough. Before he left I stood up and, in my best melodramatic fashion, declared, “I wish you happiness. No matter how far you go, if you ever look back, I’ll always be right here.”

My cheeseball line actually seemed to move him.

I was basking in my little victory when a sudden, unmistakable sound came from my phone: “Pfft—”

I: “…”

Who the hell had the gall to laugh out loud?!

I was furious—and Ethan had heard it too. His eyes dropped to my phone.

Oh no.

Panicking, I blurted, “Sorry, I was too upset and—uh—I couldn’t hold it in and I farted.”

Ethan: “…”

All the sympathy flew out of his face, replaced by pure disgust.

Well, at least I survived that awkward moment.

As soon as Ethan left, the other two burst into hysterical laughter over the call.

I pretended to be mad. “Who sabotaged me?”

On the other end, Sasha admitted immediately. Zoe Parker even ribbed me, “Wow! I really underestimated you, Claire! Hahahahaha—”

Sasha: “Hahahahahaha—”

I: “…”

I hung up without a word. Those two were absolute menaces.

Ethan was taken care of. I stood up and let out a long breath of relief.

It was already five in the afternoon. If I went home, I had no idea whether there’d be dinner—after all, I still didn’t know whether Dad had managed to talk things through with Mom last night.

I’d been in this world a long time and, weirdly, I’d never had spicy hot pot noodles once. Suddenly I craved it.

I pulled up my phone to check nearby spots and saw there were a bunch. I picked one at random and decided to go.

It wasn’t far, and I was too lazy to hail a car, so I walked.

This was the busiest district in Boston, right by a famous shopping plaza. I’d be passing it anyway, so I planned to stroll through. I put on my headphones and comforted myself with “Queen of My Own,” which got me full-on emotional.

Who does a woman live her life for?
For whom are her tears shed?
Shout it loud to the world: I am the queen!

I was almost tearing up when I saw someone.

Okay, maybe “someone” was an understatement. Maybe a hot guy.

No—let’s be real—maybe an absolutely breathtaking man.

He’d just stepped out of a company building. Probably some senior exec. His driver was dutifully opening the car door for him. Tall, lean, an air of cold indifference—just standing there, he was a scene.

Too bad my nearsightedness made his face a blur.

Who could he be…? I squared my shoulders and, before I could stop myself, dashed forward to get a better look. Finally his face came into focus—

My brain exploded. Literally exploded.

He was about to get into the car and I barely thought—I barreled in front of him.

“Hey, handsome! Let me buy you dinner. How do you feel about spicy hot pot?”

I struck what I thought was my most irresistible look.

Up close I saw his eyes were a rare gray, with hints of blue. When he looked at me, the air seemed to chill.

He looked at me, parted his lips slightly, and said softly, “It’s you.”

What do you mean it’s me?

I blinked at him, batting my lashes and giving a sycophantic smile. “Don’t be so formal—just call me Rosie.”

The driver: “……”

I’ll admit it—my last life spanned twenty-one years in which I’d never even held a man’s hand, let alone been with a gorgeous guy. So now, wearing the little-miss-rich-girl title, meeting someone with supermodel looks made me bolder than most.

Yet this guy acted like he was blind—completely unmoved by my beauty. He said flatly, “Move.”

Ugh. I hadn’t even gotten his Instagram handle yet. Why should I move?

I rolled up my sleeves, ready to go at it again, but the driver—who’d been standing like set dressing—suddenly reached out and shoved me aside without mercy. I opened my mouth to curse, but when I looked back the car had already sped off.

Wow.

Just like that, he was gone without a backward glance.

Missing that kind of guy put me in a foul mood. I didn’t even want to eat—I just went home.

As expected, my mom wasn’t there and Dad hadn’t shown up either. It was just me and Cora, staring each other down.

Cora: “What are you looking at?
Look again and I’ll dig your eyeballs out.”

I’d noticed this woman really had two faces.

When Dad wasn’t around she turned into a rabid dog, barking and carrying on.

Normally I tried to avoid her, but my mood was already bad, so I snapped back without expression, “At you. Got a problem?”

Cora’s features warped instantly.

I braced for her to lunge forward and rip my hair out, fully ready to defend myself—only to see her eyes brim fast with tears and her voice slip into a pitiful whine, “Rosie, how can you say that about me!”

Her reaction left me dumbfounded.

Then Dad’s voice came from the doorway and everything clicked into place.

Oh great, so Dad’s home.

“What’s going on?”

He frowned, looking like he’d just walked in—shoes still on.

I explained and pointed at Cora. “She said if I kept staring she’d gouge my eyes out.”

Dad: “……”

Cora: “……”

Cora fumbled for a rebuttal, but just then my mom came in humming a tune. She stopped, took in the scene, and asked, “What’s all this?”

Before I could answer, Dad said, “Nothing.”

Since Mom had come home early tonight, we actually ate her cooking. Both Dad and I were happily satisfied.

After dinner, while Mom was doing the dishes, I told Dad, “Dad, if Ethan Mercer comes by to break off the engagement in the next couple days, don’t ask questions—just agree.”

“Break off the engagement?!” Dad’s expression went dark.

He probably assumed I’d been dumped.

So I hurried to clarify, “Don’t worry about it—just say yes!”

Dad gave me a strange look.

After hesitating, he suddenly asked, “Have you fallen for someone else?”

This old man knew a lot, apparently.

I smiled and thought of the gorgeous guy I’d seen today.

He clearly wasn’t ordinary. Same business district—maybe Dad would know him. I went with it, “Yeah—today I fell in love at first sight!
The moment I saw him I decided I have to be with him forever!”

Dad: “……”

“I don’t have his contact info. He looks like he’s in business too—very tall, crazy handsome, and his eyes were gray-blue! Dad, do you know him?”

Dad thought for a long moment, then blinked. “You said his eyes were gray-blue?”

I nodded.

He studied me for a long time and finally said, “I don’t know him.”

I: “……”

Then he added, “If you don’t like that Mercer kid, fine. I’ll find someone suitable for you—stop daydreaming about impossible things.”

Huh?

That last line sounded…off. Why did it make my skin prickle?

I wanted to ask more, but my mom came out carrying a tray of fruit. She set it on the table, grabbed an apple, bit into it with a crisp crunch, and said, "Rosie, tomorrow you better wash all those clothes piled on the couch in your room!

If you don’t, you’ll be in trouble!"

I scrunched my shoulders and stayed quiet. My dad, never one to keep his mouth shut, piped up, "Don’t we have help at home?"

My mom fired back, "Earn your own keep, you know?"

That shut him up, but after a moment he said, “Rosie? Must you use her childhood nickname in front of everyone?

“She’s not a little girl anymore. Call her Claire in public, at least…”

My mom wouldn’t back down. "She’s my daughter. I’ll call her whatever I want. What about you? You still look like Tony from Country Roses—ha ha ha…"

I couldn’t help it; I snorted and laughed. My dad got angry and left. "Unreasonable!"

After he left I felt a little embarrassed, so I tried to smooth things over. "Mom, I think Dad treats us pretty well. Maybe you could be nicer to him from now on…"

My mom shot me a dagger look. "Mind your own business.

Go clean that pigsty of yours!

Is that even livable?!"

Me: "…"

"Unreasonable!"

I tossed that back at her and ran off in a huff.

Back in my room I played cards—big two—with Zoe and Sasha, and then remembered the whole handsome-guy thing. I asked them about it, but they’d just gotten back to the country too and knew even less than I did, so that was that.

Section 6

The next night, Ethan Mercer and Heather Collins came to the house.

I knew exactly why they were here.

I was thrilled.

With Mom not around, it was just Dad and me. Ethan chattered on about everything under the sun for a bit, then finally brought up breaking off the engagement with me.

Dad was frowning at them standing there hand in hand. Afraid he’d refuse to call off the engagement, I secretly kicked him. He glanced at me and sighed.

"Fine."

Ethan looked stunned; Heather froze.

Guess no one expected it would go so smoothly.

I kept my head down, playing the quiet, heartbroken girl. Then, as soon as Ethan ended his engagement to me, he started trying to propose to Heather.

Talk about shameless.

Seamless transition, too.

I wondered if my dad could take it.

But Ethan was smart—he had a plan. "Mr. Bennett, everyone already thinks the Mercer and Bennett families are joined by marriage, so I’ll just announce that I was actually engaged to Heather back then. That way, it won’t affect… Claire."

Nice.

I couldn’t help wanting to clap.

Dad glanced at me. I gave him every hopeful look I had, trying to telegraph my approval, and he understood. "Mm, fine."

It was settled.

With that big matter handled, a huge weight lifted off my chest.

At least I was no longer standing in Heather’s way over Ethan, and I wouldn’t have to fight to the bitter end for that worthless so-called love like the original Claire.

Everything looked perfect, except for one small problem: Ethan’s promised compensation to me.

It was nagging at me, so that night I messaged him: "Ethan, do you remember the compensation you promised me at the café?"

A little while later he replied. I got excited and opened the message—just a string of ellipses.

…Then my phone dinged again with a different alert. I thought it was junk, but it was from my bank.

Holy crap!

I counted the zeros three times and literally jumped in place.

As expected of the male lead—generous and decisive!

Section 7

That night I had washed up early; a pimple had appeared on my forehead, so I wanted an early night. But after I thought everything was set, someone knocked on the door.

I opened it to see Gregory Bennett standing there, face thunderous. "Call your mother," he said.

Mom still wasn’t back?!

I fumbled for my phone. "Why don’t you call her, Dad?"

At that, Gregory grew angrier, his voice through his teeth. "She blocked me!"

Me: "…"

I called and called. No answer for a long time. I hung up and tried again, and finally heard my mom’s voice.

"Hello?!"

I asked, "Why aren’t you back yet?"

Mom: "Just finished dancing, in the car—I’ll be there soon!"

Hearing that, Gregory left. I made a mental note to warn Mom—if she ever upset a CEO, both of us could be out on our ears.

I slept early that night and didn’t know whether they fought more, but the next morning Gregory seemed in a great mood.

Curious, I asked, "Did you make up?"

Dad raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Me: "So why are you so happy?"

Dad: "Your mother took me off her blacklist."

Me: "…"

Huh?

Something felt off.

After breakfast he daintily wiped his mouth and said, "The day after tomorrow, come with me to the Whitakers’. There’s a banquet."

I thought he was talking to Mom and stayed silent. Then she suddenly said, "Stop spacing out! Answer him!"

Wait—was she talking to me?

I opened my mouth to reply when Dad said, "Both of you are coming."

Me and Mom: "…"

Cora wasn’t having it. "What about me?!"

Dad was merciless. "In what capacity would you go?"

Cora stomped off, complaining.

I couldn’t help saying, "Dad, you really are something."

He didn’t comment.

Gregory Bennett, everybody. A bossy CEO through and through.

I had a dream.

It was long and convoluted, but I heard a voice clearly say, "Host, host?"

Host?

Who are you talking to?

I was puzzled, and the voice sounded irritable. "Stop staring. I’m talking to you!"

Me: "…"

When I seemed to understand, the voice introduced itself. "I’m the system. You’re the host for this mission.

“Your assignment is to break the chain of events leading to this story’s cruel ending.”

I paused. “Who are you trying to kid?”

The system got more agitated. "I’m serious!

“Can you at least listen carefully!”

Me: "…"

He waited until I went quiet. “Every story humans create can become a world of its own. Some of those worlds are built on terrible logic. Your job is to stop that logic from forcing you and your mother into the ending the book planned for you.”

Oh, I already knew that.

What he meant was that every book or finished work is its own world. Some worlds run fine, but if an author has warped values, their world won’t be right either. Like that one author I used to follow—Katherine—who not only had messed-up morals but always delayed updates!

It was infuriating!

Authors like that should be dragged into their own books and die a thousand deaths!

At that moment a lightbulb went off in my head and something clicked—no wonder I randomly woke up inside a book!

Turns out heaven sent me to mete out justice!

So I wasn’t just some disposable character waiting to be killed off!

For a second I was brimming with confidence.

But another question popped up.

"Then why did you bring my mom here?!"

The system fell silent in a weird way. After a moment it replied, "…Actually, your mom was selected. You got brought along by accident…"

Me: "…"

"But since the original host only cared about the community dance group, I temporarily set the target on you, youngster. Hope you don’t mess it up."

Me: "…"

My heart filled with pure jealousy.

Of all people—me, Claire Bennett—young and pretty, losing out to some middle-aged woman who only loves her community dance class!

Too bad I couldn’t freak out then. Even if this thing sounded impressive, it was still a dream, so logic wasn’t guaranteed.

“You’re the system?” I asked. “In the books I’ve read, that usually means a voice in someone’s head or a floating screen full of instructions. Since when do you people schedule meetings in dreams?”

The system gritted its teeth. "I’m upper management now. I just assign tasks online."

"Upper management?"

"Yep."

It sounded pretty pleased with itself. "Back in the day I finished a huge mission, saved the Overseer, and even cozied up to his wife. That lady’s a few bricks short of a load, but she’s useful. So I got promoted.

Lately I’ve been swamped, so I came back for a bit. Getting guidance from someone like me? You should feel honored."

Me: "…"

"After all this talk, how will you prove it’s real?"

If this really was more than a dream, it ought to leave some evidence behind. “Okay then. Leave something by my pillow tomorrow morning and I’ll believe you.”

The system squinted. "Leave what?"

Without hesitation, I said, “A black card. With a ten-million-dollar spending limit!”

The system: "…"

Then the dream ended abruptly.

I opened my eyes in the morning with the dream still vivid—completely different from ordinary dreams. I turned to look at my pillow out of habit. There really was something there—an old roll-up travel chess set.

Me: "…"

Not what I asked for, but enough proof.

I lollygagged for a bit until Hazel Bennett called me and I got out of bed. Downstairs breakfast was already set; Hazel and Gregory Bennett were eating.

Cora wasn’t there—probably heartbroken after last night.

Thinking about that ridiculous system’s words made my blood boil. I snapped, "Don’t think I’ll forgive you just because you hand me food!"

Dad glanced at me, puzzled. "What did you say?"

I ignored him and shot a sidelong look at my mom. She was calmly eating as if nothing was wrong.

That made me angrier. I sneered, "I don’t even want to explain. Some people know exactly what they’ve done!"

Dad looked even more confused, but Mom stayed composed. I couldn’t help it—I laid it out: "The person I’m talking about—her name is Hazel, wearing a gray knit sweater, black pants, a red apron, hair pinned up…"

Dad’s expression slowly turned strange.

Then Mom stood up, untied her apron, wiped her mouth with exaggerated calm, and gripped the spatula sitting on the counter.

I sensed danger. Sure enough, she barreled toward me. "You think you’re cheeky, huh? A few days without a scolding and you think you can get away with anything!"

Luckily I’ve developed quick reflexes over the years. I jumped up in a flash and dove behind Dad. "Da—da—Dad! Help! Aah!"

Dad rose to the occasion, feigning sternness. "What are you doing this early?"

Hazel didn’t say a word. She just smiled faintly, and then—decisively—dragged my dad into it and started whacking us both.

The butler: "…"

That family showdown left both of us physically and mentally crushed. We looked at each other; everything was said without words.

I was still angry that night. Mom called me down for dinner and I refused to come.

Starving myself hurt me, but I had to make my stance clear!

Sure enough, not long after I heard her stomping up the stairs. She burst into my room, shoved the door open, and glared at me. "You coming down or not?!"

…Okay, I admit I was scared.

Reluctantly I went downstairs. Dad was bizarrely obedient today; I was annoyed he caved so easily to Hazel, but there was nothing I could do. I kept up a stubborn face and ate only the plain white rice in my bowl. It was dry and hard to swallow, but I didn’t show it.

Mom singled me out. "Claire Bennett."

I knew that meant warning.

So outwardly I looked resentful, but inwardly I was secretly delighted as I reached for my favorite—sweet-and-sour pork.

Hah. Woman, look who’s being begged to eat now.

Section 8

The next afternoon I was napping when Mom yanked me up.

"Get up! Gregory called three times! If you don’t go now, the two of us are done for!"

Only then did it hit me—I’d completely forgotten Dad had said we were going to a banquet that day.

The driver hit the gas and in no time we were pulled up in front of a very upscale place. Before I could register anything, a few women whisked me away. After a long, annoying sequence of facials, makeup, and wardrobe changes, they finally let me out.

Stepping back outside, I saw a radiant socialite.

I blinked hard. Wait—that’s my mom?!

I was so shocked by how different she looked I couldn’t help giving her a thumbs-up. “Mom, you look gorgeous!”

She glanced at me and nodded. “Mm. Not bad for a bit of fixing up.”

When Gregory came to pick us up, he stared at her for a long time. Mom squirmed. “What are you looking at? Is there a sign on my face?”

He hurriedly looked away. “Nothing.”

Tonight’s venue was the Whitakers’ place.

I’d asked Zoe and Sasha before, but they clammed up about the Whitakers—said the family was mysterious and warned me not to offend them. As if I’d go offending them on purpose. Still, if Zoe and Sasha showed up tonight, at least I’d have company.

The car drove on for ages before slowing. Ahead there was a grand, classically styled gate. We rolled through and onto a red carpet that seemed to go on forever, flanked by impossibly manicured gardens and some strange, exotic plants.

We drove for what felt like forever before I could make out rooftops. Holy crap—our house is big, but this place made ours look tiny.

When we finally stopped in front of a castle-like mansion, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming.

Stepping out onto a lawn the size of a soccer field, my mom muttered, “This would be perfect for the community dance group.”

Gregory and I: “…”

A butler-looking man soon invited us inside. The main hall was already crowded.

Big crowds make me awkward, so I whispered to Mom, “What are we even here for?”

Mom: “I don’t know. Gregory said there’d be good food, so I came.”

Me: “…”

Dad leaned over and whispered, “It’s Mr. Whitaker’s seventieth birthday.”

Ah. That explains it.

People in the room turned to look at us. A few of Dad’s business associates came over to greet him. Dad, all polished and proper, looped an arm around Mom’s waist and smiled. Mom, meanwhile, kept fidgeting.

Then Dad gave Mom a little smack on the butt.

Me: “…”

Left to my own devices, I wasn’t bored—so I slunk over to grab some cake. A few women kept eyeing me, but I didn’t care; I didn’t know any of them.

After scanning the crowd for a bit and not spotting those two idiots, I sent them a message in the group chat.

“Are you two at Mr. Whitaker’s birthday party?”

Zoe replied instantly: “No way. I’m terrified of the Whitaker family. They say the Whitaker heir is some kind of fierce, terrifying guy. I’m not going to meet him!”

Sasha popped a nod emoji.

I rolled my eyes—he’s a person like anyone else, what’s there to be scared of? I shut off my phone and decided to walk outside.

This place was ridiculously impressive. The more I looked, the more I realized this family wasn’t ordinary. Every decorative piece screamed expensive.

I pulled out my phone to take a few photos to rub in Zoe and Sasha’s faces. While stepping backward to get the right angle, I bumped into something. I thought it was a wall. I turned—and it was a person.

It was dark and I’m nearsighted, but I recognized him at once. It wasn’t just anyone. It was the gorgeous guy I’d stopped outside that office building.

What insane luck!

I jumped up, throwing myself at him. “Ahhh! I found you again!!!”

The handsome guy’s face went stone. Between clenched teeth he forced out two words: “Let go.”

Let go? As if! Remembering how heartbroken I’d been last time we nearly crossed paths, I gripped him tighter. “Don’t you remember me? I’m Rosie! Ever since that day you left so suddenly, I’ve had lovesickness—can’t eat, can’t sleep. All I think about is your face!”

I could vaguely hear him grinding his teeth, but I pushed on with heart-on-sleeve drama. “Babe, you did this to me—I don’t care, you have to take responsibility!”

His voice took on a colder edge. “Babe?”

I nodded like it was obvious. “Yep. I’ve decided you’re my sweetheart!”

Just then a terrified, shaky voice sounded near my ear. “S-Sir?”

I turned—oh, that was the butler who’d brought us in. Sir? Who was he talking to?

I followed his gaze: he was staring at the man in my arms. My brain did a double take. Could this be the Whitaker heir Zoe warned me about?

But—this gorgeous guy? Scary? Please. I’m not about to believe Zoe’s melodrama.

The handsome guy looked down at me and said flatly, “You can let go now.”

I flashed him a cheeky grin. “Give me your Instagram and I’ll let you go.”

He froze.

We were at an awkward standstill when the butler said, “Sir, your grandfather would like a word.”

After saying that, the butler glanced at me.

I sighed. Since he had somewhere to be, I wouldn’t make a scene. I released him. “Fine, go. But I’ll get your Instagram eventually!”

The handsome guy snorted coldly, didn’t even glance my way, took a long stride, and left.

After he walked off, I grabbed the nearest staffer and asked, “What’s that guy’s name?”

The man hesitated. I didn’t say another word—I pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. He still wouldn’t tell me. My wallet protested, but I handed over another one. He still refused.

This was ridiculous.

“So you won’t take the easy way, huh?

You don’t want the money—are you trying to get beaten up?!”

Maybe my glare looked deadly, because he finally took the cash and said, “His surname is Whitaker.

Mason Whitaker.”

I repeated the name to make sure I had it right.

Mason Whitaker.

Nice name. “Do you know his Instagram handle?” I asked the staffer.

The man looked terrified. “How would I know that…?”

Fine. I asked in our little three-person group chat: “Anyone know Mason Whitaker’s Instagram? The Whitaker heir?”

Sasha popped up immediately. “You’re not seriously going to follow him, are you?”

I sent a sticker and replied, “Not only am I following him—I’m going to chase him!”

Sasha: “…”

I told them both to dig around their social circles. Maybe someone would turn up something useful. Then I looked up and saw Ethan Mercer and Heather Collins walking in from the entrance.

Well, would you look at that—Heather had stuck to Ethan like glue and followed him to the Whitakers.

As usual, poor Cora.

I sighed with sympathy.

Heather was publicly claiming to be Ethan’s fiancée. Word was she had a real knack for business—helped Ethan make a ton of money and had even started her own cosmetics company.

I had to admit, she was impressive. Classic strong-female lead—no wonder I felt inferior.

As long as she didn’t make trouble for me, though, I didn’t care to compete.

The system had given me a goal, not a step-by-step plan. Somehow I had to stop Heather from steering Mom and me toward our deaths. For now, I’d take it one problem at a time.

After lingering outside for a while I went back in. Inside the room smelled of perfume and cologne; people mingled with drinks in hand. Among them I spotted Hazel Bennett looking awkward.

I waved at her from across the room. She looked miserable.

Then I turned and saw the guest of honor at today’s birthday banquet: Old Mr. Whitaker, Mason’s grandfather.

My first impression: this old man was not ordinary.

His eyes were sharp and wise; he radiated a powerful presence. Mason stood beside him, calm and composed, somehow part of that aura—cool and untouchable.

What is that high-and-mighty vibe supposed to be?!

Heather and Ethan presented the old man with piles of gifts. I didn’t bother trying to follow the chatter; I simply sat on a nearby chair and ate a petit four.

That cake was actually incredible.

The cream was sweet but not cloying, the fruit tasted fresh—definitely a master’s hand.

I’m nothing but a heartless eating machine.

While I was chewing, I caught Heather’s not-so-casual look in my direction. My stomach dropped.

Sure enough, she spoke next: “Mr. Whitaker, last night my sister Claire said she wanted to bring you a special gift. She hopes you’ll give her the chance.”

???

What the hell?

The whole room turned to look at me at once.

When did I ever say I was bringing a gift?!

I ground my teeth, furious at that venomous woman for trying so hard to mess with me. Seeing her smug face made me want to make her disappear from the world.

Ever since I transmigrated here, I’d avoided confronting her—letting her have her way and keeping to my little life. Apparently that had been a mistake.

In the original story, the drama centered on the Bennetts and Ethan’s family, the Mercers; the Whitakers didn’t have a storyline of their own, so none of this had happened.

Now what was I supposed to do?

Was I supposed to give Old Mr. Whitaker a fortune? Could I pay him in good wishes instead of cash?

The normal version: “Happy birthday, sir!”

The shameless version: “I’m Claire Bennett. I’d like to give you a million reasons to smile, a million happy memories, and a million more birthdays. Three million in total. You’re welcome.”

Wouldn’t that get me tossed out as a fool?!

At that nerve-wracking moment I felt a cool gaze on me. I looked up—my darling Mason was staring.

Suddenly I snapped awake: I couldn’t humiliate myself in front of my treasure.

Right then my mom called out, “Rosie, come here!”

“Rosie?”

Old Mr. Whitaker looked intrigued and chuckled. “Rosie? Who’s that?”

Although my mom was a total housewife at home, she could handle herself in situations like this.

She stepped forward and said confidently, “Mr. Whitaker, Rosie is my daughter Claire Bennett’s childhood nickname.”

Honestly, I was mortified. Mom had just announced my baby name to a room full of strangers, with Mason watching. I wanted the floor to swallow me.

Old Mr. Whitaker seemed delighted. He waved me over. “Come here, Rosie girl.”

Rosie girl? Really.

I grumbled silently but obediently walked over.

He had such a kindly face I almost believed he wouldn’t be mad even if I peed on his shoes.

“Have you eaten your fill, little one?” he asked.

With absolutely no shame and a perfectly straight face, I lied, “I haven’t eaten at all.”

At that, Mason—who had barely looked my way—gave me a disgusted look. Before I could register it, Old Mr. Whitaker burst into laughter. “Ha! You’re quite the character, aren’t you?”

I was utterly baffled, then felt a sharp slap land on the back of my head.

No need to look to know whose hand it was—the force, the feel—definitely my mom.

I was annoyed, and Mom scolded me: “What are you saying? Always lying, huh? Cake crumbs all around your mouth and you say you didn’t eat? Your mouth hasn’t stopped moving!”

…That was pretty embarrassing.

I stole a glance at the old man—he was still smiling at me. I looked at the cool Mason again, then back at the old man, and something suddenly clicked in my head.

If I could get this old man on my side, wouldn’t Mason be nothing more than a fish in a barrel?

In an instant a brilliant smile plastered across my face. I turned to the old man with all the sincerity I could muster and said, “Even though this is our first time meeting, you seem so kind. Here—Rosie wishes you health and happiness always!”

Turns out that trick worked.

The old man’s expression softened; he nodded at me. “Thank you, Rosie girl!”

After that bit of joking around, no one brought up birthday presents anymore. I glanced at Heather—her eyes burned with resentment and unwillingness—and Ethan looked at me as if he had thoughts bubbling up. I gave both of them a discreet middle finger behind my napkin.

I thought I’d been sneaky enough no one would notice, but then I looked up and met Mason’s eyes.

A little awkward—except he seemed to be staring at me. Could it be… he likes me?!

Oh, stop it!

I coyly threw him a flirtatious wink, but he completely ignored it.

Fine. I’ll get used to it.

The old man gave me his Instagram handle without fuss.

We were in a hurry to leave, so I planned to follow him when I got home. In the car, my mom glanced at me and asked, “You like that Whitaker heir, don’t you?”

Not embarrassed at all, I fired back in excitement, “Mom, what do you think of him?”

Mom answered frankly, “Looks? One in a million. Ability? Definitely exceptional. Body? Model-level.”

I lit up with hope—then she followed with, “But he definitely wouldn’t go for you.”

Me: “…”

Dad shot me a look and suddenly said, “When you asked me if I knew him that night, I thought you had no chance. So I said I didn’t know him.”

Me: “…”

For a second I felt like the tragic heroine of a melodrama.

Even if my parents don’t approve of this relationship right now, I’m not losing confidence.

Everything—for love!

Section 9

That night I found the old man on Instagram, and we followed each other.

His display name was “Count Your Blessings,” and his feed was full of Bible verses and morning prayers. Apparently, Grandpa was a devout Christian.

I even found a bunch of cheerful good-morning GIFs and sent him a greeting. He replied with a voice message straightaway.

“Rosie girl, come visit when you have time.”

Of course I’ll go!

That’s the way to meet my darling Mason!

Even though I wanted Mason’s handle immediately, one mustn’t rush. I restrained myself and sent a smiling sticker.

Then I noticed Claire Bennett wasn’t following Gregory Bennett on Instagram, so I went to Dad’s room to find his account.

Dad pulled up his profile and handed me his phone. His display name was—“Lonely Wolf.”

Um… I tapped Follow. He accepted my request and followed me back, and I gave him a thumbs-up. “So badass!”

Dad: “…”

That night I created a group chat called “Loving Family,” just the three of us in it.

My prickly mom—Hazel—was first to fire off a message: “Are you crazy?”

“Lonely Wolf”: “…”

Rosie: “…”

Since connecting with Mason’s grandfather on Instagram, I began a full-time campaign of buttering him up.

A good-morning message. A quick “How’s your day going?” at lunch. Another excuse to check in that evening.

He was in such a good mood he never minded. He always replied happily.

Everything was moving smoothly. Now it was just a matter of timing before I got the handsome guy’s Instagram.

But before that happened, I noticed something weird.

My mom hadn’t been going to the community dance group lately.

That didn’t make sense. With her personality, not going to dance would be worse than death. So why was she staying home obediently?

That afternoon I slumped on the couch playing games when Mom came over. I asked casually, “Why haven’t you been dancing lately?”

She sighed suddenly, looking sad. “The troupe disbanded.”

“That fast?”

I felt something off. Mom frowned. “The leader said a lot of people didn’t want to dance anymore, so they broke it up. The last time I went, everything was fine. Just a few days later it was like this. It surprised me too.”

“There aren’t many dancers around here anyway. I can’t find a new group, so I’ve just been staying home.”

Just then Gregory came home from work. He saw us and asked, “What are you two talking about?”

I said, “The dance troupe—Mom said it disbanded for no reason.”

A flicker of unease crossed Dad’s face.

But in that instant something clicked for me.

No way that rotten old man did this, did he?!

My look must have given me away because Dad shot me a warning glance. I swallowed the rest of it—and my suspicion was confirmed.

Men can be so vicious.

Seeing my mom looking put-upon, I felt sorry for her. She had no idea what Dad had done. I sighed. “Mom, I’m hungry.”

She didn’t hesitate and went to the kitchen.

Sitting on the couch, I grew more and more determined. If I didn’t take this chance to squeeze him for hush money, I’d be doing my mom a disservice. I messaged Dad across from me.

“Straight to the point—pay me off.”

Dad calmly replied, “How much?”

I tapped a string of numbers into my phone. He didn’t hesitate. “Deal!”

Moments later a bank-transfer notification appeared on my phone.

I almost teared up with excitement.

In my past life I’d never have dreamed making money could be this easy!

Feeling unusually sentimental, I was lost in thought when my mom’s voice came from the kitchen.

“You two just sit there waiting?! Get over here and help!”

I ignored her, but Dad put his phone down fast and went into the kitchen.

At dinner, Heather actually, for once, came back.

I was in the middle of devouring food, oil dripping from my mouth, completely blissful. Seeing her suddenly made me jump.

She looked down at me from her high horse, all mockery on her face, then put on that practiced air of warm generosity and said to Mr. Bennett, “Dad, Ethan said he and his parents will come by tomorrow to discuss the engagement date. I hope you’ll make some time.”

Mr. Bennett nodded. At the table, Cora dabbed at her eyes, “Gregory, this child didn’t grow up with you. She’s suffered so much. Now she’s finally getting married—we as parents must give her the best wedding!”

She glanced at me with that calculated look.

My mom took a bite of radish pickle and suddenly said, “Why don’t you hold a wedding for her and get one for yourself too? You already had the baby without a wedding—it’s so shabby. If you two get married together, that would be national news.”

Cora exploded, “Who are you talking about?!”

My mom just chuckled and didn’t answer.

Seeing my mom ignore her, she turned on the crocodile tears and looked to Mr. Bennett, “Gregory! Do you hear what she’s saying?”

As the innocent bystander, I was shaking all over, biting my lip to keep from laughing—only to let out a ridiculous noise that sounded oddly like a fart.

Heather, the diva heroine, couldn’t stand for her mother to be insulted. She snapped, all venom and sarcasm: “Of course—like mother, like daughter!”

My mom, calm as ever, said, “Right back at you!”

I nearly choked laughing. I thought I might die laughing right there at the table.

At that moment Mr. Bennett set his fork down with a clatter, his face hard as stone. I couldn’t read his expression, but he said, “If you don’t want to eat, you can leave!”

The room fell instantly quiet.

Heather swept out, Cora went upstairs crying, and my mom kept eating like nothing had happened. I buried my head in my bowl and couldn’t help the muffled chuckles.

Then Mr. Bennett said coolly, “You aren’t done, are you?”

My mom snorted, “You started it. Why blame the kid? Look at other families—who’s like ours? It’s ridiculous!”

Mr. Bennett: “……”

My mom, who no longer had a community dance group to go to, looked bored out of her mind.

Either she yells at me or yells at him—I still couldn’t figure out why the mighty CEO let her get away with it. Was he just too lazy to bother arguing with a woman?

That night Zoe called, and I complained. She laughed so hard she said she could barely breathe, then told me, “Your mom is the best, hahahaha…”

I decided she was enjoying my misery a little too much and changed her contact name to “Zoe, Professional Menace.”

Sure enough, Ethan Mercer showed up the next day.

Just him—no parents in tow.

I remembered the original book where Ethan’s family refused to accept Heather because of her being an illegitimate child, only later giving in after she proved her worth and the original Claire kept making foolish mistakes that made Heather look impressive by comparison. So it made sense that his family wouldn’t show up now.

Ethan looked awkward. Heather did too—she didn’t look happy.

“My parents had something come up unexpectedly and can’t visit today. Please, Mr. Bennett, don’t take offense,” Ethan said.

Mr. Bennett waved magnanimously and cut to the chase without pretense.

Feeling uninterested in their ritual, I went back to my room.

After days of schmoozing Old Mr. Whitaker, I planned to ask for Mason’s Instagram that night. I didn’t know if I’d succeed and felt nervous.

I fell asleep in that fretful state.

Section 10

When I woke, Ethan and the others were gone. My father and mother weren’t home—just me in the house.

Peace.

I relaxed and fumbled over the wording for a long time before finally messaging Mason’s grandfather.

“Grandpa, could you give me Mason’s Instagram handle?”

Yes—I’d shamelessly started calling Mason’s grandfather “Grandpa” after all our frequent chats.

No reply. I showered and came back—still nothing. My stomach turned.

Then my phone pinged with an Instagram message. It was Grandpa.

“Rosie girl, I told Mason to send you an Instagram follow request.”

Grandpa didn’t mess around—he’d actually told Mason to send me a follow request!

Then he added, “Girl, Mason’s a block of wood. He’s never been chatty with girls. If you can handle him, tell me what you want and Grandpa’ll get it for you!”

Huh?

Grandpa went on, “From the moment we met, I thought you and Mason would make a lovely couple! Our butler—the one you met at my birthday party—agreed. But I didn’t want to embarrass you by playing matchmaker before I knew whether you were interested in my grandson. So I waited to see how you felt. Looks like I was right!”

…Was I being outplayed?

Before I could react, Grandpa asked, “Has that rascal sent you an Instagram follow request yet?”

I looked and answered honestly, “No.”

“Wait! I’ll go find him!”

Then Grandpa disappeared from chat.

Sure enough, a moment later a notification appeared: Mason Whitaker had requested to follow my private account.

My heart was racing. I took a screenshot as a keepsake, accepted, and followed him back. Once we were connected, I opened our DMs and messaged at once, “Baby!!!”

No reply.

I tried again, “I miss you so much!!!”

Still nothing.

Undeterred, I kept pouring out my longing—yet all night he didn’t reply.

I checked his profile. Plain photo, his real name, not a single post. Did this guy even use Instagram?

But Grandpa had vouched for him, and Mason was always like this. If he were flashy, that would have been the surprise.

By bedtime, he still hadn’t responded.

Worried my flirting technique was flawed, I rushed to our group and asked our most experienced friend, Sasha.

“Everyone! Mason and I are following each other—give me a flirting guide! Urgent!”

Two of them popped up, both sending question marks.

Afterward, Sasha said, "Were you tricked by someone?"

I sighed and told them the whole story. The two of them were silent for a long moment, then one of them finally went, "Sick!"

A little while later, I got a compilation my friends had scavenged from all corners—the "simp" playbook.

I was speechless.

"Why is it called the simp playbook?"

Sasha sounded envious. “Count yourself lucky. Most people who want to chase him don’t even get the chance.”

Me: "…"

Heh. He was just jealous!

With friends like these, who needed enemies?

Sasha, I was looking at you.

Section 11

The next morning I opened my eyes, reached for my phone, sent "good morning" to Mason, then my daily required flirty line.

“You must be my favorite notification, because I keep checking my phone for you.”

Lately I’d been working my way through that playbook, showering Mason with attention and getting almost nothing back. Still, I told myself nothing worth having came easily. A few unanswered messages weren’t going to stop me.

Today the three of us had plans to go out—not exactly for fun. We had a mission.

Zoe Parker had a blind date.

Of course her mom arranged it—daughter isn’t getting any younger and had never dated. Moms worry. Normal.

Unlike my mom, who only knows community dance classes.

Sasha and I couldn’t miss this kind of spectacle. We planned to play passersby and observe discreetly. We were bored anyway.

The date was at a well-known downtown bistro.

After we met up we took a cab. Sasha was dressed up in a very androgynous, glamorous way today. When we got out, the driver looked at him and said, "Thirty bucks, miss."

Me: "…"

Zoe Parker: "…"

Once we were off, I noticed Sasha quietly wiping his eyes. I panicked, thinking something serious had happened. Instead he choked out, "He called me ‘miss’!"

Huh?

Was he… upset?

Before I could ask, he continued, voice a little hysterical, “Sounded much better than being mocked for being feminine!

Wah wah—"

Me: "…"

Well, who doesn’t have a girlish heart?

As the star of today’s show, Zoe Parker’s expression was visibly terrible.

I glanced at her and couldn’t help saying, "Are you here to go on a date or to commit murder?"

Zoe Parker snapped, "If I weren’t afraid my mom would beat me up, I wouldn’t show up even dead!"

Me: "…"

Inside the restaurant, Sasha and I hid at a nearby table to observe. The blind date guy hadn’t shown up yet. I checked my watch—five minutes left. Maybe we were early; he couldn’t be late, could he?

Reality slapped me hard—he wasn’t just late, he was a full half hour late.

Just as we were about to flip the table and leave, he finally strolled in.

Shiny hair, a little soft around the middle, not very tall, a slight beer belly, a face full of confident self-regard—the attitude screamed: I’m a big shot.

For a moment the three of us were speechless. The man sat down, lit up with pride, crossed his legs and said arrogantly, "Just signed a billion-dollar contract—sorry I’m late."

Zoe Parker said nothing.

He eyed her for a bit and said, "You’re average-looking, but the body is decent. Could work. I don’t know if you can cook or do laundry—oh, and you need to be attentive. I’m very busy. I expect you to run the household well."

Zoe Parker: "…"

“Also, I have to go now. Give me your Instagram and my assistant will follow up.”

Very CEO.

He pulled out his phone, but Zoe Parker didn’t move. The man sneered, "What? You’re… not satisfied with me?"

Zoe didn’t blink. “You’re late, rude, and full of yourself, and somehow you still think you’re the prize. Go be somebody else’s problem.”

The man froze.

I guess he never expected someone to be so unmoved by his charms.

Zoe Parker shot us a look and got up to leave. Sasha and I fought back laughter as we slipped out too.

Once outside I exploded in laughter.

"Hahaha I can’t believe people like that actually exist…"

Sasha laughed too. "Hahaha he’s probably totally stunned…"

In the middle of laughing I thought of my darling Mason.

Never one to miss an excuse to flirt, I sent him a message: “Baby, I saw a total nightmare on a blind date today—compared to him I think I love you even more.”

No reply.

I pressed on: "Even if you ignore me, my love won’t change one bit. Have you ever been loved this passionately? Your heart must be pounding!"

“Babe, you mean everything to me!”

I had just locked my screen when the phone buzzed.

I assumed it was my mom. But when I opened it, it was Mason.

Under my long string of unanswered messages, a reply finally appeared: “Stop texting. I’m sharing my screen!”

Me: "…"

Oh, God. Other people could be seeing my messages. I wanted the floor to swallow me. Still, Mason had finally replied. Somehow, my brain chose to count that as progress.

So I decided to muster up courage and go to Whitaker Enterprises to find Mason.

When I told this grand plan to the two of them, Zoe Parker asked earnestly, "Should we wait outside for you?"

I was touched that she could be so considerate—and about to get emotional—when Sasha calmly added, "We’ll wait to collect your corpse!"

They exchanged a look and burst out laughing. I was left stunned in the wind, speechless.

Even though they didn’t believe in me, I still went. On the way I bought a little Batman action figure.

Guys never really outgrow superheroes, right? And Batman was a brooding billionaire. Practically a personalized gift.

So Mason would like it, right?

Whitaker Enterprises was, without a doubt, an extremely, exceptionally, ridiculously impressive company. Of course it looked the part.

Standing at the entrance, I remembered stopping Mason outside this very building. I couldn’t help smiling. Maybe fate had been nudging us together all along.

Having read every kind of romance, I knew the usual trope—female lead shows up at the hero’s company, the receptionist looks her up and down and blocks her, and then the CEO swoops down and puts the receptionist in her place. But in reality, how could Mason possibly come down to fetch me? So right away I started scheming: how could I slip in without anyone noticing?

After watching for a while, I realized there was basically no way for one living woman to sneak in alone. Still, I wasn’t willing to give up. In the end I decided to gamble.

I texted Mason: “Baby, I’m here to see you, downstairs at the office. Can you come get me?”

No reply for a long time.

Maybe he was busy and hadn’t checked his phone, so I went to the front desk and asked the receptionist to call the CEO’s office.

She was nothing like the cold front-desk bitches in the novels—she was sweet and eager, just a moment’s hesitation before she made the call.

The line connected quickly. The person on the other end asked who I was. I hurriedly told the receptionist, “Rosie! I’m Rosie!”

Suddenly the line went silent, then it clicked off.

I thought it was over. But pretty soon someone came down—an unfamiliar face.

He smiled at me. “Ms. Bennett, I’m Mr. Whitaker’s assistant. You can call me Alec. Mr. Whitaker asked me to escort you up.”

That was the voice from the phone.

I practically bounced into the elevator with him and we were up on the top floor in no time.

“This way, Ms. Bennett,” he said.

I pushed the door open and finally saw my darling, the one I’d been thinking about day and night.

Tears almost welled up. I ran toward him, “Ba—by—”

Mason didn’t even lift his eyes. One hand held a file; the other floated up and gently pressed against my forehead. He said, as if joking, “Stand still.”

Realizing I couldn’t charm my way past him, I obediently stood there and stared.

“What do you want?”

I fumbled in my bag and finally pulled out the Batman figure I’d bought in advance.

“Baby! For you!”

Mason’s expression hardened. After a moment he rubbed his brow and asked, “I get it. Anything else?”

Seizing the moment, I slipped my arm around his and smiled at him, “Baby, the fact that you’re willing to see me—doesn’t that mean you’ve started to fall for me?”

Mason snorted, “You really have a wild imagination.”

I pouted. “So you’re out of my league? Fine. Where do I sign up for tryouts?”

Mason: “…”

“Your grandpa told me you don’t talk to girls much. Am I your first?”

Mason: “…”

“So does this count as successfully getting your attention?”

Mason: “…”

There was a knock at the door—Alec again, sounding like something urgent had come up.

I’m reasonable; I wouldn’t interfere with Mason’s work. Reluctantly I let him go, staring at his flawless face. A frantic idea struck me.

I glanced at the distance from the door, mapped the quickest exit route in my head, rose on my toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Baby! I’m off!”

I bolted, not daring to look back at his expression as I fled like the wind.

My heart pounded like a drum all the way home.

I had, by my own daring, stolen a kiss from Mason! I felt ridiculously proud—my mood soared. When I stepped through the door, I found Cora in the living room and my father sipping tea. Mom wasn’t home.

I was about to ask where she’d gone when I heard heavy breathing from the hallway.

“So tired!”

I turned and saw her—she’d bought a ridiculous amount of groceries, probably back from the market.

“Why so much?”

I started carrying in a few bags to the kitchen, but just as I reached the doorway a shriek erupted from behind me: “Aaaaaaaah—”

I spun around. Cora stood there, wide-eyed, pointing at the bag in my mother’s hands. “Ahhh! That’s my limited-edition designer bag! I just got it yesterday!”

My mother blinked and shook the bag, “Huh?”

Me: “…”

Dad: “…”

Ever since that close encounter with Mason Whitaker, my confidence had shot through the roof, and my flirt game had exploded.

“Good morning, baby. Today’s another day I love you.”

“Life is bitter. You’re my sugar rush.”

“I think of you when daylight comes through the window, when I sit down to lunch, and when I lie down in the dark—thinking of you all day is my specialty.”

“Clear water lives in the heart of ice, breeze lives in the heart of clouds, the stars live in the heart of the long night, and you live in my heart. Though mountains and rivers separate us, yearning has no distance. Can you feel it? My heart is always with you! I miss you!”

Of course none of these messages got a reply.

I was frustrated—men are such a mystery. If only I could know what he was really thinking.

Sigh.

Stretching, I found life starting to feel painfully dull.

I wasn’t exactly aimless—after all, I’d been chosen by the system and had tasks—but I didn’t have any real, important work. Besides, Heather hardly ever paid me any attention.

In the original story, because Ethan planned to call off his engagement with Claire and choose Heather instead, Claire got furious. Instead of giving up, she clung on jealously and constantly set traps for Heather. Heather was no pushover—she fought back—and Claire, outmatched, ultimately suffered for it.

Knowing the plot, I’d handed the leading man over to Heather early on and avoided picking fights with her. Lately Heather’s career was on the rise; she probably didn’t have time to bother me anyway, which is why I’d been so bored and listless.

Watching my mom bustling around the living room doing who-knows-what, I couldn’t help but think life at the top really is lonely.

The weather was getting hotter—must be nearly summer—and I felt like a soggy dog. Two bottles of ice-cold cola down and I still had zero energy, slumped on the couch scrolling my phone.

There were a lot of handsome guys in the videos—too many to count—but what did it matter? None of them could compete with my darling Mason.

My mom, without any concern for appearances, was sprawled out nearby, limbs everywhere. Her phone volume was blasting. I found it annoying but didn’t dare say anything, so I glanced at her screen and saw a few huge, blatant words: The Sorrows of Women—Who Understands?

The background showed a woman holding flowers and crying. The music was unbearably tragic.

Me: “…”

Then she pulled up a string of cheesy, tacky videos and even dragged me into watching them. She laughed so hard she was practically falling over. I could only offer an awkward, “Ha ha ha.”

Today I was still a pretty face on autopilot.

Annoyed by her noise and unable to concentrate on videos, I closed the video app and started messing with a beauty app instead, on an impulse to take a few selfies.

My mom watched me puckering, glaring, and making peace signs, looked at me with utter contempt and snapped, “Move that monkey butt of yours further away!”

Me: “…”

I finally picked a few shots I liked, did some light retouching, and showed them to her. “Ha! Look at your daughter—am I not a total stunner?!”

My mom’s eyes went wide. “Ew—who is that?”

Me: “…”

“No way that’s you!”

Me: “…”

Maybe that’s what they mean by editing someone so much their own mom won’t recognize them.

After finishing, I posted one of the photos to my feed with the caption: “Gorgeous girl heading out—watch your boyfriends!”

Within minutes the likes started pouring in.

Most of them were from Claire Bennett’s social circle—people I didn’t really know. I replied politely to comments and didn’t go beyond small talk.

After I ate half an orange and opened my phone again, I found a comment from Gregory Bennett.

He’d written, “Where’s your mom?”

Me: “Right next to me.”

Gregory: “Oh.”

Me: “…”

A little later I opened Instagram again and saw Mason still hadn’t liked or commented. I felt a little deflated—then a message popped up.

It was from Mason!

I opened it, practically shaking. He wrote very simply, “Who are you going to see?”

Me: “???”

And then he didn’t reply again.

I was completely baffled. Why would he ask that out of nowhere?

Before I could figure it out, my mom’s situation escalated.

Zoe Parker’s mother had invited my mom out—along with Sasha’s mom. In the original novel those three were close friends, always shopping and playing mahjong together. Since my mom had transmigrated and was trying to avoid blowing her cover, she hadn’t been keeping in touch. When they occasionally reached out, she declined, saying she wasn’t feeling well. Plus, everyone already knew about our family drama, so they assumed she was upset and left her alone.

But you can’t run forever. Suddenly Hazel Bennett made up her mind and stood up: “I’m going today! I don’t believe I can’t handle this!”

I silently gave her a thumbs-up in support. She spent a long time getting ready and left in full force. I called for her to pick up a bowl of rice noodles for me on the way, but she either didn’t hear or pretended not to—she left like a queen.

That left the house empty—just me.

I planned to go upstairs for a quiet nap, then wake up and scroll for the rest of the day. But just as I lay down, I got a message from Mason’s grandfather: “Rosie girl, come to my house for dinner tonight?”

Say what? Of course I was coming.

My smile shot up uncontrollably. After replying to him, I jumped up and got ready.

I did my makeup, put on my favorite youthful dress, grabbed a bag—took me an hour in total—and at four in the afternoon I arrived at the Whitaker residence.

Even on my second visit, the Whitaker place felt enormous.

When I got there, Grandpa Whitaker was amusing a bird I couldn’t identify—probably rare and expensive. I shamelessly went in for a little coziness and called, “Grandpa.”

He turned and, seeing me, his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Rosie! You came!”

I walked closer to peer at the bird, still not sure what to make of it. Grandpa asked, “How are things with Mason lately?”

At the mention of that my heart sank a little.

I sighed.

He frowned. “Hm? Is something wrong?”

I thought hard, hemmed and hawed for a while, then blurted out, “Um, Grandpa—are you sure Mason likes girls?”

Grandpa froze.

He stood there stunned for a long beat, then muttered, “…I’m not sure…”

Oh no.

All my hopes sank. Grandpa, however, said calmly, “Don’t worry, Rosie. I’ll observe him a bit.”

Me: “…”

This was a real headache. In the end we agreed to let the question rest for now.

Grandpa suggested we read a passage from the Bible together. I wasn’t in the mood for a serious discussion about scripture. Then I remembered the travel chess set the system had given me.

When it handed me the game I hadn’t paid much attention. Later I’d tossed it into the bag I take everywhere. I reached into my bag and, sure enough, there it was.

Suddenly energized, I said, “Grandpa, let’s play a game.”

Grandpa’s eyes lit up. “Okay—what shall we play?”

I slowly pulled the chess set out of my bag.

His face brightened. “You brought a chess set?”

Granddad said he knew the rules but hadn’t played in years. Excellent. I unrolled the little board, set out the pieces, and offered him a refresher. Maybe I could impress him before he remembered all his old tricks.

Honestly, the set the system gave me was top-notch beneath the wear. The board was supple leather, and the little pieces were carved from pale and dark wood. It looked like something you’d keep for a lifetime.

At first, Granddad was rusty and let me catch him with a couple of quick checkmates. I was smug. “Maybe I’m just better?”

He scowled. "You little brat, another round!"

We kept playing. Granddad’s moves grew sharper, and before I knew it, my little winning streak was history. I couldn’t beat him once.

Granddad beamed. "Ha! You can’t beat an old hand!"

Ugh!

I was so not having it. I was about to demand a rematch when a car pulled up. Granddad’s hand froze mid-move. "That rascal’s here."

Sure enough, when I turned, I saw Mason stepping out with that effortless, graceful air.

Tall and poised, he stood there. I couldn’t read his face from that angle, but my heart did a little flip. All the irritation and awkwardness evaporated. I sprang up and ran to him. "Baby—"

Then, like I’d done it a thousand times, I hung onto him.

Mason: "…"

Granddad: "…"

To be honest, Mason always smelled amazing—cool and clean in a way I couldn’t put into words, but I loved it.

I clung to him, and he murmured with that cool tone, "Get down."

Impulse is a momentary thing. Once I sobered up, I straightened and glanced at the old man. He was calmly sipping his tea as if nothing had happened.

Mason came inside like he owned the place. The kitchen had food ready. Granddad ushered us to the table. Once we sat, I looked up and realized how stunning the decor was.

This wasn’t the hall we’d been in before—probably the main house. It was slightly smaller, but the style was the same: Scandinavian minimalism, cool and understated.

Even so, I could tell at a glance the knickknacks were worth a lot.

Granddad was in a great mood, smiling from ear to ear. "Rosie, help yourself. Eat until you’re full!"

I nodded at him and stole a quick look at Mason. He was his usual unreadable self, so I relaxed and expertly snagged a big drumstick.

The food was delicious, but I’d always preferred my mom’s cooking. After polishing off the drumstick, I bragged, “Grandpa, next time you and… Mason should come to my house and try my mom’s three-ingredient noodle stew. It’s unbeatable!”

Granddad perked up. "I’d love to try that!"

The meal went smoothly—well, except Mason stayed stone-faced and spoke almost nothing.

By now I’m used to it. After we’d nearly finished eating, a scene from TV popped into my head—the trope where the supporting heroine slips off her shoes, goes barefoot, and rubs the male lead’s leg to seduce him.

Bright idea. I kicked off my shoes. Thank goodness my feet don’t stink; otherwise, that would’ve been mortifying.

But reality is rarely as generous as fantasy. Even with my leg fully extended, I couldn’t reach Mason.

Me: "…"

It had to be the table. Yes. Definitely not my short legs.

I wasn’t willing to admit defeat. I scooted my chair closer and leaned down, giving it everything I had. Still couldn’t reach.

While I was straining, I heard Granddad’s puzzled voice. "Rosie, what’s wrong?"

Me: "…"

I quickly sat properly. Mason glanced at me, as if he’d seen straight through the whole thing, then stood up and said calmly, "I’m full."

Before leaving, he shot me a look that was somehow loaded with meaning.

My attempt at flirtation had been an absolute disaster.

I felt a little deflated. Even playing chess with Granddad couldn’t lift my mood. Late in the day, my father’s call came through.

"Where’s your mom?"

I was already bummed and snapped back, "How would I know? I’m not with her! Why are you only asking about Mom? Am I not your daughter?"

Silence from him. After a moment: "Oh. Where are you, then?"

You could hear how perfunctory that was.

"If you’ve got nothing else to say, I’m hanging up."

He cut me off before I could answer.

Me: "…"

So that’s it—I was just a total tool to them all.

Mood: turned dark.

A little later I got ready to leave. Granddad, ever perceptive, caught how I kept glancing at Mason and ordered, "Mason, take Rosie home."

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I was doing an internal victory dance, though I put on a demure face. "No trouble, Grandpa. I can go home myself…"

Mason rose and looked at me with those gray-blue eyes. A sliver of mischief crossed them. "Fine. Then go home by yourself."

What? Say that again? Who talks like that?

I was stunned. Granddad frowned and put his foot down. "What, getting cocky now? You won’t even listen to an old man?"

Mason hadn’t even answered when Granddad shifted into the most pitiful, wounded act—something between fake frailty and melodrama. "It’s true. When you’re old, people resent you. It’s okay. It’s my fate. Sigh…"

Mason: "…"

I couldn’t help but admire Granddad’s Oscar-worthy performance. Seizing my chance, I fanned the flames. "Don’t worry, Grandpa. You still have me! If he doesn’t want you, I do!"

The old man looked touched. "Rosie really is the best!"

Mason: "…"

In the end, our little duet performance was a clear success, and I even got exactly what I wanted—Mason’s passenger seat.

In the car I felt refreshed. I stealthily took a photo of him driving and sent it to the group chat.

No one replied—probably eating—so I put my phone away and, seizing this rare two-person moment, asked, "Baby, do you feel even a little flutter for me?"

Mason gave me a sidelong glance and said nothing.

Suddenly I felt this hopeless crush didn’t need to go on anymore.

I sighed and decided to be blunt.

"All this time, no matter how you treated me, I’ve kept liking you."

"But today, I’m really tired."

Mason stopped the car. I stared at the red light ahead and felt a wave of sadness. "Your world has only ever given me red lights."

Mason: "…"

“We’re adults. I have my dignity. I’m done chasing you. Let’s go our separate ways. You live your life, and I’ll… I’ll still be there whenever you need me. Just promise you’ll take care of yourself, okay?”

Mason: "…"

The light turned green. Mason started the car, looked at me helplessly, and ruffled my hair, muttering to himself, "I don’t know what she thinks about all day…"

Wahhh.

Tears almost came. “Babe! Was that a sign my flirting is finally working? Babe! I’m so happy!”

Mason: "…"

Section 12

When we arrived, I lingered at the doorway, planning a dramatic TV-style goodbye to my baby. Before I could even open my mouth, he did a drift and vanished like a shot, leaving me staring at his taillights and a face full of exhaust.

Me: "…"

Oh well. He’d acknowledged my existence. I chose to call that a promotion.

Back inside, I found Mom had returned. The sofa was piled with shopping bags. She lit up when she saw me. "My friends and I went shopping today. I bought you a few things—try them on later!"

I set down my bag and casually asked, "So? How are Zoe’s and Sasha’s moms?"

Mom nodded, satisfied. "I thought those rich ladies would be hard to get along with, but they were easy. We hit it off. We should go more often!"

Seeing her so happy made me glad too. It’s lonely being solo; friends really help.

I took a sip of water and flopped on the couch, casually rifling through the clothes Mom had bought. Then I froze when I saw a sweatshirt.

"What is this?"

I picked it up. Mom, tidying the kitchen, glanced over. "Oh, that? I bought it at the market. The seller said it’s a brand name and it’s on clearance—only nineteen bucks!"

"Good deal, right?!"

I said nothing and stared at the logo printed on the shirt: abidas. I fell into thought.

At that moment, Dad appeared out of nowhere like a ghost. He said quietly, "Is there one for me?"

Mom, completely confident, said, "No."

Dad: "…"

Later, after my shower, I noticed Sasha had replied in the group: "You Photoshopped it, right?"

Blinding jealousy!

I didn’t bother explaining—let him think what he wanted.

Then Zoe sent several photos in black stockings and texted, "Cute?"

She might be rough-tongued, but her figure is killer. Any guy except Sasha would get fired up seeing those.

I sent a great sticker. Then Sasha sent a voice message. I opened it and heard him in such a faux-delicate tone: "I really envy you who can wear black stockings. I can’t. My dad said if I wear them he won’t recognize me as his son."

Me: "…"

Zoe: "…"

Before bed I, as usual, sent Mason a goodnight and, as usual, got no reply. But tonight, with my newly elevated status, my temper flared, so I typed, "Why the stuck-up face? You think you’re so pretty? Ridiculous! I think you’re great too—I’ll keep simping for you tomorrow, baby."

No reply, of course.

But I wasn’t worried this time—there’s a new show that Zoe recommended. I watched a few episodes and got hooked, especially on the four girls—their cuteness, energy, and vitality hit me hard. What "Candy Not Sweet"? It’s super sweet!

It distracted me completely—Mason vanished from my head and all I could think about were those four sisters. Zoe and I even joined the fan club, ready to fight for them on the front lines.

Mom, now with friends, goes shopping and plays mahjong more often and seems much happier. Still, she hasn’t given up the community dance group and keeps nagging, "When will a new dance troupe form?"

Me: "Stop wishing."

Lately Mom had been watching a melodrama about a son rescuing his mother, and it always left her red-eyed. That night she sang along while cooking, only to start inventing lyrics: “Across the stars, across the sea… Tony, come back home to me…”

I blinked. “Tony? From your other soap?”

Mom looked puzzled. “Yes. Tony.”

Me: "…"

She’d somehow smuggled Tony from Country Roses into an entirely different show’s theme song. Old habits die hard.

Summer was sticky and hot.

I wore oversized shorts and a tank top Mom must’ve bought somewhere, sipped juice, and sprawled on the couch like a professional couch potato.

Lately I’ve been busy—mostly with fangirling.

Idols make me happy.

After all the hustle recently, Zoe and I had finally worked our way up to being minor leaders in the fan circle. Watching the girls improve bit by bit made my heart swell with pride.

My mom hasn’t been home much lately—she’s out with her girlfriends a lot. No idea what they get up to.

But that’s fine. As long as she doesn’t bother me, I don’t care.

So most of the time, it’s just me and… Cora, Heather’s mother, at home.

It’s kind of annoying, honestly.

Heather pops back occasionally, but I rarely see her. With her and Ethan’s engagement banquet coming up, she’s probably slammed with preparations.

I wondered whether rich people’s engagement parties were anything like the family celebrations back home. Was there a buffet? Would I get stuck at the kids’ table?

That afternoon, unlucky me—I’d just come downstairs when Heather walked in. I was going to pretend not to notice, but she called out, “Claire Bennett.”

Nobody’s called me that in ages.

Me: “Hm?”

She had this mocking smile, tone dripping with disdain. “Are you actually stupid, or are you faking it?”

Wow!

First time anyone assumed my stupidity was on purpose!

If Mom heard that, she’d try to prove I’m naturally clueless forever.

I looked at her, oddly touched. She’d basically complimented my intelligence—if I didn’t admit it, I’d be ungrateful.

So I hurried to nod. “Yes, yes! I’m faking it! I can’t believe you noticed!”

Heather: “…”

Section 13

That night Mom came home and bought me a few outfits she thought were a bargain, then forced me to try them on. I wanted to refuse but didn’t dare, so I put them on.

Then, from somewhere nearby, Dad—Gregory—suddenly piped up, “What about me?”

???

Mom shot back, “What?”

He put his head down, looking a little wounded. “You always buy things for her, but never for me.”

Seeing the CEO act like that could melt anyone’s heart, right? But Mom’s not normal—she just said coldly, “Tell the lady upstairs to buy you something.”

Dad: “…”

Yep, that’s always his weak spot.

Honestly, over all this time I hadn’t thought Dad was that attached to his first love. He’s been pretty good to us. I figured maybe the changes we brought in when we transmigrated set off a chain reaction.

Things have to change, right? Otherwise what—sit and wait to die?

After trying on the clothes, I put on one of the hoodies Mom liked and only then noticed a string of voice messages from Zoe. I was too lazy to listen, so I called her. She picked up almost instantly and before I could speak, she asked, “Is your mom with you?”

I said no. She was quiet a beat, then said, “My mom bought me a bunch of flea-market clothes.”

Me: “…”

“I think you might’ve gotten some too.”

Me: “…”

“…and so did Sasha.”

Me: “…”

I hung up and couldn’t calm down. I thought this transmigration would lift her from the countryside into the upper crust, but instead she’d singlehandedly dragged the whole ladies’ club down a notch.

No wonder she’d mesmerized Gregory Bennett.

Thursday night, the variety show updates at ten, and I was all set on the bed waiting for it to drop—then I got a message.

It was from Mason.

He’d sent: “Heh.”

I was confused. I checked our last chat—it’d been over twenty days. Suddenly I felt guilty.

I’d neglected Mason because I was fangirling!

I’d made winning him over my life’s mission—and then completely forgotten about it. How could I?

Before I could reply, another message popped up: “Is this how you say you like me?”

Why did that feel like being caught cheating?

I blurted out a lame excuse. “Been a little busy…”

Mason: “Heh.”

Me: “…”

He added, “Busy chasing idols, huh.”

How did he know? Is he stalking me? Novel CEOs stalk their heroines in the stories—ick, but also, weirdly, exciting. “How did you know?!”

“You post it on Instagram every day.”

Me: “…”

Facepalm.

I wrung my hands trying to craft a reply, then he sent, “Ignoring me now? Fine.”

Was his account hacked?

It felt off. No time to overthink—I switched to full apology mode. “My fault, baby, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again! Sorry! Muah!”

No reply.

I checked the time—past ten. The show had updated. I watched it, and only after I was about to sleep did he text back: “Mm.”

“What’s muah?”

No way—he didn’t even know?

I explained, “It means kissy-kissy.”

Then I slept.

The house got busy. Heather’s engagement banquet was coming.

I asked Dad whether the engagement party would have a proper buffet. The look he gave me suggested this was not going to be like the family parties I remembered.

Zoe said plenty of couples kept the celebration to a small dinner with their families. Heather wanted a full-scale event, so a full-scale event she was getting.

So they planned to hold it at our place.

Why not at Ethan’s house? Probably because his parents hadn’t accepted her yet.

None of this was my business; my job was to eat and enjoy myself.

The engagement was set for the evening of June twentieth.

Early that morning Heather and her mom started arranging everything. The household staff were buzzing around. When I woke and saw the lavish, grand lobby, I was shocked.

It was really over the top.

Among all the spectacle, Mom stuck out like a breath of fresh air.

She tied on an apron and cooked at a steady pace. She glanced at me and said, “Get down and eat.”

So there we were—totally out of sync with the pomp—sitting down to noodles with pickled radish and soybean sauce in the middle of all that splendor.

I always want to sleep after I eat, and the living room was unbearably noisy. I didn’t want to keep getting shot dirty looks from Heather and her mother, so I told Mom we should go shopping.

She agreed right away this time.

Once we were out, I asked, “Where’s Dad? It’s his daughter’s engagement today—why isn’t he here? He actually went to work?”

Mom waved it off, “Who knows.”

True enough—what could we do?

We wandered around until afternoon, and that’s when I got a call from Dad.

Dad: “Where are you two?”

Me: “Out.”

There was a pause, then Gregory said, “Come back. The banquet’s about to start.”

I didn’t get why he wanted Mom and me there. It’d be awkward with Heather’s family around, but then Sasha called. “Zoe and I are coming tonight—get ready!”

Ugh. Fine. We went.

Section 14

By the time we got home, Heather and Cora were already all dolled up—literally dazzling.

Compared to them, Mom and I looked like we’d been dragged through the mall and back. Gregory glanced over, closed his eyes, and said, “…go get yourselves ready.”

Of course!

If we had to go, we weren’t going to be upstaged. Mom and I might not be required to attend, but since we were, we needed to bring the proper matriarch-and-heir energy.

I dug through my closet and pulled out my priciest strapless gold mermaid gown, did heavier makeup than usual, and spent time curling my hair so it sat over my shoulders.

I smiled at my reflection, satisfied, and was about to help Mom in her room when she came in.

I was shocked.

I had no idea Mom could glam up like that.

She wore an elegant dress that mixed Eastern and Western styles—tasteful, not over the top—also mainly gold. Her makeup was flawless. She’d loosely pinned her hair up and stuck a jade hairpin in it.

She looked me over and said, “Not bad.”

I fawned, “Mom, you’re incredible! Look at us—we’re totally in sync. Mother-daughter goals!”

Mom: “I figured you’d wear that.”

Me, surprised: “No way!”

She sniffed, “You only have a handful of outfits and I’m the one who puts them away every day. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

Yep—mother knows best.

After we finished, we went downstairs. Some guests had already arrived. Dad was greeting them, and when he saw Mom, his gaze didn’t leave her.

Heather and her mother stared at us with pure, naked hatred.

I didn’t care—I still had to pick up Sasha and Zoe.

At the curb a car pulled up. I assumed it was Zoe, but the car felt oddly familiar. Before I could look closely the driver opened the rear door and out stepped—Mason Whitaker.

I nearly squealed, “Mason, baby!”

He gave me a look, frowned briefly, then instantly relaxed like nothing had happened.

He said, “I’m not your baby.”

???

Honestly, I was totally stunned. Not just because Mason showed up unexpectedly, but because he said he wasn’t mine!

How could he say that?

It cut me—thinking of how I’d pined over him, and realizing maybe I’d been the clown all along.

I shut my eyes and asked him, feeling hurt, “Why?”

He sneered, “You tell me.”

The confident way he said it made me doubt myself. Had I done something to make him mad?

I thought for a minute and then it hit me—I hadn’t reached out to him in ages. The last time I’d dropped contact was because I was obsessed with Candy Not Sweet; he’d texted first, I’d soothed things over, then I’d gone and forgotten again.

Am I even worthy of being his devoted fan? If there weren’t so many people around I would’ve slapped myself.

Mason, seeing I might be remembering, snorted and walked past me into the house. I lunged, grabbed his sleeve. “Mason! I was wrong! Please don’t ignore me!”

We came in like that—me clutching his arm, my whole world centered on Mason—completely oblivious to the sudden hush in the hall. Every eye fell on him…and on us.

Something felt off, but Mason stayed cool as ever.

Dad hurried over, gave me a look, and quietly peeled my hand off Mason’s sleeve. Very politely he said, “My apologies, Mr. Whitaker. This girl doesn’t know proper etiquette. If she’s offended you, please forgive her.”

Wait—Mason and I are from the same generation, so why is Dad so careful around him? And offended? He’s my Mason—why would anyone be offended?

Mason smiled politely and nodded, a faint curve at his lips, “No problem, Mr. Bennett. No offense taken.”

Dad smiled back. Mom pulled me to the side. “You really have guts.”

I blinked, “What do you mean?”

She sighed and pointed toward Mason, who had already been surrounded by a cluster of business magnates, “Are you blind? Can’t you see?”

Looking properly, I admitted it—Mason was definitely the handsomest one in that group. “Of course—my Mason is the hottest CEO in the room.”

Mom was speechless. She finally lost it and smacked the back of my head. “I’ve asked around—you need to be careful with the Whitakers. They’re not ordinary people. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I knew that. I’m just his devoted admirer—what harm could I possibly cause?

I nodded and Mom relaxed. A nearby society matron came over to chat, and I slipped away to go fetch Sasha and Zoe.

Near the door I got this weird feeling like someone was watching me. When I turned, Mason was staring at me.

He stood among the crowd, silent, a glass of red wine in his hand, watching me with meaning in his eyes.

I didn’t know what he meant, so I reflexively gave him what I thought was a sultry wink—and then left.

I texted those two, but no one answered, so I had to stand there and wait. To my surprise, Heather actually walked over.

She lifted her chin, proud and contemptuous, eyes full of disdain. "You sure have connections—getting cozy with the Whitakers."

I stared at her calmly. It was odd. "Weren’t you the one who gave me the chance?"

I remembered Mr. Whitaker’s birthday banquet and how she’d put me on the spot by claiming I’d prepared a special gift. If it hadn’t been for my mom’s shout distracting everyone, who knew how that would have ended.

Heather’s expression flickered—briefly ashen—then she forced a cold smile. "I’m curious to see what’ll happen to you once you’re tied to that family."