1 I was the only one who could see the floating number above Austin’s head. It was his Happiness Index.

Back when I was chasing him, persistent and hopelessly young, the meter hovered at a stubborn 10%.

Over the years, through latenight drives, shared takeout on moving boxes, and finally our wedding vows, that little translucent number steadily climbed from 10% all the way to 100%.

Then came the sevenyear itch. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, his meter sank to 60% and froze there.

When I found out I was pregnant and showed him the ultrasound—a tiny, flickering heartbeat on grainy paper—the number bumped up by exactly one single percent.

A few months later, I walked past his office and saw him talking to Gia, the new marketing intern.

It was nothing more than a casual greeting by the coffee machine, but the moment she laughed, his meter spiked instantly to 80%.

From that afternoon on, Austin’s index remained on a meteoric, uninterrupted climb. The day I caught them in our master bedroom, Austin didn't scramble to pull up his pants.

Instead, he stepped protectively in front of Gia, shielding her naked shoulders from my view, his gaze cutting into me like dry ice. "Gia didn't do anything wrong," he said, his voice level and chillingly calm. "I initiated this.

Don't touch a hair on her head." I stood in the doorway, my knuckles white against the frame, staring at the glowing 92% pulsing above his dark hair.

A quiet, hollow smile touched my lips. "Carry on," I said, and pulled the door shut.

Leaning back against the hallway wall, swallowing the acid rising in my throat, I summoned the system that had been dormant for seven years.

His happiness index is about to hit one hundred percent, I told it silently. This time, I'm ready. Take me home. A cold, synthetic chime resonated in my mind.

Seven years ago, on your wedding day, Austin Drake’s happiness index reached one hundred percent. You refused the extraction then, choosing to remain in this world.

This is your final chance. Are you certain? I looked down at the scratched silver band on my left ring finger.

The metal had thinned from years of wear. "I'm certain," I whispered. "I want to leave." Confirmed. Extraction protocol initialized.

The moment his happiness index reaches one hundred percent, you will be permanently removed from this world. Good luck, Host.

The mechanical voice faded, and the ambient noise of the townhouse rushed back in. The master bedroom door wasn't soundproof.

Through the mahogany paneling, Gia’s delicate, breathless voice drifted out. "Mr. Drake... I heard your wife has a terrifying temper.

They say whenever a woman got too close to you in the past, she had them dealt with immediately.

Is that going to happen to me?" Austin let out a low, indulgent chuckle. "What, admitting you’re mine now?" He paused, his tone shifting into something lazily protective. "Don't worry.

I’ve got you covered. She’s pregnant right now anyway—just don't go out of your way to provoke her." A low moan cut him off, followed by the rhythmic creak of our mattress.

I turned and walked down the stairs, a bitter, breathless laugh catching in my chest. Gia had it all wrong. I had never "dealt" with the women around him.

Austin had done it himself. Back when he loved me—when his meter held steady at a perfect 100%—he treated every other woman like an active landmine.

If someone flirted with him at a charity gala, he would march straight to me like a golden retriever begging for praise: Babe, look, I didn't even give her my card.

Once, at a private equity mixer, a client spiked his drink and tried to slip into his hotel suite.

Austin had literally smashed his forehead against the marble bathroom wall until blood dripped into his eyes, using the sheer agony to stay conscious while he dragged himself out to the lobby.

He had wept into my collarbone that night, trembling. Babe, there will never be anyone else. Never. So please... please tell that system of yours that you won't leave.

Don't go back to your world. Looking at his bloodshot, desperate eyes back then, my heart had shattered into tender pieces.

I called the system and canceled the extraction without hesitation.

For the first few years, he would wake up gasping in the middle of the night, reaching out in the dark to clutch me tightly against his ribs, terrified that I had vanished into thin air.

And then Gia walked into his firm. Suddenly, his happiness was no longer tethered to mine. My joy, my morning sickness, my quiet loneliness—none of it moved the needle.

His world narrowed down entirely to the bright, breathless energy of a twentytwoyearold girl. Austin knew I could see his numbers.

Whenever I confronted him about the late nights and the lingering floral perfume on his lapels, his patience wore thinner and thinner.

Are you done making a scene? he had snapped at me just last week. I run a multimilliondollar fund. I’m exhausted every single day.

Is it a crime to want someone who offers a little emotional lightness? It’s completely normal. If you can’t handle it, get out.

Let’s see where else you can even go in this world without me. Looking at the stranger wearing my husband’s face, a cold clarity had settled over me.

He treated me like collateral damage because he was entirely convinced I had nowhere else to run. He believed I was trapped here, bound to him by an ancient choice. "Paige.

Make some chicken soup for Gia. She’s starving. Put extra cilantro in it." Austin’s voice broke through the quiet living room. I looked up.

He was strolling down the stairs, a damp towel draped over his broad shoulders, wiping his dark hair. He had completely forgotten that I had a severe cilantro allergy.

I was nearly five months along. Standing for more than twenty minutes sent throbbing aches through my lower back, yet here he was, casually ordering me to cater to his mistress.

My heart felt numb, calcified. I glanced above his wet hair. 93%.

There wasn't a flicker of guilt in his eyes—only the smug, sated glow of a man who believed he held all the cards. "You were good just now, Paige," he said, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the island. "You didn't make a scene or humiliate Gia.

If you’d acted like this from the start, we wouldn't have had so many fights. Your place as Mrs. Drake isn't going anywhere. Go ahead, what bag do you want?

Pick one out." My eyes caught the dark purple bruise on his neck—a fresh, jagged hickey just below his jawline.

When we were young and reckless, he used to beg me to leave marks on him. Mark your territory, he would laugh against my mouth. That way every woman in the room knows I’m taken.

We hadn't touched each other in nearly a year. Now, he let Gia mark him. Was it to keep other women away—or to keep me out?

I pulled the corners of my mouth into a faint smile and reached into my pocket, producing a neatly folded document I had printed yesterday. "I saw an Hermès Birkin through a private dealer," I lied smoothly. "It’s over the corporate card limit, and accounting needs your personal signoff on the asset release.

Just sign here." Austin took the pen, but his fingers paused over the paper.

His eyes dropped to my left hand. "Where’s your ring?" he asked, his brow furrowing slightly. "This is the first time you’ve ever taken it off since we got married.

Why?" The number above his head flickered: 94%.

I glanced sideways toward the trash can under the sink, where the worn silver band was already buried beneath coffee grounds. "I didn't want Gia to see it and feel uncomfortable," I said quietly.

A selfsatisfied smirk broke across Austin’s face.

He reached out, his arm moving to pull me into a warm, familiar embrace, but I stepped back instinctively, pretending to reach for a cutting board.

His arm stiffened for a second, but he brushed it off, scrawling his bold, sweeping signature across the bottom of the page before tossing it back to me. "What’s gotten into you today?

So compliant," he said, turning back toward the stairs. "Buy as many bags as you want. I’m going back up to keep Gia company.

Bring the soup up when it’s done before you go to sleep. Thanks, honey." The meter ticked up: 94%. I watched his broad back disappear up the staircase.

The moment he was gone, I pulled out my phone, took highresolution scans of the signed divorce agreement, and emailed them directly to my attorney for urgent filing and notarization.

Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with the lawyer’s confirmation: Filing complete. Certified copy registered with the county.

A heavy, suffocating stone finally dissolved in my chest. Six percent. Just six percent more, and I would be free of this timeline forever.

Austin, I thought, let this be our final goodbye. By the time the broth finished simmering, it was nearly three in the morning.

A sharp, burning ache radiated across my pelvic bones and up my spine. I carried the tray up the stairs.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar, spills of warm light and highpitched giggles leaking into the dark corridor. I pushed the door open with my elbow, stepped in, and froze.

The wallmounted projector was on, casting a massive, glowing image across the white wall. It was a video from eight years ago—the darkest night of my life.

Back when I was still trying to make it as an actress, a predatory producer had lured me into a hotel suite under the guise of an audition.

The video was a hidden paparazzi tape of the assault: me, cornered against a headboard, sobbing hysterically, screaming for help as my clothes were violently ripped away.

Austin had broken down the door that night and saved me. Afterward, I quit the industry entirely, terrified of the public eye.

Austin had sold an entire seaside property to buy out every single master copy of that tape from the black market, holding me in his arms while swearing on his life that no living soul would ever see it.

And now, Gia was holding the remote. She was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, her manicured thumb hitting the pause button.

The frame froze right on my face—raw, stripped bare, contorted in absolute terror and degradation. A violent shiver ran down my spine.

The humiliation was so thick it tasted like copper on my tongue. Gia turned around, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. "Oh, Paige!

I used to watch your indie films when I was in middle school! Everyone always wondered why you suddenly retired at your peak.

So this is why!" She tilted her head, looking me up and down with exaggerated pity. "Honestly, your body isn't even that great. Why would a producer bother assaulting you?

You weren't trying to pull a honey trap for hush money, were you? Hahaha!" My throat locked. I couldn't draw breath. A second later, the projector screen went black.

Austin stepped forward, reaching out to touch my arm, his voice pitched low. "Gia was just digging through my safe and found the flash drive. She’s young, Paige.

She was just making a stupid joke. Don't take it personally." My safe? My gaze drifted past him to the builtin biometric safe in the corner of the room.

For seven years, Austin had kept the passcode strictly to himself; I was never allowed to touch it. Now, the heavy steel door hung wide open.

Gold bullion, private equity bonds, and vintage watches were strewn haphazardly across the carpet like cheap toys.

And right by Gia’s bare feet lay our marriage certificate—torn into jagged, shredded ribbons.

When Austin saw my blank stare, an edge of impatience crept into his voice. "We can always get a replacement certificate from city hall.

Don't stand there giving me that face." I will never give you the chance to get your hands on this, Austin had told me seven years ago, kissing the red leather folder before locking it away.

We are never getting divorced in this lifetime. Above his head, the number dropped: 92%. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.

I forced my lips to curve upward. "I'm not angry," I said evenly. "The soup is ready.

Come drink it while it’s hot." I bent down stiffly, trying to set the heavy porcelain bowl on the bedside table. Crash!

Gia’s hand flicked out, deliberately catching the rim of the tray.

The pipinghot broth—trapping a layer of scalding oil underneath—flipped directly onto my lower abdomen and thighs. The heat soaked through my linen dress instantly.

A blinding, searing spasm tore through my uterus.

The pain was so acute my vision blurred to white, and I collapsed against the edge of the nightstand, gasping. "Austin... the baby—" Before the words could fully leave my lips, Gia let out a sharp wail, holding up a slightly flushed pinky finger. "Austin, it burns!

It hurts so much!" Austin’s face instantly darkened. He didn't even glance down at me as I knelt in the scalding broth, clutching my stomach.

He swept Gia into his arms, lifting her off the bed to head for the door. At the threshold, he paused, throwing a look over his shoulder.

His eyes were cold enough to freeze blood. "Paige, is playing the jealous victim really that fun?" he spat. "If you intentionally try to hurt Gia again, pack your bags and get the hell out." His index dropped: 85%.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them. The agony in my abdomen escalated into sharp, rhythmic contractions.

I dragged myself across the floor toward the nightstand, my trembling fingers dialing 911.

To keep myself from slipping into shock, I used my right thumbnail to dig viciously into the fleshy web between my left thumb and index finger.

I gouged deeper and deeper until blood welled up and dripped onto the hardwood, using the sharp physical sting to tether my consciousness.

When the paramedics finally arrived, I was barely lucid. I scribbled my consent on the emergency surgical forms in the ambulance before the world went black.

When I opened my eyes again, the sterile fluorescent lights of the recovery ward stung my retinas. My hands moved instinctively to my stomach. It was flat. Hollow. Empty.

A single, silent tear tracked from the corner of my eye, soaking into the coarse hospital pillow. My baby was gone.

Around ten that night, the heavy door of the private room swung open. Austin stood in the entryway.

His tie was loosened, his hair messy, but the floating number above his head was blazing at an astonishing 97%. "Paige!" he said, stepping into the room with an ecstatic smile. "Our boy is going to have a little sister!

Gia is pregnant!" I stared at him from the pillows, a vast, frozen silence expanding inside me. When I had told him about our child, his index had moved by 1%.

For Gia, it had surged by more than twenty.

Seeing my blank expression, Austin walked to the edge of the bed and gently stroked my hair, his touch sickeningly tender. "Don't look so shocked," he murmured softly. "You don't have to worry about a thing.

Your position as Mrs. Drake is permanent. Once Gia has the baby, we’ll adopt her legally under your name, okay?" He paused, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "The only problem is...

Gia is terrified right now. She’s talking about terminating the pregnancy because she thinks you’re going to attack her again after the soup incident. Come with me to her room.

Just give her a quick apology, promise her that nothing like that will ever happen again, and we can put all of this behind us. Be a good girl." I didn't speak.

His hand stilled, and the warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by familiar irritation. "I know it wasn't entirely on purpose," he sighed, checking his watch. "But what’s done is done.

Gia is young and sensitive—why do you have to be so petty with her? You have the legal status, the wealth, the ring.

She’s with me with no title at all; she’s already the one compromising. Of course I have to comfort her. Are you going to apologize or not?" In the past, I would have screamed.

I would have torn the IV out of my arm, thrown the monitor across the room, and made sure neither of them ever had a moment of peace.

Now, I simply pushed back the thin blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. "Okay," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I’ll apologize." Austin blinked, visibly startled. "Really?

You’re not going to fight me on this?" I stood up, steadying myself against the IV pole as the postsurgery cramps pulled at my core. "There’s nothing left to fight about.

As long as you’re happy." A brilliant grin broke across his handsome face. He pulled me against his chest, pressing a firm, relieved kiss to my temple. "That’s my girl.

You’re the best, Paige." The index ticked upward: 98%. I leaned against him, letting my unclenched hands rest at my sides.

The last microscopic ember of love I held for this man sputtered and died. The fierce, devoted boy who had once broken down hotel doors to protect me was long dead.

This hollow, selfish husk in front of me was a complete stranger.

He took my hand to lead me down the hall, and as our fingers intertwined, he finally noticed something. "Wait... why are you in the OBGYN wing?

Is our son okay?" His eyes dropped to my left hand. "What happened to your thumb?" Fresh blood was seeping through the crude tissue I had wrapped around the gouged flesh.

Instinctively, Austin reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a sterile adhesive bandage, gently wrapping it around the wound.

Over our eight years together, I had always been clumsy, constantly nicking my fingers in the kitchen. He had carried BandAids in his wallet every single day out of pure habit.

Looking at the familiar motion now, I felt no warmth. Only a profound disgust at the muscle memory of a dead romance.

I pulled my hand back and pushed open the door to Room 402. "It’s nothing.

Don't worry about it." Gia was curled up in the VIP bed, clutching a cashmere throw, her eyes welling with theatrical tears the moment she saw me. "Why is she here?!" Gia gasped, shrinking back. "Hasn't she burned me enough?!" Austin immediately rushed to the bedside, gathering her into his arms with infinite tenderness. "Shh, baby, it’s okay.

Paige came here to apologize to you." I stood at the foot of the bed, lowered my head, and spoke clearly into the quiet room. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spilled the soup.

It won't happen again." Gia pouted, burying her face in Austin’s lapel. "I couldn't hear her. She didn't mean it." Austin threw a sharp, warning glance in my direction.

I raised my voice, perfectly flat: "I am sorry." Gia sniffled, a cruel glint flashing in her eyes. "Still not sincere enough.

If you really mean it, get down on your knees and bow to me three times. Then I’ll believe you." My eyes snapped to Austin. He didn't stop her.

Instead, he gave me a subtle, heavy nod, his gaze carrying an unmistakable threat: Do it, or this marriage is over. A soft laugh escaped my throat.

Without a second of hesitation, my knees hit the cold linoleum floor with a sharp thud. I bent forward, touching my forehead to the ground, and spoke at full volume: "I am sorry!

I am sorry! I am sorry!" The words echoed violently off the sterile walls. Gia froze, her mouth slightly open, stunned by my total lack of resistance.

She had expected a brawl; she had expected me to fight for my pride. Austin surged forward, his hand wrapping around my wrist like an iron cuff, yanking me roughly to my feet.

His face was a storm of confusion and dark fury. "Paige, what the hell is wrong with you?!" he hissed, his grip bruising my bone. "You’ve been acting completely deranged for the past two days.

Are you playing some kind of sick game?

Playing hard to get?" I looked directly into his bloodshot eyes and smiled. "Isn't this what you wanted?" He stared at me, his jaw clenching tightly, before slowly letting go of my wrist. "Fine," he muttered, unsettled. "Keep acting like a saint.

Let’s see how long you can keep this up." Above his head, the meter unexpectedly dropped: 97%. How strange.

I didn't cry, I didn't scream, I gave him everything he demanded—and it displeased him. Before I could process the irony, the hallway erupted in blinding white flashes.

A dozen paparazzi and entertainment reporters pushed past the hospital security, thrusting long microphones and DSLR lenses directly into my face. "Ms. Paige!

Is the leaked assault tape from eight years ago authentic?!" "Did you intentionally offer yourself to Director Hayes for casting couch privileges?!" "Is this the real reason you abruptly quit Hollywood?!" "Please give us a statement!

Was the footage AIgenerated, or was that really you stripped in that hotel room?!" A reporter shoved an iPhone screen inches from my nose.

The video playing on the screen was the exact highdefinition file Gia had been watching on the projector an hour ago. She leaked it. I whipped around.

Gia was already cowering deep inside Austin’s jacket, trembling. "Austin... I’m scared...

I don't want the press to paint me as a mistress..." I lunged forward, grabbing Austin’s sleeve, my voice shaking with pure fury. "She did this!

She took the file from your safe and sent it to the press to destroy me—" Smack! A vicious backhand struck across my cheek. The impact snapped my head to the side.

My ears rang with a high, deafening pitch, and the taste of iron flooded my mouth. Austin’s voice drifted down, icy and detached. "Where would Gia even get that tape?

Paige, I thought you had finally grown up, but you orchestrated this whole media circus just to frame her.

Trying to drag an innocent girl into the mud—do you have any shame left?" He shoved me backward. My weak, postop body gave out, and I hit the floor hard. Austin didn't look down.

He wrapped his arm firmly around Gia’s waist, stepping squarely in front of the flashing cameras, projecting the image of a noble protector. "The video is authentic," Austin declared loudly to the press. "It depicts my wife, Paige, engaging in an illicit transaction with a producer years ago.

As her husband, I was kept in the dark for seven years. Having just learned the truth today, I officially announce that Paige and I are no longer together.

My legal team will handle the dissolution of our marriage." He pulled Gia closer, kissing her temple under the strobe of the flashes. "This is Gia.

She is the future mistress of the Drake estate, and the woman I love." Gia beamed up at him, turning her face to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. "I love you, hubby." The room erupted into frantic clicks and eager whispers. "Oh my god, they look incredible together!" "Forget the washedup actress, this is the headline of the year!

Drake Capital’s CEO announces new fiancée!" "Mr. Drake, when is the wedding date?

Where will the reception be held?!" The reporters swarmed them, completely abandoning me on the cold floor. Austin turned to leave, surrounded by security.

Right at the double doors, his steps paused, and he cast one final backward glance at me. His eyes were filled with pure, selfrighteous disappointment. Then he walked away.

And as the crowd cheered and the cameras flashed around him, the translucent number hovering above his dark head began its final, steady ascent. 98%... 99%...

Three steps past the threshold, the number locked into place: 100%. A blinding, warm white light instantly engulfed my vision.

The synthetic voice of the system rang clear and gentle in my ears: Austin Drake’s Happiness Index has reached one hundred percent. Congratulations, Host. Extraction in progress.

In accordance with standard universe laws, your identity in this world will be permanently erased. No trace of you will ever be found. 3... 2... 1... Extraction complete.

I closed my eyes and let out a soft, final breath. "Goodbye, Austin. May we never cross paths in any lifetime." The white light imploded into a single point of light and vanished.

The woman lying on the linoleum floor was gone. Ten yards down the hallway, Austin felt a sudden, inexplicable chill tear through his spine.

His breath hitched, and he spun around violently, his face draining of all color. "Where... where is Paige?"