1 I was being cheated on, and the woman in the bed was my own cousin. When I caught them, my boyfriend started sobbing, claiming he had Dissociative Identity Disorder.

He looked me dead in the eye and swore it was his "second personality" that had strayed.

I almost walked away, ready to wash my hands of the whole pathetic mess, until I heard him whisper to my cousin the moment he thought I was out of earshot: "That idiot is so easy to play.

Once she’s gone, the entire estate belongs to us." I didn't turn back. I didn't scream.

Instead, I went straight to the most exclusive underground lounge in the city and bought myself the most beautiful man in the building.

He was attentive, humble, and desperately eager to please.

I thought I’d found the perfect distraction—until the floating text started appearing before my eyes. [DON'T DIE, SIDE CHARACTER!

THE GUY YOU JUST BOUGHT IS THE KINGPIN OF THE SEATTLE UNDERWORLD!] I was halfway through packing my bags to flee in the middle of the night when I found my "dualpersonality" exboyfriend standing in my doorway, brandishing a knife.

Then, the man I’d tried to abandon stepped out from the shadows behind him.

With a bloodstained hand, he gently wiped a tear from my cheek. "What are you afraid of, sweetheart?" he whispered. "I’m right here." The hotel suite smelled like a nauseating cocktail of expensive perfume and cheap sweat.

When I pushed the door open, the air was thick enough to make me gag. Ethan and my cousin, Natalie, were tangled together, oblivious to the world.

I leaned against the doorframe, my movements slow and deliberate as I pulled my phone from my clutch and hit record. "Don't stop on my account," I said.

My voice was so calm it felt like it belonged to a stranger. "Keep going.

I want to make sure the lighting is right before I send this to Aunt Sarah so she can see exactly what a success her daughter has become." They both froze.

Ethan bolted upright, his face flushed with heat that drained into a ghostly pallor the moment he saw me.

He scrambled for a pillow to cover himself, nearly tumbling off the bed in a pathetic heap. "Cassidy! Cassidy, honey, let me explain!" Natalie was far more composed.

She casually draped a silk sheet over her shoulders and leaned back against the headboard, a sharp, feline smile tugging at her lips. "Hey, Cass. You should’ve called.

I would’ve made things… presentable." "Presentable how?" I tilted my head. "By hiding that lingerie? Too late. I already got a shot of it on the floor. Black lace, right?

I bought you that for your birthday last year. The receipt is still in my desk." Natalie’s smile finally faltered.

Ethan was on his knees now, his bare chest heaving, his knees hitting the hardwood with a sickening thud.

He looked up at me, his eyes brimming with tears, the tip of his nose turning red. He looked like a child caught breaking a toy. "Cass, I didn't mean it.

I swear..." He grabbed my hand, trying to force me to slap him. "Hit me. Kill me if you want. It’s my fault.

I’m a monster, I’m a piece of shit..." I yanked my hand back, my nails leaving three white welts across his skin. "Ethan, we’ve been together for four years." I looked down at him. "Four years ago, you were a laborer on my father’s construction sites.

You had dirt under your fingernails and you had to save for three days just to buy me a coffee. Now? You wear fivethousanddollar suits. You wear a Patek on your wrist.

You swipe my cards faster than I can track the statements. And you’re using my money to sleep with my cousin?" "It’s not like that! I’m sick, Cass!

I’m really sick!" He started to sob, great fat tears rolling down his cheeks. "I have DID. I have a split personality. Sometimes I lose control.

The other version of me… he’s the one who likes Natalie. Every time I switch back, I’m in agony. My head feels like it’s exploding..." I knelt down to his level.

His eyes were bloodshot, and deep in his pupils, there was a frantic, drowning look. "A split personality, huh?" I whispered. "Fine.

If you’re sick, I’ll help you get treatment." Natalie let out a sharp, mocking laugh from the bed. "God, Cass. You’re so gullible." I ignored her.

I stood up and walked out, my heels silent on the thick hallway carpet.

It wasn't until I reached the lobby that I realized the Seattle rain was coming down in a relentless, grey sheet, turning the city into a blur of charcoal and slate.

My phone buzzed. A text from Natalie: [I’ve had a test drive of Ethan for you, Cass. He’s nothing special, but he’ll do for now.

Maybe I’ll introduce you to someone better later.] I stared at the screen for three seconds before shoving the phone back into my bag. The rain was too heavy to walk.

I stood under the hotel’s portico for fifteen minutes, getting sprayed by the mist. My phone buzzed again. Ethan: [Cass, where are you? The other one is coming back.

My head hurts so bad. Where are you?] I didn't reply. I hailed a cab, went home, stripped off my wet clothes, and threw them directly into the trash.

I took a scalding hot shower and sat on my velvet sofa with a cup of dark chocolate, listening to the rain drum against the doublepaned glass. My phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

Ethan. Natalie. My Aunt Sarah. Aunt Sarah: [Natalie says you two had a little tiff? Don’t be so dramatic, Cassidy. Ethan is a good boy.

If you don’t want him, let Natalie have him.] I took a sip of the chocolate and typed back: [Aunt Sarah, Natalie just slept with my boyfriend in a hotel suite.

And you’re telling me to 'let her have him'?] She replied instantly: [Oh, it’s just a man. You have everything—you can find another one. Natalie’s never had your luck.

Just be the bigger person for once.] I set the phone face down on the coffee table. My luck? My father was a titan in the Pacific Northwest construction industry.

My mother was a worldclass neurosurgeon. Natalie was my mother’s sister’s daughter, raised in our house like a charity project. Everything I had, she had.

My parents were always more polite to her than to me, terrified she’d feel like the "poor relation." I never fought her. I shared my clothes, my makeup, my bags.

I even convinced my father to give Ethan a job at the firm, where he rose from a junior clerk to VP on the strength of my name alone. This wasn't luck.

This was a parasite infestation. At 2:00 AM, driven by a ghost of a feeling I couldn't name, I took an Uber back to that hotel. Suite 301 still had the lights on.

The door wasn't fully latched. From inside, I heard Natalie’s highpitched giggle. "She totally bought it. Ethan, your acting is incredible. The tears?

Chef’s kiss." "Please," Ethan’s voice was lazy, thick with postcoital satisfaction. "I have to play the part if we want that inheritance.

You’re sure she won’t make it past the fall? Stage four liver cancer?

And her mother hasn't told her yet?" "I overheard my aunt on the phone," Natalie hissed with a laugh. "Six months, max.

Then all the shares, the real estate, the trust... it all defaults to the family. And once we’re married..." "Keep your voice down." "Why?

That moron is long gone." I leaned against the cold wallpaper of the hallway. The hotel’s HVAC system blew a chilly draft down my neck.

I looked down at myself—I was still in my slippers, my hair was damp, and a single drop of water slid down my collarbone, making me shiver. Stage four liver cancer. Six months.

I stood in that hallway for a long time, watching the motionsensor lights flicker on and off. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened a chat with my mother.

I typed a hundred questions and deleted them all. Finally, I just sent: [Mom, I’m coming over for dinner next Sunday.] She replied seconds later: [Of course, honey.

I’ll make your favorite.] I tucked my phone away and walked out.

The next afternoon, I walked into a nondescript redbrick building in the Old Square and dropped seven thousand dollars on a "Private Arts Membership." The place was called The Obsidian.

It was the most exclusive "host" club in the city, hidden behind a facade of an avantgarde gallery. Inside, it was a different world.

The manager was a woman in her thirties, dressed in a forestgreen velvet power suit, her nails a deep oxblood. She gave me a practiced, elegant smile. "Ms. Miller, a pleasure.

Let me show you our newest arrivals." The lounge was bathed in amber light, the air smelling faintly of cedarwood and white truffle. Twelve men stood in a line.

They were tall, welldressed, and possessed the kind of polished beauty you only see on the covers of highfashion magazines. I scanned them.

The first was too oily; his wink made my skin crawl. The second was too young, looking like he’d skipped a college lecture to be here.

The third was wearing more concealer than I was. The fourth had a cold, calculating gaze that immediately dropped to my wrist to check the brand of my watch. None of them worked.

Until I saw the last one. He was standing in the shadows at the very end of the line, leaning against the wall, looking down at his phone.

While the others stood like soldiers, he looked like he had wandered in by mistake.

His white dress shirt was rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal corded muscle and a faint blue vein tracing over his wrist bone.

His dark hair was a bit too long, shielding his eyes, leaving only a sharp jawline and a thin, pressed mouth visible. And he was bruised.

There was a faint purple smudge under his left eye and a small, dark scab at the corner of his lip, like he’d recently been in a fight. "What’s his name?" I asked.

The manager looked over, her expression tightening with hesitation. "He just started yesterday. He hasn't… chosen a professional name yet.

And honestly, he’s not very good with clients. If you want a professional, I can recommend—" "No.

I want him." I walked toward him, the sound of my heels clicking sharply on the polished floor.

He heard me and finally looked up, clicking his phone off and shoving it into his pocket. He looked at me with an air of profound boredom.

As he stepped into the light, I realized his features were striking—a high brow, a straight bridge of the nose, and a certain dangerous nonchalance.

But when his eyes locked onto mine, something stirred in their depths, like a predator waking up at the bottom of a dark lake. "You want to hire me, princess?" He smiled, his voice low and raspy. "I don’t come cheap." I stood right in front of him.

He was tall—even in my fourinch heels, I barely reached his chin.

Up close, he smelled of cedar and something cold, like rain on pavement. "How expensive?" He leaned down slightly, the amusement reaching his eyes, which were a black so deep they looked bottomless. "More than you can afford," he teased. "What's your real name?" I asked.

He stared at me for a few beats, then a soft, fleeting smile crossed his lips. "Names don't matter in a place like this," he said, his voice like sandpaper on silk. "You can call me whatever you want." He didn't sound subservient.

He sounded like he was stating a fact. But something about the way he said it made my chest tighten, as if someone had stuffed a wad of wet cotton into my heart.

I searched my mind and the name just fell out: "Sloan.

Like something that endures." He blinked, his nonchalance fracturing for a split second. "Fine," he whispered. "Sloan it is." I was about to reply when a flicker of light caught my eye.

Right in the middle of the air, glowing lines of text began to scroll past my vision. [WAIT, IS THAT THE INFAMOUS SLOAN?

THE GUY WHO RUNS THE WEST COAST UNDERWORLD IS POSING AS A GIGOLO? IS THIS A MOVIE?] [SOMEONE TELL HER TO RUN! HE GOT THAT BRUISE FROM THE DOCKSIDE RIOT LAST MONTH.

I RECOGNIZE HIM!] [POOR SIDE CHARACTER. SHE HAS NO IDEA HE’S MORE DANGEROUS THAN HER EX COULD EVER DREAM OF.] [LADIES, GODVIEW HERE: THIS GIRL IS RICH BUT SHE’S DYING BY AUTUMN.

STAGE FOUR.

THE EX AND THE COUSIN ARE ALREADY MEASURING HER COFFIN.] [DAMN, SO SHE’S BUYING A CRIME BOSS FOR ONE LAST FLING BEFORE THE END?] The text was dense, multicolored, and vivid, floating right over the manager’s shoulder.

I blinked hard. They stayed. Transmigration? Side character? A kingpin who's going to kill me? To hell with that.

I reached out and touched the bruise at the corner of Sloan’s mouth. My fingertip brushed the rough scab.

He flinched, a microscopic movement, but he didn't pull away. "Does it hurt?" I asked. He looked down at me, his gaze smoldering.

After a beat, he said, "No." The floating text went wild: [THE FINGERS! SHE TOUCHED HIS FACE! IN THE ORIGINAL SCRIPT, THAT’S A DEATH TRIGGER!

RUN!] I pulled my hand back and steadied myself. "Let's go, Sloan," I said. "I’m taking you home." He let out a low, dark chuckle and followed me out.

Behind us, I heard the manager’s panicked "Ms. Miller!" and the digital screams of the floating text. My white Maserati was parked out front.

He opened the passenger door and slid in, his long legs cramped in the space.

He adjusted the seat back with a practiced familiarity, as if he’d spent his life in the back of luxury cars. I started the engine and caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.

He was leaning back, watching the neon lights of the city blur past. The shadows hid his bruise, leaving only the silhouette of a predator at rest. That’s when Ethan called.

The car’s Bluetooth picked it up automatically. Ethan’s voice cracked through the speakers, thick with fake tears. "Cass? Where are you? My stomach hurts so bad… Please come over.

The 'other one' almost came out again. I almost went to Natalie’s. I can’t control myself!" I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. In the mirror, Sloan turned his head.

The laziness was gone, replaced by something cold and razorsharp. "If your stomach hurts, go to the ER," I said. "I’m not a doctor." "Cass, what’s wrong?

You’re never like this..." "Ethan," I interrupted. "I saw you and Natalie at the hotel. You have DID? Fine. I’ve already called a specialist.

There’s a private psychiatric facility in the valley. I’m having them pick you up tomorrow morning." Silence for two seconds. Then Ethan’s voice changed. The crying stopped.

It became icy. "Cassidy, what the hell are you playing at?" "I'm saying," I smiled, "that if you’re sick, you need to be locked up where you can’t hurt anyone." "You’re the one who’s sick!" he screamed. "You think you can dump me in an asylum?

I’ll ruin you! I’ll tell everyone about your father’s tax evasion!

I’ll tell them about your mother’s 'accidents' at the hospital!" "Ethan," I said calmly. "You’ve worked for us for four years.

I’d suggest you think very carefully about your next sentence." The line went dead.

A moment later, Natalie’s voice piped up—she must have been right there. "Cass, you’re being a bitch. Ethan was just joking. You’re really going to commit him? Then commit me too.

I dare you." "You?" I laughed. "Don't worry, Natalie. You’re next on the list." I hung up. The car fell silent.

Sloan spoke up. "Are you really going to lock him away?" "Why wouldn't I?" He turned to look at me, his eyes trailing from my face down to my hands.

I was gripping the wheel, my left hand still sporting the diamond band Ethan had given me last year. It was a modest thing, platinum and pavé. I’d forgotten to take it off.

He didn't say a word. As we rounded a corner, I slowed for a red light. I slipped the ring off my finger, rolled down the window, and flicked it into the night.

It bounced twice on the asphalt before disappearing into a storm drain.

Sloan watched it go, then let out a short, dry laugh. "What?" "Nothing," he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous register again. "Just thinking that you’re much more interesting than I expected, princess." We pulled up to my penthouse in the city center.

I led Sloan inside. The foyer lights hummed to life, reflecting off the white marble floors. "Make yourself at home," I said, kicking off my heels. "I’ll find you some clothes.

Some of Ethan’s old things should fit." I walked toward the master suite, but a faint click made me turn around. Sloan was standing by the door.

He had popped the cover off my smartlock system.

He was holding his phone up, snapping a photo of the internal serial numbers and wiring, before snapping the cover back on with seamless precision. "What are you doing?" I asked.

He looked up, his expression perfectly innocent. "Just checking the brand.

I’m thinking of getting one for my place." "Why would you need the serial number of my lock for that?" "So I know how to get back in if you lock me out." He winked. [OMG HE’S INSTALLING A TRACKER!!

DID YOU SEE THAT? HE JUST CLONED HER ENTRY CODE!] [SIDE CHARACTER, WAKE UP!

HE’S MONITORING YOUR EVERY MOVE NOW!] I stared at him for three seconds, then turned and went to the guest room to find the clothes. "He's definitely more interesting than I thought," I whispered to myself. "The next few months won't be boring." I tossed him one of Ethan’s old tshirts and some grey sweats.

He caught them, sniffed them once, and wrinkled his nose. "Smells like a loser." "Then buy your own tomorrow." "Buy them for me, princess." He dropped the clothes on a chair and started walking toward me, barechested.

The bedroom was lit by a single warm lamp.

The light traced the hard lines of his torso—the dip of his collarbones, the tight knit of his abs, and the faint, jagged scars scattered across his skin.

There was a particularly nasty one just below his ribs, a white line about four inches long. A knife wound. He stopped inches from me.

He was a wall of heat and cedar scent. "Aren't you supposed to be taking care of me?" He leaned down, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. "A guy needs a wardrobe." My skin prickled, but I kept my face impassive.

I reached up and touched the scab on his lip again. He didn't flinch this time; he tilted his head into my touch, his lips grazing my thumb.

His skin was burning hot. "We'll shop tomorrow," I said, pulling my hand away. "Tonight, you sleep in the guest room." He stood there, watching me retreat into my room and shut the door.

Through the wood, I heard him give another low, dark laugh. [THIS DYNAMIC IS INSANE. DARK KINGPIN VS. ICY HEIRESS.] [WAIT, WHY IS SLOAN SO COMPLIANT?

IN THE BOOK, HE’S A COLDBLOODED EXECUTIONER!] [I’M LOSING MY MIND. IS THIS REALLY THE SAME MAN?] Late that night, I lay in bed scrolling through my phone.

I opened my mother’s chat again. I hesitated for a long time, but I didn't ask about the cancer. If it was true, asking would only break her heart sooner.

If it was a lie, there was no point. I thought about Ethan. His biggest weakness was his mother.

She was a woman from a small town who lived for "prestige." She spent her life bragging about her son, the bigcity VP.

I took the footage I’d recorded in the hotel—the most graphic parts—and sent them to her from an encrypted, anonymous number.

I wanted to see if he still had a home to crawl back to.