My best friend and I woke up inside a vintage, trashy billionaire melodrama.

She had landed the role of the unhinged socialite wife locked in a toxic corporate marriage; I was the kept woman stashed away in a gilded suburban villa.

Right on cue, an electronic voice buzzed inside our heads, peddling its grand delusion: "As long as you stick to the plot—one tormenting the saintly heroine, the other throwing jealous tantrums until the male lead ties you both to cinder blocks and throws you in the harbor—you will earn your ticket back to the real world!" My best friend fingered the pink diamond the size of a quail’s egg resting against her collarbone.

I looked down at the freshly notarized deeds to two luxury penthouses in my lap. Return to reality? To a life where five hundred bucks was all we had left after rent?

Where we swallowed down the flu because missing a shift meant missed groceries, and where middle managers barked at us like stray dogs?

A week later, the billionaire hero dropped to his knees in the middle of a torrential downpour, sobbing for the heroine’s forgiveness beneath our balcony.

My best friend stood by the floortoceiling glass, cracking salted pistachios. "Is this guy missing a screw?

Standing in a storm without an umbrella—what’s he trying to pull, an insurance scam?" I took a slow sip of my warm bird’s nest soup and nodded. "No kidding.

Bespoke cashmere suits cost a fortune to dry clean. Total waste." The System shrieked in our skulls, practically in tears: "You two! That is agonizing, souldeep romance!

Go down there and ruin it! Immediately!" I nudged her arm. "He’s your husband. You go." She rolled her eyes into the back of her head. "Please. He’s your sugar daddy.

After you." 1 When my eyes first fluttered open, I was sitting inside a walkin closet large enough to park a Vespa. Before me, a heavy floor safe stood wide open.

Inside lay a pristine stack of property deeds, two hefty gold bullion bars, and a signed deed of gift bearing my name. I looked down at myself.

A biascut silk slip, plush cashmere slippers, and a diamondencrusted timepiece winking on my wrist. I stared in silence for three whole seconds.

Then, I snatched the property deeds to my chest, fighting the sudden urge to kiss the paper. From the hallway came the soft, discreet voice of a house manager: "Miss Samuel—Mr.

Pierce requests your presence at the family estate for dinner tonight." Miss Samuel. My name here was Kira.

Not the Kira from back home, who spent twelvehour shifts behind a fluorescent convenience store register until her ankles swelled into tree trunks, only to get chewed out by a manager for moving too slow.

A sterile chime rang in my ear: "Host successfully synchronized with storyline." A floating character dossier unspooled across my vision. The male lead: Damian Pierce.

Heir to Pierce Enterprises. Ruthless, emotionally stunted, and hopelessly infatuated with Maisie, a doeeyed, purehearted girl he met after his wedding. The legal wife: Summer.

My realworld best friend of ten years.

In the script, she was born into old money, married Damian for business, and spent her days tormenting Maisie out of bitter jealousy until the Pierce family ruined her family business and Damian threw her off a pier.

And then there was me: Kira. The secret darling Damian stashed in an isolated suburban estate. A glorified bird in a gilded cage.

In the original manuscript, I was the trashy mistress engineered solely to stir up drama, clawing at Summer for Damian’s favor before teaming up with her to frame the heroine, only to share her watery grave in the finale.

The System’s voice crackled with manufactured hype: "Play your villainous roles to perfection, push the melodrama to its tragic peak, and you shall return to your true lives." "Return to do what?" I asked flatly.

The System sputtered. "To... to live your authentic destiny!" I opened the transfer contract.

Last month, Damian had legally signed over two highrise penthouses in the city center to this body. I opened the mobile banking app.

The string of zeros at the end of the balance made my fingers tremble. "My authentic destiny," I murmured, "was pedaling a rusted delivery bike through a storm, sliding into a flooded pothole, and having to pay out of pocket for a customer’s spilled latte." The System went dead silent.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Summer. The moment the line connected, she hushed her voice: "Kira.

Guess where I am." "Pierce Manor?" "No," she whispered reverently. "Inside a walkin vault." She took a breath. "Damian’s mother just handed me a pink diamond necklace so I can ‘assert my dominance’ at dinner tonight." "What are your thoughts?" I asked.

Summer answered with clinical poise: "I intend to assert my dominance for the next sixty years." We both fell silent.

Back in reality, Summer and I had been through the trenches together for a decade. During our poorest months, we split a single eightdollar takeout box.

She would push the chicken cutlet onto my side, claiming she was on a diet; I’d shove it right back, swearing I hated meat.

It wasn't until months later that I found out she hadn't eaten all day. If anyone wanted to go back to that kind of life, they were welcome to it.

We weren't touching it with a tenfoot pole. The System began to chime frantically: "Tonight marks the first critical story junction! Damian will bring Maisie to the family manor.

Summer must publicly humiliate her, and Kira, you must storm the room in a jealous rage. Escalation is mandatory for narrative progression!" I listened intently.

Then I turned to the house manager. "What’s on the menu at the estate tonight?" The man blinked. "A full formal course, ma'am.

Traditional fine dining." "Any seafood?" "Dungeness crab and jumbo prawns, I believe." I stood up immediately. "Get the glam team in here right now." The System shrieked: "You are supposed to be advancing the plot!" I tucked the deeds securely into my leather tote. "I’m advancing toward the seafood platter." 2 The Pierce estate was intimidatingly grand.

Wroughtiron gates swung open to reveal sculpted hedges, classical fountains, and stone pillars that practically screamed generational wealth.

By the time my car pulled up the circular drive, Summer was already perched on the master sofa in the grand salon.

She wore a rich emerald gown, the pink diamond on her throat shining brightly enough to power the chandelier. Across from her sat Damian, his chiseled face frozen in an icy scowl.

Beside him stood a petite girl in a simple white sundress. Her face was pale, her knuckles white around the handle of an insulated soup thermos, her doe eyes ringed in red.

No introduction needed. Maisie. Damian’s voice was low and warning: "Summer, Maisie only came to bring my grandfather some restorative broth.

Don't make this difficult." Summer raised her porcelain teacup and blew gently across the surface. "Am I making it difficult?" Maisie waved her hands in a frantic panic. "Please, Mr.

Pierce, don’t blame your wife!

It was foolish of me to come..." The moment the words left her lips, Damian’s brow tightened with protective fury. "You did nothing wrong." The System was screaming directly into my eardrums: "Here it comes!

Summer, slap the thermos out of her hands!

Kira, barge in, throw a fit, and demand to know why Damian is bringing another woman home!" I pushed the double doors open and stepped inside.

Every set of eyes in the room snapped to me.

When Damian caught sight of me, irritation flickered across his dark eyes. "Who told you to come here?" Before I could speak, Summer set her cup down, smiling warmly as she waved me over. "Kira!

Over here, babe. Sit next to me." The Pierce family members in the room looked like their brains had shortcircuited.

Damian’s composure cracked. "Summer, what the hell is this?" Summer smiled sweetly. "The more the merrier.

We can finally fill the table." I slipped onto the cushioned sofa beside her, picked up a silver fork, and snagged a colossal butterflied prawn from the appetizer platter.

The System was having a stroke: "You're not supposed to eat! You are consumed by jealousy! You are supposed to scream! Spiral!

Lose your mind!" I reasoned back internally: "Throwing tantrums on an empty stomach triggers hypoglycemia." Maisie stood in the center of the Persian rug, looking deeply out of place.

Biting her trembling lip, she murmured, "Mrs. Pierce, Miss Samuel... I truly didn't mean anything by this. I only heard the elder Mr.

Pierce had an upset stomach, so I simmered some ginger broth..." Summer glanced at the head butler. "Bring Miss Maisie a chair." The butler hesitated, not daring to move.

Damian’s tone turned frigid. "Drop the act, Summer." Summer placed her cup onto the saucer with a crisp clink. "Damian, leaving an outside guest standing in the foyer while the rest of us eat reflects poorly on the Pierce name.

If she’s a guest, seat her. If she’s domestic staff, send her to the kitchen to log her hours.

And if she’s your mistress, slide the divorce settlement across the table before you bring her into the parlor." The room went dead silent. I almost applauded.

Maisie’s face drained of color. Damian’s gaze darkened ominously. "Must you be so vulgar?" "Establishing clear boundaries is vulgar now?" Summer countered smoothly.

I pulled out my phone and tapped open the calculator app.

Damian glared at me. "And what are you doing?" "Calculating the labor cost of tonight’s meal," I said innocently. "Miss Maisie worked hard over a hot stove.

Shouldn't you reimburse her at the standard private chef rate?

It hardly seems fair to let her cover the groceries and the emotional labor out of her own pocket." Tears welled in Maisie’s wide eyes. "I didn't do this for money..." I nodded solemnly. "I understand.

True love is far more expensive." Damian shoved his chair back, towering over us. "Kira, do not forget your place." I stood up too, looking him dead in the eye. "I haven't.

My place is the sole registered owner of two downtown penthouses." The System choked.

Summer added, casually leaning back: "Damian, if your heart bleeds so much for Miss Maisie, give her a title.

Bringing her here without a ring just to watch her get humiliated isn't love—it's unpaid labor." Maisie stood frozen, tears caught on her eyelashes, completely unsure whether to let them fall or wipe them away.

At the head of the long mahogany table, the elderly patriarch cleared his throat.

He glanced at me, shifted his gaze to Summer, and finally rested his heavy stare on his grandson. "Damian," the old man said dryly. "Eat your dinner." Damian swallowed his rage and dropped back into his seat.

The System crackled with static: "Plot deviation! Critical plot deviation!" I bit down on another succulent prawn. Crisp, sweet, and perfectly seasoned.

Deviation tasted pretty damn good. 3 After dinner, Damian cornered me in the estate’s private courtyard garden.

The night breeze was sharp, highlighting the cold, brooding lines of his jaw. "Since when are you and Summer so close?" he demanded without preamble. "About seven o’clock tonight," I replied honestly.

Damian scoffed, clearly not buying it. "Kira, I gave you properties and an allowance so you’d stay comfortable—not so you could come into my family’s house and make a mockery of me." I looked at him.

The original Kira’s memories flickered behind my eyes. She had been a smalltown dance student. Her father died young, her mother remarried and treated her like a financial burden.

She had moved to the city alone, worked herself to the bone, and caught Damian’s eye at an elite gala.

He had set her up in a luxury estate, showered her with cash, but never acknowledged her existence in the daylight. The original Kira had thought it was a secret romance.

To him, she had only ever been a distraction from his boredom. I pushed down the phantom bitterness lingering in my chest. "Mr.

Pierce, I have a genuine question." He frowned. "Speak." "You keep me hidden away in the suburbs. You marry Summer, but refuse to let her have a real marriage.

You pine after Maisie, but refuse to give her a ring.

Are you a corporate titan, or a city bikeshare?" Damian paused, caught off guard. "What?" "Anyone can unlock you with an app?" His face went instantly purple.

The System howled in my mind: "Host, you cannot emasculate the male lead!" I thought back: "If he’s going to act like public transit, why can’t I point out the fare?" Damian’s jaw twitched, his voice dropping into a lethal chill. "Very clever.

It seems I’ve spoiled you far too much lately." He pulled out his smartphone and dialed his personal assistant. "Starting tomorrow morning, freeze all secondary cards connected to the suburban estate.

Cut Kira’s monthly stipend entirely." My chest tightened. Not out of heartbreak. Out of pure financial distress.

A second later, Summer popped her head out from behind a sculpted topiary. "Got it on tape." Damian whipped around, furious. "You were spying on me?" Summer waved her phone in the moonlight. "A husband making massive asset transfers to his mistress during marriage, followed by direct verbal coercion in front of his legal wife.

My divorce attorney is going to have a field day with this audio, Damian." Damian’s eyes flared with raw fury. "Summer, do not test my limits." Summer let out a breathy laugh. "Where are your limits, Damian?

Tucked beneath Maisie’s hemline?" Before Damian could snap back, his phone buzzed violently.

He brought it to his ear, and his face instantly changed. "Maisie is gone?" Summer and I exchanged a quick glance. Here we go.

In the original novel, Maisie had left the estate in tears, wandered into the night, and nearly gotten struck by an oncoming car.

When Damian finally tracked her down, his hatred for Summer solidified, and his impatience with me reached a boiling point. The System surged back to life: "Attention hosts!

Narrative selfcorrection underway! Summer, provoke the male lead!

Kira, seize this chance to claim the heroine is putting on a cheap act!" Damian took long strides toward the courtyard gate.

At the exit, he paused, throwing a poisonous look over his shoulder. "If anything happens to Maisie tonight, neither of you will survive the fallout." I pulled out my phone and tapped open the Uber app.

Summer looked over. "What are you doing?" "Calling a ride to go find her," I said. The System was dumbfounded: "Why are you looking for the heroine?!

You’re supposed to frame her!" I sighed. "If she gets hit by a car, Damian will spend the entire night throwing a billionaire tantrum, and neither of us will get any sleep." Summer nodded in solemn agreement. "Solid point." Using the location pin Maisie had conveniently broadcasted on her public social feed ten minutes earlier, we headed straight for the municipal transit stop near the base of the hill.

Sure enough, there she was. Her white dress fluttered in the chilly wind, the empty broth thermos dangling from her delicate fingers.

The second Damian’s Maybach screeched to a halt at the curb, Maisie’s eyes pooled with fresh tears. "Mr. Pierce...

I just didn't want to make things difficult for you." Damian looked like his heart was being carved out with a rusty spoon.

I hopped out of the rideshare and cut in loudly: "Miss Maisie, the next time you decide to stage a dramatic exit, could you at least drop a quick text? The elder Mr.

Pierce practically thought you’d been kidnapped for ransom." Maisie froze. Summer extended a sleek umbrella toward her. "Adults send a quick ‘I got home safe’ text.

Don't make an entire family play along with your vanishing act." Damian roared, "Summer!" I chimed in smoothly: "Don’t misunderstand, Mr. Pierce, we aren't scolding her.

We're just worried about transit costs. The surge pricing out here after dark is brutal." The fragile, tragic expression on Maisie’s face nearly shattered into pieces.

Damian gritted his teeth, his voice a low rumble: "Get out of my sight. Both of you." Summer and I slipped back into our cab without missing a beat. He told us to leave.

We were nothing if not cooperative. 4 Over the next few days, the System went entirely off the rails, firing off mandatory villain quests like a broken slot machine.

One hour, it ordered me to trash the boutique flower shop where Maisie worked parttime.

The next, it demanded Summer slap Maisie across the face in the middle of an upscale charity gala.

Then, it ordered us to coordinate our efforts and lock Maisie inside a dark basement storage unit.

Summer and I reviewed the directives over iced lattes and unanimously agreed: Absolutely not. Vandalizing a florist meant property damage restitution.

Public battery carried misdemeanor assault charges. False imprisonment was a straightup felony.

The System’s synthetic voice cracked in frustration: "You are villainous secondary characters!

Not legal compliance officers!" Summer didn't even look up from the UV lamp curing her fresh gel manicure. "Villainy is fine.

Breaking the penal code is not." I reclined on the plush velvet sofa of her newly acquired oceanfront flat, savoring a bowl of chilled bird's nest and nodding along. "We didn't survive state testing and mandatory civics classes just to catch a rap sheet over some brooding billionaire." The System remained silent for a long beat before whispering with ominous certainty: "The narrative will not stall simply because you choose to hide." The prophecy came due that very evening.

A lateseason storm made landfall, howling against the glass like a wrecking ball dismantling the skyline.

Inside Summer’s living room, the panoramic windows shuddered under the torrential rain.

We were curled up on the sectional watching a cheesy reality dating show—right at the part where a contestant faceplanted into a mud obstacle course—when the building intercom chimed.

On the security monitor, Damian was standing on the sidewalk below. His tailored suit was thoroughly soaked, dark hair plastered to his forehead.

Opposite him stood Maisie, clutching her cardigan and weeping: "Mr. Pierce, please go home!

I’m not worthy of your love!" And then, Damian dropped down onto one knee in the dirty puddles. "Maisie, I was wrong." Summer’s hand stopped halfway to her mouth with a pistachio.

I carried my bowl over to the glass, peering down into the storm. The System erupted in a deafening crescendo: "This is it! The pinnacle of angsty melodrama!

Maisie believes Damian only views her as a standin, and Damian kneels in the typhoon to beg for her heart! Go down there and tear them apart!

NOW!" Summer watched the scene for ten full seconds, then turned to me. "Does building management know he’s blocking the walkway?" "Probably not," I said.

She picked up the landline and dialed the front desk. "Hi, concierge? Yes, this is penthouse B. There’s a man kneeling out in the storm by the main entrance.

Could you send security down with some juice or glucose tablets?

If he passes out from low blood sugar, the HOA could be liable." The System: "..." A few minutes later, two security guards under massive golf umbrellas jogged out, attempting to haul Damian to his feet.

Damian refused to budge. Maisie sobbed even harder. Summer clicked her tongue. "Billionaire romance really puts a strain on property management." "And on the dry cleaners," I added.

The System sounded ready to weep: "Do either of you have a soul?!" Half an hour later, the private elevator chimed. Damian stormed through the foyer, radiating damp chill and fury.

Maisie hadn't followed him up.

His eyes were bloodshot as he pinned Summer with a murderous glare. "Are you satisfied now?" Summer looked baffled. "You’re the one kneeling in the mud for another woman under my window, and you’re asking if "I’m" satisfied?" Damian pointed an accusing finger at her. "Maisie just told me she’s terrified to accept my feelings because of the threats you’ve made behind my back." I set my bowl on the marble counter. "Did she use those exact words?" Damian’s venomous gaze snapped to me. "And you, Kira.

Don't think for a second that latching onto Summer will buy you a larger settlement." He slammed a manila folder onto the coffee table. "Tomorrow night is the Pierce Family Charity Yacht Gala.

Both of you will be there. And when the time comes, you will stand before our peers and apologize to Maisie on your knees." Summer flipped the folder open.

Her calm demeanor vanished. It wasn't an invitation. It was a supplemental settlement drafted by Damian’s highpowered legal team.

It demanded Summer forfeit her share of marital assets, and required me to return the deeds to both penthouses without compensation. A dry laugh nearly escaped my throat.

Had the rainwater seeped into this man’s skull and rotted his brain?

Damian looked at us, his voice dripping with cold, measured malice: "Everything you have stolen from her, I will take back.

Piece by piece." He spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him. The moment the lock clicked, Summer’s phone lit up on the counter.

An anonymous video file arrived in her inbox. On the screen, Maisie was sitting in the passenger seat of an underground garage, beside Damian’s fiercest corporate rival, Trevor.

Her soft, trembling voice came through the speaker with chilling clarity: "Tomorrow on the yacht, as long as Damian is convinced they tried to hurt me, those two women will never recover." Trevor’s voice answered: "Are you certain Damian will go that far?" Maisie let out a delicate, airy chuckle. "For me?

He’ll do anything." Summer and I raised our heads at the exact same moment.

The System’s synthetic tone rang out, colder and more clinical than ever before: "Harbor Drowning Climax: Activated ahead of schedule."