The system told me I wasn’t allowed to defend myself, so when the billionaire who had ruined my life stormed into my room and ordered me to kneel, I slapped him so hard his security detail forgot how to breathe.
Chapter 1
The system told me I wasn’t allowed to defend myself, so when the billionaire who had ruined my life stormed into my room and ordered me to kneel, I slapped him so hard his security detail forgot how to breathe.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been sitting in my Queens apartment with a bowl of popcorn, hate-reading the worst romance novel ever published. The heroine, Sarah Miller, had been accused, humiliated, starved, frozen, bled, and eventually killed by the very man the book expected readers to forgive. David Sterling, billionaire heir and human warning label, believed every lie told by his precious childhood friend Rebecca Cole and punished Sarah without once checking whether the accusations were true.
By the time David harvested Sarah’s organs and later stood weeping dramatically at her grave, I’d had enough. I tossed my phone onto the couch and muttered, “Give that poor woman five minutes of New York attitude and this story would be over.”
The room went black.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying beneath a crystal chandelier in a private medical suite that smelled like antiseptic and expensive bad decisions. My hands were pale and delicate. My face, when I touched it, was not mine. Then another woman’s memories slammed into my head, and I realized exactly whose body I occupied.
Sarah Miller.
Before I could panic, a cold mechanical voice sounded inside my skull. “Abusive Romance Binding System activated. Host: Sophie Carter. Primary rules: no verbal explanations, rebuttals, protests, clarifications, or talking back. During accusation or punishment, host must remain silent. Original story trajectory must be preserved.”
I stared at the ceiling.
The system continued cheerfully, listing rewards for obedience: money, property, beauty, longevity, luxury vehicles, estates.
I ignored all of it and concentrated on the rules. No speaking up. No explaining. No talking back.
Interesting.
Nothing about writing.
Nothing about walking away.
And absolutely nothing about hitting anybody.
The door slammed open before I could enjoy the discovery. David Sterling entered with four men in dark suits behind him. He was tall, polished, broad-shouldered, and handsome in the kind of way romance writers used to excuse behavior that would get ordinary men arrested.
His gray eyes fell on me with open contempt. “Sarah, stop pretending to be innocent. Rebecca is in the hospital because of you.”
I said nothing.
That pleased him. He mistook silence for surrender.
“You’re coming with me,” he continued. “You’ll apologize to her, kneel if that’s what she wants, and donate whatever blood the doctors say she needs. Maybe then you’ll begin making up for what you’ve done.”
My hand met his face.
The crack echoed through the suite.
David slowly turned his head back toward me. Five bright fingerprints appeared on his cheek. Behind him, the security guards looked as if they’d just witnessed the Statue of Liberty throw a punch.
“You hit me.”
I remained silent.
Since he appeared confused, I slapped the other cheek.
His expression changed from disbelief to rage. “Have you lost your mind?”
I couldn’t answer. Rules were rules.
He grabbed for my wrist. Sarah’s body was smaller than mine had been, but apparently terror had forced her to learn more about escaping rough hands than anyone knew. I turned, twisted his arm behind his back, and sent the mighty David Sterling to his knees.
His guards stepped forward.
I looked at them.
Then at David.
Then back at them.
All four reconsidered their career choices.
Inside my head, the system shrieked. “Critical deviation! Host must submit! Heroine aggression exceeds acceptable narrative parameters!”
I answered mentally. Show me the rule against physical resistance.
Silence.
“You must preserve the story!”
Show me the rule.
Another pause. Then, reluctantly: “Physical retaliation is not explicitly forbidden.”
Exactly.
I released David and reached for the tablet on the bedside table. His face was red with fury and humiliation, but he seemed less eager to touch me now.
I typed a message and turned the screen toward him.
If you don’t like the rules, complain to whoever forgot to ban hands.
One guard coughed into his fist.
David looked ready to explode. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
The system brightened inside my head. “Forced blood-donation scene restored.”
That caught my attention.
If the plot wanted me at the hospital that badly, the hospital probably contained something worth finding.
I picked up the tablet and walked past David. Before leaving, I grabbed a sticky note, wrote three words, and pressed it onto his shoulder.
Lead the way.
He glanced down.
Underneath, in smaller letters, I had added:
Swollen plot device.
For the first time, the system sounded frightened.
