I was the protagonist of a story written in blood and bitterness. The System forced me into this role, a celestial architect whispering that if I played my part—if I followed the script of my own destruction to the letter—I would receive the only thing I ever wanted. I just wanted to know if Matt could come back. If there was a version of the universe where he wasn't a ghost. The System’s answer was a riddle, a vague promise that it all depended on my "performance." And so, I stepped onto a path of orchestrated agony. Ninety-nine chapters of slander, physical torment, and betrayal, all to earn the "love" of the leading man, Beckett. But I didn't want his love. I wanted the nightmare to end. The System was a cold, silent observer, indifferent to my breaking bones and shattered heart. It only prodded me to suffer more, to bleed more beautifully for the plot. Until the day I held my son’s cold, lifeless body and coughed up a spray of crimson despair. Then, the machine glitched. The voice that had been metallic and merciless for years suddenly softened. It used the secret name only Matt had ever known. “Mona,” it whispered. It told me to let go. It told me to finally live a life that wasn't a tragedy. … It took four years of marriage to Beckett to finally have a son. Jamie was only ten months old. Yesterday morning, he had opened his mouth—showing off those two tiny, pearl-like front teeth—and babbled his very first word: "Mama." So, when I was standing in the waist-deep, freezing currents of the river at dusk, scavenging for a diamond hairpin that belonged to Cynthia—Beckett’s favorite mistress—I thought of that one word. It made the ice in my veins bearable. I even found the strength to whisper to the System, "I never recovered from the birth. I’ve been in this water for an hour. My body is numb. The cold is settling in my womb; I’ll never be able to carry another child. Is this enough? Is this tragic enough for you?" The System paused. When it spoke, it was only three words: “Not quite yet.” I was shaking so hard my jaw ached. My skin was a ghostly blue. "Not enough? Beckett took my blood to 'cure' Cynthia’s feigned illness. I was bedridden for months. When the assassins came, you made me jump in front of him. I was blinded by that caustic powder for half a year. And while I sat in the dark, he took every servant from my wing to throw a gala for Cynthia’s birthday. I tripped and cracked my skull on the marble, and I lay there for twenty-four hours before anyone noticed I was missing." My voice broke, a ragged sob catching in my throat. "When Jamie was born, I nearly bled out. Beckett was away on a weekend retreat with her. He didn't even send for the specialist until it was too late. I live in constant pain now. Every rainy day feels like my bones are being crushed. Is that still not enough?" The System remained unmoved. It was mechanical, chillingly calm. “We need to turn up the heat,” it said. “If you won't lean into the role, Mona, I’ll have to intervene.” A jolt of pure terror spiked through my chest. "What are you going to do?" Before the words left my lips, a scream tore through the air from the riverbank. "Help! The hunting hounds! Cynthia’s dogs have broken out of their enclosure!" A servant pointed, his hand trembling, toward the nursery wing. Cynthia was standing on the bank, looking down at me with a sharp, indecipherable smile. "Oh dear," she purred. "It looks like they’re heading straight for your quarters, darling." Jamie didn't survive the night. I never heard him say "Mama" a second time. The night was a frozen tomb. My wet clothes were a shroud of ice against my skin, but Jamie’s small body was colder. I sat in the dark, cradling him, my world reduced to a singular, agonizing void. Beckett came in late. He knelt beside me, his eyes flickering with something that might have been pity, or perhaps just irritation at the mess. "Mona, don't blame Cynthia," he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly reasonable. "It was an accident. She’s devastated." He draped his heavy wool coat over my shoulders. "We’re young. We’ll have another." I didn't look at him. I whispered to the void: "Wasn't I supposed to be the only one who suffered? Why the baby? Why him?" The System chuckled—a sound of pure, satisfied malice. “Pain in the child is a dagger in the mother’s heart. Physical torture is nothing compared to this. Look, the hero is actually showing you affection now. Objective achieved.” The coat was thick, but it brought no warmth. Beckett reached down to take the boy from my arms. "Let him go, Mona. You can't keep holding him. You’re shivering, and frankly, you’re scaring Cynthia. She can't sleep with you looking like this." "No!" I pulled back, clutching Jamie to my chest. But I was weak, and he was strong. I watched, paralyzed, as Beckett handed my son to a servant. "Bury him tonight," Beckett ordered. "Deep. Cynthia is early in her pregnancy; I don't want the gloom of this house affecting her or the baby." I screamed then. A raw, primal sound until my lungs burned and my vision went black. My heart felt like it was physically tearing. I tasted iron, spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, and felt the world slip away. In the haze of my collapsing consciousness, I heard a voice. It wasn't the System’s metallic drone. It was a ghost. “Mona.” How many years had it been since I heard that? Six? Only Matt called me Mona. Growing up, I never understood why my parents looked through me as if I were a ghost while they doted on my cousin, Lola. They called her their "Little Moonlight." To them, I was just "Mona" when they were in a good mood, and a "curse on the family" when they weren't. Lola got the silk dresses, the French pastries, the front-row seats. I got the scraps, if there were any left. My parents would rather give my hand-me-downs to the maids than see me in something nice. Then, when I was twelve, I met Matt. There was a garden party at our estate. As usual, I was forbidden from leaving my room. The staff was too busy to bring me food, and the hunger became a physical ache. I snuck down to the kitchens to steal a piece of bread, but the new cook caught me. She didn't know who I was. She screamed at the top of her lungs about a "filthy little thief." I begged her to be quiet, telling her I was the daughter of the house. She laughed in my face. "I know Miss Lola. You? You look like you crawled out of a coal chute. No lady steals bread like a rat." The commotion brought Lola out. She looked radiant in her lace and ribbons. She looked at me with a theatrical sort of disappointment. "How could my aunt and uncle raise such a dishonest girl? You’re a disgrace, Mona. Do you want to humiliate us in front of the Governor?" She turned to the stable hands. "Teach her a lesson. Use the switch. Hard. I’m doing this for her own good." The switch didn't just hit my hands. It hit everywhere. I was a scrawny kid, and every blow felt like it was striking bone. That’s when Matt appeared. He was a twelve-year-old boy with a sense of justice that burned like a sun. He didn't say a word; he just kicked the stable hands away from me. "Lola," he said, his voice cold as a winter snap. "Do you actually think anyone believes you’re the lady of this house? You’re a guest. A parasite. You’ve got a thick skin and a black heart." He looked at my swollen, bleeding hands. "I heard my father was considering a marriage alliance between you and my older brother. I’m going home to make sure that never happens." Lola fled in tears. Matt sat with me and cleaned my wounds. "The more you shrink, the more they’ll step on you," he told me. "You have to stand up, Mona. Make them look at you." The spring sun caught the gold in his hair. I stared at him, thinking he looked like a young god who had accidentally wandered into my miserable life. From that day on, Matt was my shield. His family was legendary—old money, political power—and everyone wanted a piece of him. But he only wanted to be near me. He was the only anomaly in my "tragedy." He fought my parents until they moved me out of the damp servant’s room and into a sunlit bedroom. He hired a world-class pianist to tutor me and me alone. When Lola tried to join the lessons, he told her, "Music requires a soul. You’re unqualified." I blossomed. I became a woman of talent and repute, no longer a shadow. And then, at seventeen, Matt enlisted. My father’s career had tanked, and Matt’s family refused to let him marry "beneath" him. He told me, "Mona, wait for me. I’m going to earn my own name. I’ll come back with enough medals that no one can say no to us." He never came back. He took a bullet meant for the President’s son during an extraction mission. It was a messy, poisoned end. The man he saved held his hand as he died and asked for his final wish. Matt used his last breath to secure a legacy for me. Not a marriage, but a title and a trust—something my parents could never touch. "Make her a Lady," he whispered. "Don't let them hurt her anymore." "Anything else?" the man asked. Matt closed his eyes. "Find her someone good... someone to... take care of her..." The dream shattered. I woke up drenched in sweat. Beckett was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot. A wave of pure exhaustion and revulsion washed over me. I turned my head away. He was the "good man" the government had chosen for me. The Governor’s younger brother. Handsome, powerful, prestigious. To the world, he was the ultimate catch. "You're finally awake," he said. "You've been out for three days." My maid chimed in from the corner, trying to score points for him. "The Senator hasn't left your side, ma'am. He’s been devastated." I didn't ask about Jamie. I already knew the answer. The System whispered that I was the heroine of a tragedy, and this was simply my tax to pay. Beckett watched my numb face, searching for a spark of gratitude. "Mona, word of what happened to the boy reached the Governor’s office. He’s furious. He’s demanding I send Cynthia away." He sighed and took my hand. "You’ve always been the bigger person. You wouldn't want to see a pregnant woman out on the streets with nowhere to go, would you?" I pulled my hand back. "What do you want me to do, Beckett?" "Go to the Governor’s wife. Tell her the baby’s death was an accident caused by your own negligence. Tell her it had nothing to do with Cynthia’s dogs. They’re close; she’ll listen to you." I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw his eyes out. But I felt like I was wearing a lead mask. My emotions were trapped behind a wall of scripted compliance. If I refused, the System would find a new way to break me. "I—" I was about to say, I’ll do it. But a voice in my head—silent for days—suddenly spoke. It wasn't the usual robotic chime. It was a low, vibrating growl. “Refuse him.” I froze. “Refuse him,” the voice repeated. “You are the victim. Why the hell are you looking out for him?” I wondered if I had finally lost my mind. The System had first appeared on the anniversary of Matt’s death. I had been sitting at his grave with a bottle of pills, ready to follow him. “If the lead dies, the story collapses,” the System had said then. “This Matt person wasn't in the script. He ruined your trajectory. I won't allow it. You have to suffer until the end.” I had tried to swallow the pills anyway. “Stop!” it had yelled. “If you cooperate, I’ll give you a reward. Your deepest wish.” "Can you bring Matt back?" "Perform well, and we'll see," it had replied. For four years, I had been its puppet. It had never told me to disobey. “Come on,” the voice urged, sounding almost like a coach. “Repeat after me: Go to hell, you spineless, pathetic bastard. You think I’m going to help you? In your dreams.” I opened my mouth. "Go to—" Beckett smiled, relieved. "—hell," I finished. "You spineless, pathetic bastard." His smile died. He looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. "What did you just say?" I looked him in the eye, the lead mask finally cracking. "I said, go to hell. You think I'm going to cover for you? In your dreams." I felt the hot sting of tears—real tears—for the first time in years. "Think of Jamie, Beckett. You know he was murdered by her negligence, and you don't even care. You aren't a father. You aren't even a man. I hope when you close your eyes at night, you see his ghost standing at the foot of your bed." Beckett’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He tried to speak, sputtered, and finally stormed out of the room. I sat there, stunned. "Now what?" I asked the System. "What’s the next 'tragedy' task?" “The sun is out,” the voice said. “Go for a walk in the garden. The hydrangeas are blooming.” "That’s it?" “That’s it. Go. I’m right here with you.” Usually, it would have snapped at me for being lazy. It would have reminded me that my wounds were healed enough to start the next round of misery. I went to the garden. The hydrangeas were a vibrant, defiant blue. They reminded me of the little sweater I’d been knitting for Jamie. I had embroidered tiny flowers on the sleeves. He never got to see the real ones. Cynthia blocked my path. She had a trail of servants behind her, her chin tilted high. "Mona, it doesn't matter if you won't talk to the Governor’s wife," she sneered. "Beckett went himself. He’s currently groveling in the office, doing whatever it takes to keep me here." She plucked a blue bloom and stepped closer. "And just so you know... Beckett knows the dogs weren't an accident. But he can't bring himself to punish me. He saw me cry for two minutes and promised me that our child—my child—will inherit everything. You might be the wife on paper, but you have nothing. My baby is worth a hundred of your dead brat." My hands curled into fists. This was the script. This was the "heartbreak" the System lived for. “Kill her.” The voice in my head was a cold blade of steel. “I’m tired of her,” it said. “A glorified social climber who thinks she’s a queen because a coward sleeps with her? She’s disgusting. You have a title, Mona. You have power she can't touch. Kill her.” I gasped. "I... I can?" “...Matt taught you how to defend yourself, didn't he?” the voice softened. “Mona, use what he gave you.” He called me Mona again. Matt had taught me how to use a knife. He said a girl like me needed a "bite." I had practiced for hours, over and over, until Matt would look at me with that proud, lopsided grin. "You’re a natural, Mona." When Lola had tried to corner me one last time, Matt had sat on the garden wall, the wind catching his hair. “Use it, Mona,” he’d shouted. I had cut her hair off in one clean swipe. She never touched me again. I had forgotten I was that girl. I didn't have a knife, but I had a heavy, sharpened silver hairpin—the one Matt had given me years ago. “Now,” the System whispered. I moved with a speed I didn't know I still possessed. I drove the pin into the soft, vulnerable space of Cynthia’s throat. The look in her eyes as she fell was one of pure, unadulterated shock. Do you see this, Jamie? I thought. Matt, are you watching? I didn't cry for long. The System nudged me again. “Go to the Governor’s residence. Now.” When Beckett found out, he would lose his mind. I couldn't kill him yet—not in broad daylight. I needed a sanctuary. I wiped the blood off the silver pin using Cynthia’s expensive silk dress. I couldn't lose the pin. It was all I had left of him. The servants were frozen in terror. It took me walking halfway across the estate before I heard the first scream. I ran into Beckett at the gates. When he saw me, a flicker of relief crossed his face before he masked it with his usual stoicism. "I knew you'd come around, Mona. You're doing the right thing for the family. The Governor has dropped the inquiry." I didn't say a word. I just walked past him. "Mona!" he called out. "About this morning... I’ll overlook the things you said. You were grieving. You weren't yourself. But from now on, you will be the dignified wife I married. I’ve already spoken to a specialist... we’ll have another child soon. I promise." The iron gates groaned shut behind me, separating his world from mine. In this story, the heroine had no friends. But I had one ally: Katherine, the Governor’s wife. Years ago, I had helped her with a musical composition, and she had never forgotten it. She had always looked at my marriage to Beckett with a sadness she couldn't quite voice. When I found her, she was playing the piano. A melancholic, beautiful piece meant to soothe a grieving mother. I waited for the last note to fade. "Katherine," I said. "I killed Cynthia." Her hand slipped, a discordant clash of keys echoing through the room. She sat in silence for a long moment, then turned to me. "You’ll stay here tonight. Beckett won't set foot in this house." I nodded. "I need one more thing. A legal separation. An ironclad divorce. I want out." The silence stretched. Then, she began to play again—a soft, hopeful melody. "Consider it done," she whispered.
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