My best friend and I didn't just transmigrate—we dropped straight into a trashy billionaire romance novel. She landed the jackpot as the pampered, treasured wife of a ruthless CEO. I got stuck as a bottom-tier, D-list starlet who almost ended up as the late-night snack for a lecherous old Hollywood executive. Fortunately, my best friend barged in just in time to pull me out of the fire. To make up for my narrow escape—and to ensure I finally experienced some physical bliss after being single for two whole lifetimes—she arranged a shotgun marriage between me and her husband’s childhood friend: a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted crime boss with a body carved out of granite. At the time, drool practically spilled from the corner of my mouth. Waking up every night buried in those rock-hard abs and sculpted hips seemed like a dream come true. Except we’ve been married for a full year now, and every single night I throw myself at him, I don't get so much as a single crumb of action. I finally broke down and cried to my best friend. "He has a physical issue! It doesn't matter how starving I am, the man is broken!" She pulled me into an embrace and burst into tears too. "Well, my idiot husband can't produce an heir! I'm losing my mind over here!" We both thought about the original plot of the book—specifically, the saintly main heroine who was due to return from abroad any day now to kick off the story’s main drama. We looked at each other, our necks suddenly feeling very cold. "So... run away overseas?" "Hell yes. Foreign male models sound a lot better anyway!" A few days later, a tragic accident off a mountain cliff took the lives of the CEO's wife and the mob boss's bride. Meanwhile, far across the ocean, two newly minted wealthy divorcées were sitting poolside, surrounded by sun-kissed, broad-chested eye candy. … When my best friend found me, my sleazy talent manager was in the middle of delivering me like a wrapped present onto an old man's bed. I was staring up at a seventy-year-old studio executive, watching his fake teeth glint in the dim lighting as he leaned in for a kiss. The book, the plot, my meta-knowledge—everything vanished from my brain. I was utterly terrified. Was the innocence I’d guarded across two lifetimes really going to be ruined right here? Suddenly, the door was kicked off its hinges. My best friend burst in like a storm, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Get your hands off her!" She marched over and kicked the old creep so hard he tumbled off the mattress, knocked out cold on the carpet. Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed my trembling, barely dressed self and shoved me straight into the arms of the towering, sharp-jawed man standing beside her. He immediately stripped off his tailored wool coat—still holding his body heat—and wrapped it tightly around me, pulling me flush against his chest. In that fleeting second, my heart genuinely skipped a beat. Fast forward to tonight, though? All I want is a divorce. Another failed attempt. This was the three hundred and sixty-fifth night of our marriage, and my three hundred and sixty-fifth consecutive rejection. "What exactly are you trying to do?" Damian stood by the edge of the bed, looking down at my slumping, defeated form. His expression was icy, tinged with a sharp edge of impatience. I swallowed hard, the words "I'm trying to sleep with you" dying right on my tongue. Based on my deductions over the past year, he was almost certainly suffering from severe erectile dysfunction. I mean, what kind of alpha mob boss with an eight-pack and a lethal waistline can resist a woman throwing herself at him night after night? Any normal man would have snapped. Yet Damian remained utterly untouched. Every night, no matter how late his business ran—whether he was handling dark-alley negotiations or corporate takeovers—he flew back home just to sleep in the same bed with me. Even if he only had fifteen minutes to spare before dawn, he came back. At first, that quiet dedication made my heart flutter. But his subsequent coldness slowly turned that warmth into ice. It didn't matter how sheer my lingerie was, or that I had secretly laced his dinner with an extra-strength male enhancement supplement tonight. He remained an impenetrable fortress. Without a single word, he simply pushed me aside and retreated to the master bathroom for another freezing shower. Tonight, my frustration finally boiled over. I ripped off my sheer lace nightgown and silk stockings, marched over, and planted myself angrily on his lap. I balled up my fists and feebly beat against his solid chest muscle. "Do you just find me repulsive?" Damian’s dark eyes turned dangerously stormy, like a caged predator fighting against the iron chains of its own restraint. A surge of hope spiked in my chest. I grabbed his hand, guiding it toward my inner thigh— The moment his skin brushed mine, he flinched as if struck by lightning, turned on his heel, and fled the room. The triumph on my face withered before it even fully bloomed. My mouth trembled, and the tears came spilling out. It had been a whole year. You could thaw a block of ice in a year. Yet this stubborn man had never shown me a shred of genuine affection beyond showing up to share a mattress. When I had an emergency appendectomy a few months ago, he wasn't there. I had to call an Uber to the hospital by myself in the middle of the night. His underlings knew I was just a trophy wife with zero standing; none of them ever showed me an ounce of respect, never even calling me "ma'am." Thinking about the flashier, glamorous socialites who constantly hovered around him, I made up my mind. Why stay tied to a man who didn't even view me as his real wife? I picked up my phone and called my best friend. "Macy... I want a divorce." Macy didn't even ask why. She immediately launched into a thirty-minute profanity-laced tirade against Damian, berating him until my sniffling turned into quiet giggles. Once she was sure I wasn't weeping anymore, she ordered her driver to pull up to my estate in her Bugatti. The moment she stepped into my dressing room, she wrapped me in a fierce hug. "Maeve, look at you. You look exhausted. Has Damian been neglecting you this whole time?" She immediately pulled out her phone, intending to demand her husband haul Damian back home by his collar. I panicked and grabbed her wrist. Compared to the multi-million-dollar deals Damian and her husband threw around every hour, I was a nobody. I didn't dare test my weight against his empire. Neglect didn't even cover it. Aside from those few silent hours in bed each night, Damian was a ghost. Half his time was spent overseas or dealing with turf wars in dangerous corners of the world. Sometimes he’d slip into bed at three in the morning, and if I didn't catch the familiar scent of his cologne, my half-asleep brain would assume an intruder had broken in. When I first transmigrated into this world, I was constantly on edge. The trauma of being drugged and nearly sold off by my former manager had left me jumpy, terrified of the dark. It took months before I stopped flinching every time a man stepped into my personal space. Thank God Macy had shown up that night. After our tearful reunion back then, Macy explained the terrifying reality: we were trapped inside a dramatic billionaire romance novel. She was currently playing the role of the male lead’s adored wife, but her reign was temporary. The moment the author's official "golden girl"—the sweet, innocent Kinsley—returned from her studies abroad in a year's time, Macy would be cast aside. Desperate to build a safety net, Macy had begged her husband to introduce me to his wealthy, feared childhood friend. We had been so naive. We thought with my hourglass figure, killer curves, and striking looks, wrapping him around my finger would be a breeze. In my past life, I was notoriously difficult to win over; a line of suitors had pursued me endlessly, only to be turned down flat. I was picky. Across two lifetimes, I had only ever let my guard down once. Damian had agreed to marry me, but he treated our marriage like a chore he was legally obligated to check off a list. I let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. "My husband has a bit of a... functional issue. I was too embarrassed to tell you before." I gathered every ounce of my courage and rushed through the rest: "It’s been a year, Macy. I'm practically starving to death in a desert here. Would you hate me if I divorced him?" Macy’s usually bright, expressive face went completely blank. "Wait... what do you mean starving? Are you short on money?" I winced, glaring at her through flushed cheeks. Understanding slowly dawned on her. Her face cycled from pink to pale, until finally, tears welled up in her large eyes, and she burst into heavy sobs. My head throbbed. I leaned in, gently patting her back to soothe her. "Hey, I'm the one divorcing my husband! Why are you crying harder than I am?" She choked back a sob, hesitation written all over her face before she finally confessed. "You don't understand... Calvin has an issue too. He can't have children. I've been wanting to tell you for months." She wiped her cheeks, her voice dropping into an angry whisper. "I want a divorce too. Honestly, I'd rather go hire a dozen European male models." She blinked her tear-stained eyes, her anger flaring up. "You know how much I wanted a family, Maeve. Ever since we landed in this world two years ago, I've been trying everything. Hormones, painful IVF injections, acupuncture—I went through hell! And I just found out last week that the medical issue was "his" all along! He let me suffer through all those procedures without saying a word!" Macy and I had grown up together in the same underfunded orphanage, leaning on each other to survive. Though she looked like a glamorous, head-strong diva on the outside, she was deeply gentle at heart, craving the warmth of a real family more than anything. In our past life, she had been naive enough to trust the wrong men—once even losing a pregnancy late in the term because of an abusive ex. Having a child of her own was her deepest, most tender wish. And I, having witnessed the dark side of humanity far too often, had spent my youth avoiding romantic entanglements entirely. Who could have guessed that after two years in a romance novel, she still couldn't have her family, and I was still a total virgin? "Look," I nudged her shoulder gently, trying to offer a silver lining. "Calvin is going to cast you aside once Kinsley gets back anyway. When that happens, you can find whoever you want to build a family with. The main priority right now is getting me out of this marriage smoothly." Macy’s weeping grew louder. "Even if he sets me free, he’s too possessive! He’d never let me have a child with another man!" She wiped her face, looking utterly bewildered. "I don't get it. He has no problem fulfilling his 'marital duties' every single night like clockwork, so why is he infertile? And how is your massive, six-foot-two mob boss husband unable to even get off the ground?" I sank into a deep funk. Calvin—a guy who spent eighteen hours a day sitting behind an executive desk—could perform daily, but Damian, built like a brick wall with peak physical conditioning, couldn't manage a single move? Macy dried her tears, her expression turning surprisingly solemn. "I know you actually fell for him, Maeve. Are you really sure about the divorce?" I nodded without a second thought. "Then I'm leaving too!" She threw her arms around my waist, clinging to me like a koala. I gave her a deadpan look. "Since when do people do joint divorces?" "Calvin’s control issues are insane," I added, trying to be realistic. "He’ll never just sign a paper and let you walk." A dark, beautiful smile spread across her face. "Who said anything about signing papers? Let's just run away." Running away was a territory we were both intimately familiar with. In our past life, whenever a stalker or an abusive ex became too dangerous to handle, we used the exact same tactic. We quickly hammered out the details. We would meet three days from now at the St. Jude Cliffside Sanctuary—a secluded mountain retreat tucked far away from the city center. I would secure international plane tickets, untraceable offshore accounts, and most importantly, brand-new legal identities that would allow us to settle quietly in a picturesque European town for the rest of our lives. I also reminded Macy repeatedly to keep an eye on Kinsley’s arrival schedule. Stirring up buzz about Kinsley's return would keep Calvin distracted, drawing his obsessive focus away from Macy’s day-to-day movements. My end was simpler. Damian didn't care enough about my daily routine to monitor me anyway. Macy’s eyes brimmed with tears again as she nodded dutifully. Looking at her soft, vulnerable expression, my own throat felt tight. We had never hurt a soul across two lifetimes. Why was it so hard for us to get the simple happiness we wanted? When Calvin’s head housekeeper arrived at the front gate to remind Macy it was time to return home, she pulled herself together, adjusted her oversized designer sunglasses, and slipped into the back of her town car. I turned back into the silent house and sank into the middle of our cold, three-meter-wide king bed. Somewhere in the haze between sleep and waking, I felt a familiar warmth against my side—the firm contour of broad chest muscles—and heard a faint, barely audible sigh near my ear. I forced my eyelids open. Damian was actually back, lying right beside me. Sensing my movement, he opened his eyes, his dark gaze instantly locking onto mine with its usual sharp intensity. But a fraction of a second later, as he realized I was awake, a flicker of profound tenderness softened his features before vanishing just as quickly behind a mask of indifference. A heavy ache settled in my chest. "I must be hallucinated," I thought. "How could a man like him ever look at me with tenderness?" Still, I couldn't stop staring at him, desperately searching his face for any sign that I hadn't imagined it. Damian’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening slightly. I jerked my head away, suddenly self-conscious. My eyes were probably swollen into tiny slits, my nose bright red from crying earlier. I must have looked terrible. "I... I was watching a sad movie with Macy earlier," I muttered, scrambling for an excuse as I tried to sit up. "It was a real tearjerker. I'm going to get some ice for my eyes." "Don't bother." Damian’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. With a gentle pull of his long arm, I nearly tumbled right back against his chest. My body went rigid. I scrambled backward, putting a clear three feet of distance between us on the mattress. A flash of genuine surprise crossed his dark eyes at my sudden retreat. Usually, the moment he stepped into this room, I was hanging off him, running my hands over his abs, his chest, his shoulders—taking whatever physical contact I could get. He stared at me, his voice low and unreadable. "What were you and Macy talking about for so long?" "She was asking me if your physical dysfunction means you're soft, small, or just fast," I thought bitterly. But there was no way I was brave enough to voice those lethal words out loud. I let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, nothing much. She was just asking how I was feeling." "Was she criticizing me for letting you go to the hospital alone that night?" Damian’s gaze drifted down to the distinct line of empty space I had deliberately maintained between us. Before I could come up with a polite response, his tone turned clipped and cold. "The estate has a full staff and a resident physician on call twenty-four hours a day. You chose to cause a scene and take a cab to an emergency room yourself." They treated me like an invisible ghost! Who was I supposed to command? Remembering how completely he had ignored my existence during those terrifying hours, anger flared in my chest. "Why do you even care? It's not like my health matters to you anyway!" His dark eyebrows pulled together. "I don't care?" He let out a cold, sharp breath. "What kind of wife spends every waking hour avoiding her own home, constantly running off to stay with Macy?" I mumbled under my breath, "If I don't hang out with my best friend, who else am I supposed to talk to? You'd probably lose your mind if I started hanging out with other men instead." He didn't catch the full sentence, assuming I was simply submitting to his lecture. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly. Knowing that in forty-eight hours I would be on a flight to Europe surrounded by handsome strangers, I decided to let the anger go and just play along. I offered him a sweet, entirely fake smile. "Right. Understood, my dangerous boss. I won't go over there anymore." Damian looked visibly caught off guard by my sudden compliance. A faint, telltale flush crept up the back of his neck, though his voice remained stern. "Good. As long as you understand." I rolled over, turning my back to him and letting out a quiet sigh. Deep down, I understood why he was so paranoid about my connection to Macy. But understanding a man's paranoia and living under it were two entirely different things. I still vividly remembered our wedding night. I had expected sparks, passion, maybe even a little danger. Instead, he had stood at the foot of our flower-covered bed, wrapped in a cold aura, and dropped a single instruction: "Now that you're my wife, minimize your contact with anyone associated with Calvin’s company. That includes Macy." Then he turned and walked out, leaving me sitting alone on the massive red duvet in utter disbelief. He didn't return until well past midnight, slipping under the covers without touching me. I had held a grudge over that night for months. It was only later that I pieced together the brutal reality of his world. His relationship with Calvin was nowhere near as friendly as it appeared on the surface, and Macy’s family carried massive corporate ambitions of their own. The three powerful factions were locked in a constant, high-stakes battle over the same lucrative markets. Accidents happened all the time. Damian’s right-hand man had mysteriously vanished during a maritime operation two years ago, and no one had ever found out who ordered the hit. I had tried to tell him that Macy would never be involved in something so sinister, but he refused to take the risk. In the dark room, he let out a quiet cough, reaching out to gently encase my small hand in his large palm. "Just stay safely at home from now on, okay?" I smiled into the darkness, leaving the question unanswered. Kinsley was flying back into the country the day after tomorrow. I wouldn't be trapped in his house much longer anyway. The sheer excitement of escaping with Macy kept my brain buzzing, making sleep impossible. I lay there in the quiet room, mentally reviewing every step of our escape plan. It was only when his breathing turned deep and rhythmic beside me that I realized Damian had fallen asleep. In his sleep, the terrifying mob boss dropped his sharp, guarded edge. His facial features relaxed, making him look surprisingly approachable, almost gentle. Suddenly, he shifted in his sleep, his long arm sweeping across the mattress and pulling me firmly into his chest. The movement was so natural, so fluid, it felt like something he had done ten thousand times in his dreams. Wrapped against his radiating warmth, resting against the solid expanse of his broad chest, an undeniable sense of safety washed over me. It had been two years since Macy and I landed in this world. During that first year in the entertainment industry, I had fought through the mud, seeing the absolute worst of human greed. As a gorgeous, unprotected D-list actress, I was constantly sabotaged by rivals and cornered by sleazy executives. That terrible night in the old producer's room hadn't even been the only close call. It had left me with severe nighttime anxiety. For months, the moment darkness fell and I was left alone, terror would grip my chest, leaving me shivering under the covers until dawn. Yet ever since I married Damian, despite my constant complaints about his coldness, he had been there every single night. I had never voiced my fear of the dark to him, but without realizing it, his quiet, constant presence had cured my insomnia. I hadn't shivered alone in the dark once since the day I wore his ring. Maybe my quiet shifting woke him. His deep, gravelly baritone vibrated against my ear, low and dark with sleep. "Cold?" My heart slammed against my ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be fast asleep. He gently reached down, pulling the duvet higher over my shoulders and tucking it securely around my back before drawing me even closer. Resting his chin lightly atop my head, his warm, steady breath fanned across my hair, making my face burn red. Truthfully, we had never been this physically intimate during our waking hours. The intense, comforting heat of his body created a faint, dangerous lingering ache in my chest. I shook my head internally, forcefully clearing the thought away. "There are plenty of strong, warm men in the world," I reminded myself sternly. "Why waste your life obsessing over a man who refuses to give you his heart?" Now that I was leaving, I shouldn't let his physique confuse my mind. Though... I couldn't help wondering if other men would have chest muscles this firm, or shoulders quite as broad and protective as Damian's... Lost in my chaotic thoughts, I eventually drifted off to sleep. By noon the next day, I had gathered my personal savings—several property deeds and a set of untraceable global black cards I had painstakingly accumulated over the years. Under the guise of a weekend mountain getaway, I drove deep into the remote wilderness, following a winding trail to a secluded cabin where Ryder was waiting. When I handed him the satchel containing my assets, Ryder looked at me, his sharp, dark eyes entirely clear and calm. "Are you absolutely sure you want to walk away from him?" Ryder was a former military contractor, only three years older than me, but remarkably precise, quiet, and reliable. We had met a year ago when he was hired to protect a high-profile film lead. During a chaotic security breach, I had managed to pull him away seconds before a vehicle exploded. Ever since, he had held a strict personal debt of honor to me, promising to grant me one favor, no questions asked. When I first suspected Damian’s physical issues months ago, the idea of fleeing had taken root. I just hadn't possessed the courage to execute it until now, waiting until the book's original plot forced my hand. "Yes," I said quietly, nodding once. I quickly reviewed the final rendezvous details for our destination overseas. "On September tenth, Macy and I will head up to the St. Jude Cliffside Sanctuary under the pretense of praying for good fortune..." Ryder nodded calmly, reassuring me: "Everything for your new identities is ready. Once the two of you go over the overlook cliff, my team will secure you at the base and transport you directly to the airfield." Once every detail was locked in, Ryder paused, asking a surprisingly personal question. "Can you really let him go?" I gave a bitter, quiet smile. It wasn't a matter of wanting to let go; it was simply that my heart had finally run out of hope. That night, Damian came home late again. He carried the faint scent of damp night air mixed with his familiar cedar-and-citrus body wash as he slid into bed beside me. Knowing this was one of the very last nights I would ever spend beside him, a sudden wave of reckless emotion washed over me. I rolled over, pressing myself tightly against his firm chest, my arm wrapping around his solid waist. Driven by a mix of desperation and curiosity, I let my hand slide lower, reaching past his waistline... In an instant, his breathing hitched, turning harsh and heavy. My face burned with shame, but I didn't pull back. As bold as I had been over the past year, this particular area had always been an absolute off-limits zone. I had been terrified that if I exposed his secret, he would eliminate me to protect his pride. Suddenly, a scorching, incredibly massive ridge hardened violently beneath my fingertips, surging against my palm with undeniable force.
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