I’d been blind for three months following the accident. The first time it happened, the words appeared in my mind like a rogue newsfeed—a scrolling, golden banner flashing across the black canvas behind my eyelids. —WAIT ‘TILL DECLAN COMES BACK IN A MONTH, DISCOVERS HIS WIFE HAS BEEN SWIPED, HE’S GONNA BE A SAD PUPPY. Wait. Declan wasn’t back yet. Then who, exactly, was the man sharing my bed? 1 “What’s wrong? Is my arm too stiff? Not comfortable enough to pillow your head on?” The man beside me held me closer, his chin resting against the curve of my neck. “My baby is so soft, and you smell incredible.” The familiar, searing heat of his body settled my panic. I’d thought I was going crazy, or maybe even miraculously regaining my sight when the words first started. The golden text kept rolling: —MC IS EATING WAY TOO WELL, LOL. —LOOK AT THE DAMAGE. LAST NIGHT MUST HAVE BEEN INSANE. —CAN’T WAIT FOR DECLAN TO COME HOME AND CRY HIS EYES OUT. —POOR DUDE. COMES BACK FROM A BUSINESS TRIP, AND HIS SPOT IN BED IS STOLEN. My entire body locked up. What were they talking about? My fiancé was right here. He had been. I couldn’t have cheated. That was impossible. “Did I hurt you? Was I too rough last night?” The chest and abs beneath my cheek felt exactly the same as Declan’s—perfectly chiseled and hard. “Stay still. Let me rub the ointment on.” He rose, the sound of his clothes shifting against the sheets filling the quiet room. I let him take the tube, letting him massage the salve onto my body. His movements were feather-light, his fingertips cool, as if he was afraid of causing me any pain. “Don’t tense up,” his voice murmured from above my head, a slight, teasing laugh woven into the sound. Instinctively, I reached out and grabbed his hand. The bones were clearly defined, the structure didn’t feel any different. “Don’t tempt me, baby. I won’t be able to resist.” “Mmm.” I mumbled a reply and nuzzled my face into his palm. He chuckled softly. “So needy today?” The voice was as warm and familiar as always. It had to be Declan. I must be having hallucinations from the stress. I didn't want to believe otherwise. I reached up and felt the side of his neck. Yes, the small, specific mole was still right there. “Are you that eager?” His voice had gone husky. I slapped a hand over my own face. It wasn’t like I meant to graze his Adam’s apple. He was always twisting things. —OH, THE WAY THAT ADAM’S APPLE BOBBED. I WANNA SLIDE DOWN IT. —LMAO. THE VILLAIN BURNED A MOLE ONTO HIS NECK WITH A CIGARETTE TO IMITATE THE ML. DUDE IS TOO DOWN BAD. I froze again. 2 A self-inflicted mole? Was this some kind of sick joke? A shudder ran down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. I reached out and touched his Adam’s apple again. Now that the Feed mentioned it, the mole did feel… larger. More raised. A little messy around the edges. A sudden, paralyzing coldness washed over me. What the hell was happening? The Feed kept scrolling relentlessly. Piece by disjointed piece, the golden text painted a horrifying picture of my reality. I was living inside a trashy Billionaire Redemption Saga. The Male Lead, Declan, discovers his cheating girlfriend—me, Anya—and uses the betrayal as fuel to climb the corporate ladder, becoming a ruthless, globally successful CEO. His catchphrase? Women only slow down the speed of my success. He remains single, tormented by the betrayal. And me? I’m the cannon fodder, the stumbling block he crushes under his Italian leather shoe. The story ends with me having a miserable life, eventually picking up scraps for a living. Wait, how can a blind woman pick up scraps for a living? That made absolutely no sense. The Feed insisted Declan would eventually hate me so much that he’d drive by me in his Maybach, watching me scavenge. A Maybach? Doesn't that leak when it rains? And couldn't I find literally any other kind of job? “Baby, want another apple?” The man’s hand was beginning to wander again. “Just eat, eat, eat! That’s all you do!” I snapped, slapping his hand away in a burst of frustration. He paused, then flashed a wickedly charming smile. “Harder, baby. You smell delicious when you’re mad.” He took my hand and kissed the back of it. Oh God, I turned him on? Why hadn’t I noticed that he wasn’t Declan? Who was he? A psychopath? Should I pretend I knew, or keep playing along? 3 The Feed quickly gave me the name I dreaded: —PIERCE!!! Pierce. I flashed back to the high-society gala Declan and I had attended. The man everyone was desperate to impress. The one who always looked untouchable, coldly reserved. Now, my body was rigid in Pierce’s forced embrace, the golden text in my mind screaming: —HELP! IS CEO PIERCE GOING TO KEEP UP THE POOR-BOY ACT FOREVER? —LMAO. THROWS A FIT AT EVERY BOARD MEETING, BUT IN BED, IT’S “MY BABY.” —PIERCE: SHE’S CUTEST WHEN SHE CAN’T SEE ME. His fingertips were slowly tracing the curve of my waist. “What are you thinking about?” I vividly recalled the night. He was standing under a huge crystal chandelier in a bespoke suit. I’d approached him with a champagne flute, ready to make polite conversation, and he hadn't even given me a glance. He’d completely blown me off. I remembered the girl next to me snickering: “Who is that? Doesn’t she know him?” “Don’t bother. Pierce hates attention-seekers.” Declan had quickly come to my rescue, wrapping an arm around me and announcing, “This is my fiancée, Anya.” The other guests’ looks of envy and jealousy had been sweet. Declan came from a powerful, old-money family in this city. I distinctly remembered Pierce’s stare as he looked over at us—it was laced with a chilling mix of disdain and mockery. After that, I kept my distance from Declan’s powerful friend. But by some cursed coincidence, he always seemed to be around. Whenever Declan and I were having fun, Pierce would sit quietly in the corner, reading documents, never joining in. I remember telling Declan, “Your friend is such a poser. Critiquing quarterly reports in a karaoke bar?” Declan just laughed. Knowing the tension between us, he never forced us to interact more than necessary. Everyone knew the city’s prince, Pierce, seemed to despise me. Someone had once asked him why. I heard he’d coldly said I was “too much of a siren” and “looked unstable, like a fox trying to sneak into the henhouse.” Later, everyone assumed he only liked ‘pure’ women, sending him a parade of ingenues, all of whom he promptly sent packing. Declan had recounted the story to me like a funny anecdote. 4 I never thought that man would turn out to be a home-wrecker. A modern-day Icarus, flying too close to the flame of another man’s marriage. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. A siren? Unstable? When had I ever been anything but polite and proper? Just because I wore a dress and smiled at a party, I was a fox? In a fit of indignant rage, I kicked him clean off the bed. Caught completely off guard, Pierce landed on the floor with a muffled grunt. He sounded genuinely surprised. “Baby, was my performance… not up to standard?” “It was awful!” I snapped back, thoroughly annoyed. —MC’S LEGS ARE SO HOT. THE VILLAIN HAS HAD TWO MONTHS OF THIS. WHAT A SCORE! —NOT EVEN FOOT MODELS HAVE FEET THAT NICE. Wait a minute—two months.

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