Unwritten Rules: Destroying the Cinderella Plot

[ Tens of thousands of floating comments scrolled frantically across my vision: Tear her clothes off!

Give us that spicy, forced billionaire romance! ] A thick, unnatural heat clawed at my veins. Pinned beneath me was a trembling cleaning girl.

She reeked of cheap industrial floor cleaner, yet beneath that pathetic shivering, a sickening glint of anticipation lurked in her eyes. She was waiting for me to snap.

I had been dragged into a goddamn novel.

The script was trying to force me—a billionaire CEO with a goddamn empire—to force myself on a temp worker who couldn't even scrape together minimum wage.

All to feed the sick, twisted fetish these readers had for domineering, nonconsensual alpha male garbage. A dark scoff ripped from my throat.

I released my grip on her wrists and yanked her off the leather sofa.

My fingers moved with mechanical precision, snapping every single button of her cheap blouse closed right up to her throat, choking out any hint of skin. [ The floating text violently glitched and flashed red: ???

He's buttoning her up?! The script is crashing! ] The girl’s eyes blew wide. She stared at me like I was a terrifying, incomprehensible monster. "Why… why did you stop?" she asked.

I stepped back, meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles in my tailored suit cuffs.

I shot her a look colder than absolute zero. "Employee ID," I clipped. "Who the hell gave you clearance to enter the executive suite after hours?" I pointed a rigid finger straight at the heavy double doors. "Get the fuck out." Trying to trap me with this cheap, lowrent trope?

Watch me burn this entire script to the ground. Chapter 1 I finished buttoning her up.

She swayed, her legs giving out slightly before she grabbed the armrest of the Italian leather sofa to steady herself.

The flush lingered on her cheeks, and her eyes widened, swimming in bewilderment. "Th–thank you?" she whispered, the uncertainty heavy in her small voice.

I ignored her, as I was too busy enjoying the show.

The wall of translucent comments hovering in my line of sight had absolutely exploded. [ ??????? ] [ I literally had my pants off for this!!! ] [ Dressing her?

He's dressing her?! ] [ Director! Did someone hand him the wrong script?! ] [ If they don't sleep together in the opening, where's the misunderstanding?

How the hell does the plot move forward? ] [ Where is the foundation for the enemiestolovers trope? The groundwork?! ] [ Where is the premium 18+ content?!

I already paid for this! ] [ Is the billionaire impotent or something? ] [ Did the female lead's halo glitch out? ] [ I got my popcorn ready, and you give me this?

Buttoning a shirt?! ] [ This plot is crashing so hard! Zero stars! ] Watching that chaotic waterfall of question marks and unhinged complaints, I couldn't hold it back.

A genuine, rumbling laugh tore from my chest. Not that icy, arrogant smirk the script demanded of a billionaire, but an actual, deeply amused laugh.

The comments completely lost their minds. [ He's LAUGHING?! ] [ He's breaking character! Code red! ] [ It's over. It's completely ruined.

This book is unreadable now! ] I rolled my eyes hard at the empty air—well, directly at the floating text. I’m not your actual male lead, I shot back in my head.

And I'm sure as hell not some hormonal animal who can't keep it in his pants.

Even if I did want to play—I flicked my gaze over Skylar, who was still completely shortcircuiting, and a dark smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth.

Toptier supermodels and socialites desperate to climb into my bed could line up from Manhattan to Paris.

Why the hell would I let myself be forced into touching a temp worker reeking of cheap soap? All just to satisfy the cheap fantasies of you crazy readers?

To make me marry a bottomtier cleaning girl? And then kick off that trashy 'mutual torture' and 'running away pregnant' drama you all love so much?

A harsh scoff slipped past my lips. I dragged my gaze away from the digital noise and locked it back on reality, specifically, on the girl by the sofa.

Skylar finally managed to reboot.

She looked up at me timidly, the absolute bewilderment in her eyes now mixed with a heavy dose of sheer confusion. "Why… why did you stop?" she squeaked.

Her voice was trembling, soft and pathetic, but laced heavily with genuine incomprehension, proving she truly hadn't expected me to slam the brakes.

I methodically smoothed out the wrinkles she'd put in my customtailored suit cuffs.

When I spoke, my tone dropped back to the freezing temperatures expected of a CEO—not enraged, just clinically, brutally professional. "This is the executive suite." I stared her down, my gaze as sharp and unforgiving as if I were dissecting a failing quarterly report.

Chapter 2 "Why are you here? What time is it?" The questions dropped like ice picks, instantly shattering whatever bizarre, romanticized tension was lingering in the room.

Skylar stood frozen, her chest heaving—even more erratic than when I had her pinned to the couch. "Huh?" Her mouth fell open in a slack jaw, her brain completely misfiring. "I asked you a question." I took a deliberate step forward, letting the oppressive weight of my authority as the CEO slam down on her, stripping away any illusion of intimacy. "Why are you inside my private office after hours?" Intimidated, she stumbled back half a step until her spine hit the back of the sofa. "The… the supervisor of the cleaning department told me to stay late," she stammered out. "She said I had to clean the executive suites on the top floor because there are important board members coming tomorrow." She pointed a trembling finger toward a mop bucket shoved into a dim corner, then gestured at a halfwiped coffee ring on the side table next to the couch. "I was just wiping this table down when you stormed in smelling like whiskey, and then you just…" Her voice completely died in her throat.

Her face flushed violently red again, this time entirely out of sheer embarrassment. Ah. I got it now.

The original "fated hookup" plotline happened because the male lead barged in drunk, saw the latenight temp worker, and mistook her for some twisted fantasy?

Or maybe it was just pure, plotinduced alcohol poisoning. Well, I had just manually flatlined that plot. I gave a curt nod, processing the information.

A dark, twisted sense of amusement swelled in my chest at the expense of the floating comments, which were still rolling in. [ Ahhhh! The interrogation!

He's interrogating her! ] [ Yes! Exactly! Find out she's a nobody! Then humiliate her! ] [ The misunderstanding! Cue the misunderstanding! ] [ Trash her!

Tell her she's a shameless gold digger trying to seduce the CEO! ] [ Say the line! "Woman, you've successfully caught my attention!" Better late than never! ] Staring at those desperate, unhinged comments, I almost laughed again.

A misunderstanding? Humiliation? Watch me do the exact opposite.

I cleared my throat, locking my features into the stonecold, uncompromising glare of a CEO whose privacy had been violated. "Company protocol," I stated, my voice completely flat and devoid of emotion. "Entering the executive office after hours requires prior authorization and clearance from HR, especially for cleaning staff." Skylar's face went instantly ashen. "I didn't know… my supervisor said to just come straight up—" "Is your supervisor the head of HR?" I demanded.

She nodded frantically. "Y–yes." "Right." I pulled out my phone, not to make a call, but to hold it directly in her line of sight, switching to a brutally bureaucratic tone. "Name and Employee ID?" Skylar looked completely mindblown. "Skylar," she whispered, her voice shrinking even further. "ID number BQ073…" I typed it into my phone's notepad app, my movements deliberate and utterly meticulous. [ ??????

EMPLOYEE ID??? ] [ He's writing down her ID number?! ] [ What the fuck kind of move is this?! ] [ The billionaire CEO is checking a janitor's credentials??? ] [ What happened to the explosive sexual tension?! ] [ This plot direction just broke my brain! ] [ I want a refund!

I can't read this trash anymore! ] "Skylar, BQ073." I repeated her credentials aloud, sliding the phone back into my pocket before locking eyes with her. "I'll have HR verify your story tomorrow.

If this checks out and it was gross negligence on your supervisor's part, she will be dealt with accordingly." I let the sentence hang, intentionally letting the silence stretch out.

Her hands clamped down on the dirty rag in a death grip, her knuckles turning bonewhite.

Chapter 3 The floating comments seemed to hold a collective breath, waiting for the classic, cringeinducing line: "Woman, you're fired," or the everpopular, "You belong to me now." I watched her practically shaking in her cheap shoes.

It was almost comical, but I kept my features locked in absolute stone. "Next time you work late, pay attention to the standard operating procedures.

Get out." I waved a hand, dismissing her with the casual indifference reserved for a malfunctioning printer. Skylar froze completely solid.

Her eyes practically bulged out of her skull, her jaw slack, her brain clearly refusing to process the lack of drama.

I could practically read the disbelief flashing across her face: Get out? He's just letting me leave? No punishment? No twisted ultimatum?

She finally snapped out of it, frantically grabbing her mop bucket and rag, looking like a startled rabbit caught in the headlights.

She didn't even dare to look at me again, keeping her head ducked low as she practically speedwalked out the heavy double doors, her limbs stiff and awkward.

The floating text completely lost its mind, bursting into a chorus of digital wailing: [ She left???

She actually left??? ] [ That's it???? ] [ Ten minutes into the opening and the female lead exits stage left??? ] [ The billionaire just dismissed her like a regular employee??? ] [ I took my pants off for this???

Checking her employee ID??? ] [ Crashed! Burned to the ground! ] [ Author! Director! Come out here and take your beating! ] [ This book is cursed!

I'm dropping it! ] I watched Skylar practically sprint through the doorway, vanishing into the hallway.

Then I looked at the wailing, existentialcrisishaving comments flooding my vision.

A deeply satisfying calm settled in my chest. "Heh." I walked over to the massive floortoceiling windows, staring out at the Manhattan skyline, and poured myself a glass of ice water. "Freedom," I muttered to myself.

No more trashy soap opera plotlines. No marrying the bottomtier Cinderella, no toxic enemiestolovers garbage, and no acting like a goddamn puppet on a string for an audience.

It felt incredibly good. My phone buzzed aggressively in my pocket. I pulled it out.

Caller ID: The Old Man. "Yeah?" "You little bastard!" The old man's booming voice exploded through the speaker. "Did you piss off that psycho Scarlett again?" That psycho Scarlett?

Who? Oh, right. The chronically obsessed, insanely possessive childhood friend from the original novel, Scarlett.

She was the textbook vicious second female lead, turning her obsession into toxic hatred, sabotaging the main couple at every turn, and ending up completely destroyed by the finale.

Before I could even finish recalling the plot details, the old man fired off like a machine gun: "Scarlett just put out the word to Wall Street!

She swore she won't marry anyone but you, and if you don't marry her, her hedge fund is going to ruthlessly short our stock the second the market opens!" The old man gasped for breath, clearly bordering on a panic attack. "That crazy bitch will actually do it!

We just tied up our cash flow in the new development project; we can't afford a hostile attack right now!" I yanked my silk tie loose and poured myself a glass of straight whiskey, the ice cubes clinking crisply against the crystal.

I casually rubbed my ear. Ah, there it is. The classic trope.

The manufactured corporate crisis. "And?" I asked, my tone flat and entirely unbothered. "And?!" the old man shrieked, his volume spiking. "And you need to fix this!

Either you go coax her, stabilize the situation, or you better find a damn human shield right now to make her give up on you for good!" "I just checked the hallway security cameras and saw a disheveled cleaning girl sprinting out of your office!" he rattled off frantically. "Since you already hooked up with her anyway, just use her to make Scarlett drop this psychotic obsession!" "You need to bring her back to your penthouse immediately and move her in to play the part to the absolute limit!" The old man finalized his command. "That's the only way that psycho Scarlett will back the hell off!" The floating comments instantly resurrected from the dead: [ Holy shit!

The fake cohabitation trope!!! ] [ Here we go! The classic formula is back! ] Chapter 4 [ The billionaire forced to live with Cinderella! ] [ Enemies to lovers!

Proximity breeding romance! ] [ The opening glitched, but the main plot is back on track! ] [ I knew it!

You can't escape the script! ] [ The alpha always ends up with the maid! ] [ Agree to it!

Move her in and feed us that sweet PDA! ] [ Can't wait to watch that psycho Scarlett lose her mind! ] [ Yes, yes, yes!

Bring the little cleaning girl back! ] [ Now the plot is getting good! ] [ Cinderella is definitely going to secure the CEO's wife title in the end! ] The floating comments erupted into a massive digital block party, completely forgetting their existential dread from ten minutes ago.

They were absolutely convinced I was trapped in their narrative web.

Listening to the old man wheezing on the other end of the line, and watching this pathetic wall of "Cinderella must win" text, I couldn't hold it back.

A low, dark chuckle vibrated in my chest.

Not a polite scoff, but a genuine sound of sheer, mocking amusement. "Heh." The old man caught it and completely lost his temper. "Are you laughing?!

The house is on fire and you're laughing?!" The comments also paused their celebration: [ Why is he laughing? ] [ Is he breaking character again? ] [ I have a bad feeling about this… ] I cleared my throat.

When I spoke into the receiver, my voice was razorsharp, laced with absolute, infuriating nonchalance. "Dad." "What?!" The old man barked, caught off guard.

A vicious smirk pulled at the corner of my mouth. I watched the translucent text hovering in the air and enunciated every single word. "Scarlett wants to marry me?

Fine." A beat of dead silence on the phone. The floating text visibly lagged. I added casually, "Is City Hall still open? Can we still get a marriage license tonight?" Dead silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence. On the other end of the line, it sounded like someone had physically strangled the old man.

Even his heavy breathing flatlined. [ ????????????????? ] [ A… a marriage license???? ] [ WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?????? ] [ He's marrying that psycho Scarlett??????? ] [ NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!! ] [ He got it wrong!

He picked the wrong girl!!! ] [ Where is Cinderella?? What about the script??? ] [ Holy shit!

Plot twist of the century! ] [ Did the billionaire get brain damage??? ] [ Scarlett is the cannon fodder villain! He can't marry her!!! ] [ Where is my OTP????

Where is my Cinderella??? ] [ The plot just crashed into outer space!!!! ] [ Author! Director! Fix this right now!!! ] The text wall completely lost its collective mind.

It was a hundred times more chaotic than when Skylar had bolted, with endless question marks, exclamation points, screeches, and digital wailing flooding my vision so fast it was just a blur of glowing panic.

A sharp, wheezing gasp finally tore through the phone speaker, followed by a violent fit of coughing. "Hack… cough… w–what did you just say?" "You little bastard, repeat that to my face!

You want to marry Scarlett?!!" The old man's voice literally cracked an octave. "Uhhuh," I replied, thoroughly enjoying myself. "Isn't she the one crying and screaming that she has to marry me?

Didn't she say her hedge fund would ruthlessly short our stock if she didn't get her way?

This saves everyone a headache, so let's just do it." I ticked off the points on my fingers, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. "Look at the facts.

One, we're in the same tax bracket, and the Scarlett family's old money perfectly matches ours.

Two, she's crazy enough to act as a permanent firewall against any other gold diggers." I stared dead into the chaotic, glitching mess of floating comments and drawled, "And three… because I feel like it." "Marriage is just a corporate merger anyway, so why does it matter whose name is on the paper?

Tying myself to a predictable psycho I've known my whole life is infinitely better than shackling myself to some random bottomtier temp worker, right?" Clatter!

The sharp sound of a heavy object hitting the floor echoed through the phone. Chapter 5 The old man must have dropped his jaw—or smashed his whiskey glass.

His voice was shaking so hard it barely registered over the line. "You…" "Me what?" I cut him off. "Dad, hurry up and call the Scarlett family." "If we can get the license, I'll drive over right now.

We can consummate the marriage tonight and get it over with, saves us the hassle." "Oh, right," I threw more gas on the fire. "Tell that little temp worker she can focus exclusively on scrubbing floors from now on.

The CEO's wife position is officially filled." Only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing echoed from the old man's end. [ NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! ] [ Consummate?!

With Scarlett?!?! ] [ Help! My eyes are bleeding! I can't picture this! ] [ This plot twist is way too fucking wild! ] [ The director is dead!

RIP to the script! ] [ My Cinderella female lead… ten minutes of screen time… completely written off??? ] [ Oh my god!

This book is unreadable! ] [ Did the billionaire get possessed by that psycho?! ] [ Petition to recast the male lead!!! ] [ Dropping this! Right!

Now! ] I stared at the screen packed full of digital meltdowns and utter chaos. Listening to the old man stammering out a barely coherent "You're crazy!

You're completely insane!", an unprecedented wave of relief washed over me. Freedom? This was true freedom. Trying to force me down their scripted path? Not a chance in hell.

Marrying the Cinderella trope? Impossible. Marrying the psychotic childhood friend? Depends on my mood. Either way, I was absolutely done being a goddamn puppet on a string.

I slept like the dead last night.

No Cinderella drama, no howling comments—they probably ragequit the system entirely—and no psycho Scarlett violently pounding on my penthouse door at midnight.

The old man blew up my phone another seven or eight times, but I hit ignore on every single one for pure peace and quiet.

I walked into the corporate tower the next morning, feeling absolutely refreshed. The second I sat down, my private intercom buzzed.

My assistant's voice wavered over the speaker. "Mr. CEO, Ms. Scarlett is here. She doesn't have an appointment, but she said… she said you must see her immediately…" Ah.

The debt collector had arrived. "Send her in." I pressed two fingers to my temple, knowing inevitable things were inevitable. The heavy doors swung open, and Scarlett marched in.

She crossed the room in massive strides, brutally grabbing my silk tie.

With one violent yank, she dragged me forward across the mahogany desk, locking her eyes dead onto mine. "Xander," her voice was razortight. "Is what the old man said true?" I leaned back into my executive chair, raising a single eyebrow. "What did he say?" "He said!" Her volume spiked dramatically, practically vibrating with suppressed adrenaline. "You said it yourself!" "You want to marry me!

And that we could get the license and consummate it last night?!" Her gaze practically burned a hole through my skull, flashing with feverish excitement. [ Here we go!

The showdown is loading! ] [ The psycho is confirming it in person! ] [ It's over, the billionaire is backed into a corner now! ] [ Grabbing popcorn to see how he talks his way out of this! ] [ Where is Cinderella?

Get out here and save the scene! ] [ Stop yelling, Cinderella is probably scrubbing toilets… ] [ So intense!

A literal shotgun wedding! ] [ Quick, tell her it was a joke! ] I watched Scarlett’s desperate "tell me it's true" expression. I opened my mouth to respond. Knock, knock, knock.

It was timid. Barely there. Both Scarlett and my heads snapped toward the entrance. The door cracked open, and a terrified face peeked through the gap.

She was still clutching a dirty rag. She caught sight of Scarlett draped over my desk. She flinched, all color vanishing from her skin. "Mr.

CEO…" she squeaked, her voice no louder than a gnat. Interrupted, Scarlett looked absolutely murderous.

Her perfectly arched brows snapped together as she whipped her head around, glaring daggers at the door. Chapter 6 "Who the hell are you?

Can't you see we're in the middle of an important discussion?" Skylar violently flinched under Scarlett's aggressive, biting tone, instinctively shrinking back toward the doorframe.

The floating text, however, threw an absolute digital rave: [ THE FEMALE LEAD!!! ] [ Here she comes!

Bringing the classic misunderstanding trope right to his door! ] [ The ultimate showdown! The real battlefield! ] [ Catfight!

Catfight! ] [ The billionaire is totally busted! ] Skylar sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, looking as if she had just mustered up a lifetime of courage.

She completely avoided Scarlett's razorsharp glare, fixing her watery, pathetic eyes entirely on me. "Mr.

CEO, I'm so sorry to interrupt…" she squeaked, her voice trembling with manufactured grievance. "I just came back to grab something… My bra… I left it under your office sofa last night…" The second the words left her mouth, her head snapped down, her chin practically burying itself into her chest in a textbook display of fauxshyness.

The office plunged into absolute, suffocating dead silence, and the air in the room froze solid. The comments exploded: [ Her bra!

The bra drop! ] [ That psycho Scarlett is going to completely detonate! ] [ Quick! Tear her hair out! ] [ Mr. CEO, step in and protect your girl! Claim her! ] [ Drama of the year!

Grab the popcorn! ] I could physically feel the temperature plummeting around Scarlett.

She slowly turned her head, shifting her focus away from me to sweep her gaze over the trembling temp worker huddled in the doorway with the freezing, clinical precision of a tactical scan.

Skylar's shoulders quaked violently; she looked as if she were being physically crushed by the sheer weight of Scarlett's stare. Scarlett stared her down for five agonizing seconds.

Then, she casually withdrew her gaze, displaying no explosive rage, no psychotic screaming, and no shattered glass.

Instead, a soft, breathy scoff slipped from her lips, laced with absolute, aristocratic disdain and sheer amusement.

Her red lips parted slightly as she glanced toward the edge of the Italian leather sofa. "Oh. A bra," she murmured.

Then, without even bothering to lift her eyelids, she delivered her verdict with the detached tone of a health inspector evaluating a dumpster. "This cheap synthetic fabric that's worse than flea market trash… next time you want to seduce a man, at least borrow some money to buy a set from Victoria's Secret.

Something this cheap will only instantly kill a man's appetite." Skylar completely petrified.

Her head snapped up, all the remaining blood violently draining from her face, leaving behind nothing but a sickeningly pale sheet of utter, humiliating disbelief. [ ?????????????????? ] [ What the actual fuck did she just say?????? ] [ Flea market trash???

Victoria's Secret???

Kill his appetite???? ] [ Holy fucking shiiiiiiit! ] [ What kind of godtier plot twist is this???? ] [ The psycho is literally critiquing the female lead's lingerie????? ] [ It's not just the critique, it's the sheer absolute destruction in her words! ] [ She's not raging???

She's just disgusted by the quality??? ] [ Where is the catfight??? Where's the hairpulling??? ] [ Where is my toxic drama???

Did the author eat it??? ] [ My brain is literally fracturing watching this plot!!! ] [ Mr. CEO! Say something!

Save her! ] The floating text went completely feral, glitching harder than when I dropped the bomb about marrying Scarlett last night.

The screen was practically buckling under the sheer weight of question marks and profanity. Skylar's brain visibly flatlined.

She had probably never faced this specific brand of absolute, classbased destruction in her entire life, as she wasn't being screamed at or called a homewrecker—she was being utterly dismantled, told her attempt at seduction was cheap, pathetic, and a massive turnoff.

Her lips trembled violently, and tears rapidly pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over, but her vocal cords completely failed her. She couldn't squeeze out a single syllable.

Scarlett didn't even waste another second on the pathetic, shivering mess in the doorway. She snapped her burning gaze right back to me. Chapter 7 "You haven't answered my question!

Are you really going to marry me?" I stared at the absolute circus playing out in front of me: a psychotic heiress practically vibrating for a marriage confirmation, a bottomtier Cinderella on the verge of tears because her underwear got trashed, and a digital wall of floating text having a collective mental breakdown.

I picked up my coffee from the mahogany desk and took a slow, deliberate sip. Damn.

The roast tasted exceptional today. "Of course it's true." I flashed Scarlett a pristine, calculated corporate smile. "Ms. Scarlett. Or should I say, the future Mrs.

Xander… when are we heading to City Hall?" Crash! The harsh clatter of a mop bucket violently overturning echoed from the doorway.

Skylar finally hit her breaking point, slapped her hands over her flushed face, spun on her cheap heels, and bolted. [ Poor female lead bolted… again… ] [ This time she cried from pure humiliation… ] [ Because her bra was too cheap… ] [ What the actual fuck… ] [ This book… is literally unreadable… ] [ Author, come out here!

I promise I won't kill you! ] Scarlett flashed a blindingly satisfied smile. "Right now!" she commanded without missing a beat.

I set my coffee mug down. "Agreed." Scarlett’s execution was terrifyingly efficient, and when she said right now, she meant right fucking now.

Before I could even grab my suit jacket, she hauled me out of the executive suite and slammed her foot on the gas of her red Ferrari, pushing it to two hundred miles an hour straight to City Hall.

The translucent comments floated sluggishly across my vision: [ They're actually going… ] [ Help… my sanity is slipping… ] [ Mr.

CEO, blink twice if you're being kidnapped! ] [ That psycho's driving too fast! City Hall is in danger! ] [ Where's Cinderella?

Go crash the wedding! ] [ Wake up, Cinderella is busy crying over her cheap lingerie… ] I sat in the passenger seat, completely unbothered.

An heiress to a massive corporate empire, stunningly gorgeous, and most importantly, utterly obsessed with me—why the hell wouldn't I marry her?

We hit City Hall on a weekday morning; the marble lobby was dead. Scarlett dragged me inside, her designer heels clicking aggressively as we marched straight to the clerk's counter.

The clerk looked up.

A flash of bewilderment crossed his face, mostly because the stunning woman in front of him looked like a predator who had finally cornered her prey, while I stared blankly ahead like I was filing for corporate bankruptcy. "Marriage license for you two?" the clerk asked, entirely out of routine. "Yes!" Scarlett slammed our IDs onto the counter. "Hurry up!

Process the paperwork!" Intimidated by her sheer alpha energy, the clerk ducked his head and started typing furiously.

The floating text went into rapidfire mode: [ It's over, the ink is drying… ] [ He's signing it!

He's about to sign it! ] [ My Cinderella ship… totally sunk… ] [ Dropping this book! Right! Now! ] [ Author, are you asleep?

Because I'm having a panic attack! ] The clerk picked up his heavy pen to notarize the legally binding document, while Scarlett's eyes gleamed, her breath hitching in her throat.

Right as the pen tip was about to hit the paper— "Wait!" A tearchoked voice ripped through the quiet hall, and everyone whipped around. It was Skylar.

She was gasping for air, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes violently swollen, and fresh tear tracks streaking through her cheap makeup.

She burst into the lobby, locking onto me like a heatseeking missile. "Xander!" she wailed, her voice uncomfortably loud, dripping with an unprecedented level of absolute victimhood that successfully dragged every single gaze in the room right to us. "How!

How could you do this to me?!" She pointed a trembling finger at my chest, a fresh wave of tears cascading down her cheeks as she choked out the words, acting as if she had suffered the ultimate betrayal. "Last night… you clearly pushed me down onto the sofa…" Chapter 8