Retired Teacher Schools The Arrogant CEO

I was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, waiting to snag a carton of eggs on clearance, when the glowing text suddenly materialized in the air in front of me.

[So this is the phantom ideal the male lead has been obsessing over all these months?]

[Look closely, the villainous adopted daughter actually looks a lot like her...]

[Because of that resemblance, the male lead blindly favors the adopted kid. The actual heroine never stood a chance.]

[The heroine was depressed for years. It wasn't until she was diagnosed with terminal cancer that the male lead finally woke up and regretted everything.]

A violent shudder ripped through me. I stood frozen in the middle of the aisle, my hand hovering over the carton.

A phantom ideal? A tragic muse?

But... Im fifty years old.

Because I had stopped moving, the woman behind me seized the opportunity. She reached right past my elbow and snatched the largest, most pristine carton of jumbo eggs from the display.

My old friend Barb nudged me hard in the ribs. "What are you doing, Maggie? You just gonna let her take your eggs?"

I blinked, the neon lights of the supermarket coming back into focus, and hurriedly grabbed a different carton, dropping it into my basket.

By the time Barb and I squeezed our way out of the crowd and headed toward the registers, the floating lines of text were still scrolling relentlessly across my vision.

[As a billionaire CEO, the male lead gave the heroine plenty of money, but he never gave her an ounce of love.]

[Yeah, the poor heroine. She loved him so much...]

[If hes emotionally unavailable, fine, but why does he unconditionally pamper the evil adopted daughter? Whats his problem?]

A hand suddenly waved in front of my face.

"Earth to Margaret. Youre spacing out again." Barb frowned, eyeing me up and down. Then, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, she clapped her hands together. "Oh, I get it! Arthur asked you to the community center dance yesterday, didn't he? Finally falling in love? If you ask me, Arthur is a catch. Back in the day, he was the most handsome guy in the county..."

Barb was the undisputed gossip queen of our little social circle. She thrived on sniffing out secrets. Ever since Arthur made his feelings known a little over six months ago, she hadn't stopped teasing me about it.

"I'm just saying, a twilight romance isn't the worst idea in the world," she prattled on. "Arthur is financially stable, his kids are all grown and living in Europe..."

I waved her off, exhausted. "Drop it, Barb. I'm used to being on my own."

Barb and her husband had a wonderful marriage; even in their golden years, they still liked to play at romance. I was different. I had lived on this earth for half a century and had never been married. No strings, no attachments, no lingering regrets. My days were quiet, unhurried, and perfectly my own.

But today, these bizarre, hallucinatory comments had appeared out of nowhere.

Calling me the "phantom ideal" of some fictional male lead.

What an absolute joke.

Im retired. I have a pension. I don't have time for this nonsense.

I went home and started cooking dinner. The text began scrolling again against the backdrop of my kitchen cabinets.

[The heroine accidentally broke a picture frame today and the male lead screamed at her. Shes still hiding in her room crying.]

[Yeah, she hasn't even eaten dinner.]

[The housekeeper tried to bring her some food, but the male lead stopped her. Said he wanted to teach the heroine a lesson.]

[Youve gone too far this time, you garbage CEO!]

Before I retired, I was a high school teacher. I made a decent living. As an older woman with a bit of money and a lot of free time, Id read my fair share of romance novels. The whole "billionaire loves the evil stand-in while the true heroine gets terminal cancer" trope? Id read at least eighty variations of that exact story.

But according to the glowing commentary, this specific tragedy was somehow connected to me.

The so-called "villainess" was only receiving the male leads twisted, unconditional love because she looked like me. And that favoritism was indirectly driving the heroine toward a miserable, lonely death.

My conscience simply couldn't take it.

Through the comments, I pieced together the details. The male lead was Nathaniel Bancroft, the thirty-year-old CEO of Bancroft Holdings, based in Chicago.

...I was twenty years older than him. How on earth did I become the object of his eternal fixation?!

I wrestled with it all night, but by dawn, I had booked a flight to Chicago.

After a cab ride that cost entirely too much, I finally stood before the towering wrought-iron gates of the Bancroft estate in the affluent North Shore suburbs. Only to discover, unsurprisingly, that I couldn't even get past the security checkpoint.

I was standing on the sidewalk, seriously debating whether I should try to fake my way in as a newly hired maid, when the comments suddenly exploded.

[The girls are home from school!]

School?

I froze.

A second later, a sleek black Bentley glided down the street and pulled to a smooth stop just outside the estate gates. The tinted rear window rolled down, and a small, delicate face peered out. The girl looked at me with cautious, innocent curiosity. "Excuse me, ma'am? Do you need some help?"

Before I could even open my mouth, the text went wild.

[Sobbing! Our baby heroine is just too sweet.]

[Shes living in a nightmare, but the second she sees someone who needs help, she still reaches out...]

[And this beautiful angel ends up with terminal cancer. My heart is literally breaking.]

[Its all Nathaniels fault. Just you wait, Nathaniel Bancroft, I'm going to climb through this screen and rip your throat out.]

Before I could reply to the sweet girl, another face appeared from the shadows of the backseat. Two small heads, side by side.

Only, the one on the right had a voice like grinding glass.

"You're being pathetic again, Clementine," the second girl sneered. "Did you forget how hard you cried the last time you got scammed by a beggar?"

[The villainess is so spoiled. Does she even remember how hard she tried to suck up to Clementine when she first moved into this house?]

[Right? A perfectly good kid, completely warped.]

[You can't entirely blame her. Kids mirror the adults around them. She sees Nathaniel treating Clementine like trash, so she just copies him.]

[At the end of the story, when Clementine gets cancer, Nathaniel finally regrets everything and kicks the villainess out.]

[But by then, hes already spoiled her beyond repair. She can't survive on her own and literally starves to death on the streets.]

[Basically, Nathaniel ruins everyone!]

Amidst the furious debate scrolling before my eyes, I stood rooted to the pavement, utterly dumbfounded.

Wait a minute.

Why did no one mention that the "heroine" and the "villainess" in this tragic saga... were currently just two little kids?!

I lied. I told them I had come to Chicago looking for work and had my purse stolen at the station. I just needed a little something to eat.

Without a second of hesitation, Clementine said, "Please, get in the car. We have food at the house. I'll have the chef make you something."

Isabelle, the younger girl, let out a sharp, aristocratic scoff. She looked at me with naked disgust. "Who goes looking for a job outside a gated billionaire's community? You're so stupid, Clementine. You deserve to get scammed."

"When Dad gets home, he's going to scream at you for this."

At the mention of their father, Nathaniel, a shadow of genuine sorrow flickered across Clementine's eyes. But she forced a brave, wavering smile and looked back at me. "Please, ma'am. Come inside."

I slid into the front passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt.

Behind me, Isabelle scoffed again.

I studied her in the rearview mirror. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old. But the slight, upward tilt of her eyes, and that distinct, dark beauty mark resting just beneath her left eye... it did look like me.

But that was where the resemblance ended.

I am fifty years old. The silver in my hair is undeniable, the lines around my mouth etched deep by decades of living. She was just a cruel little child.

It didn't take long for me to follow Clementine and Isabelle into the cavernous Bancroft mansion.

The interior was a masterclass in cold, sterile wealth. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and staff bustling about like silent ghosts. The house lacked even a single ounce of warmth.

Clementine dropped her backpack on an absurdly expensive leather sofa and scurried toward the kitchen on her short little legs. Isabelle simply rolled her eyes, swinging her designer backpack over her shoulder as she marched upstairs.

A few minutes later, Clementine reappeared, carefully balancing a plate with a thick turkey sandwich.

"Here, ma'am. You can eat this." She tilted her head back, offering me the sweetest, most blinding smile. "I'll go pour you a glass of milk."

Looking into her wide, earnest eyes and her soft, flushed cheeks, I felt my heart melt into a puddle.

The comments were practically howling.

[Ahhh! Clementine is so cute I could die!]

[If Nathaniel doesn't want this perfect angel, can I please adopt her?!]

[Honestly, I'm just confused. This random lady is old. Why would the CEO use her as his ultimate phantom ideal?]

Her curiosity matched my own perfectly.

Unfortunately, the comments debated it for a while and came up with absolutely nothing. They eventually just blamed the author for being a hack who wrote illogical plot holes just to torture the heroine.

I had just finished the last bite of my sandwich when Isabelle came sauntering back down the grand staircase.

"Dad comes back from his business trip tonight," Isabelle announced, a wicked glint in her eye. "The teacher said we need a parents signature on our report cards. Have you figured out how you're going to explain failing math yet, Clementine?"

At the mention of the failing grade, the soft smile vanished from Clementine's face. Her shoulders slumped, and she bowed her head in defeat.

The comments wept for her.

[Poor Clementine.]

[She had food poisoning the day of the test! She was in agony for two hours and couldn't even finish the paper.]

[Nathaniel didn't even ask. He just saw the grade, screamed at her, and then praised the villainess right in front of her.]

[Clementine cried in her room all night.]

I looked at Clementine. She was gripping the straps of her backpack, her knuckles white, practically trembling where she stood.

I couldn't help myself. "Bring me the test," I said softly. "I'll sign it for you."

Neither of them seemed to expect that. Both girls froze.

After a long, agonizing moment, Clementine reached into her bag, bit her lip, and handed me the crumpled math test.

"I... I didn't finish it," she whispered.

I took it.

It was a second-grade math assessment. At the top, in aggressive red ink, was a glaring 43%. Large sections of the paper were completely blank. The long addition and word problems were almost entirely untouched.

Isabelle leaned over to sneer at it. "It's so easy. I got a hundred percent. Dad is going to give me a massive reward later. I'm going to make him buy me that new designer princess dress!"

I ignored her. I just put a gentle arm around Clementine's narrow shoulders.

"Tell me the truth," I said quietly, looking into her eyes. "Do you know how to do these problems?"

Encouraged by my steady gaze, Clementine gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Beside us, Isabelle shrieked, "You're lying! If you knew how to do them, why didn't you write the answers? You're just scared Dad is going to yell at you again"

I cut her off. My voice was calm, but sharp enough to slice glass.

"Little girl. This is your older sister. Speaking to her with that kind of venom is hardly what I would call good breeding."

Clementine's head whipped up. She stared at me, her mouth slightly parted in shock.

Isabelle looked like I had just slapped her. Her face twisted in ugly indignation. "You're literally a beggar! How dare you lecture me?!" she screamed, completely losing her composure. "You have no right to talk to me! Get out of my house! Get out right now!"

Just then, the heavy oak front doors swung open.

A chorus of staff voices murmured, "Welcome home, Mr. Bancroft."

Both little girls instantly went rigid.

In the blink of an eye, I watched Isabelle undergo a terrifying metamorphosis. She rubbed her eyes furiously until they were red, squeezed out a single, glittering tear, and looked past me with an expression of pure, victimized terror.

"Daddy! Clementine found a crazy beggar on the street and forced her inside! I tried to tell her it wasn't safe, but she wouldn't listen!"

"And then they both called me uneducated! Daddy, I'm scared!"

The floating text exploded into a frenzy of rage.

[This manipulative little monster! I want to strangle her.]

[It's over, it's over. Nathaniel already comes home in a bad mood on this day. He's going to destroy Clementine.]

[Random grandma, please do something! Channel your inner phantom ideal!]

Sure enough.

A second later, a voice like a frozen blade cut through the foyer. "Isabelle."

"Apologize to your sister. Right now."

Clementine flinched violently. I pulled her tighter against my side, resting a hand on her hair to soothe her. "It's okay," I whispered. "Don't be scared."

I stood up straight and slowly turned around.

My eyes met the gaze of a tall, imposing man. He was young, undeniably handsome, with sharp, aristocratic featuresbut there was a suffocating, violent gloom baked into his expression.

This was the male lead. Nathaniel Bancroft.

I steadied my breathing. "Mr. Bancroft. Hello."

Nathaniel didn't speak.

He just stared at me.

I watched his pupils blow wide, consuming the irises. I watched his Adam's apple bob frantically as his breathing hitched. I frowned, momentarily thrown off by his intense reaction.

I quickly tried to explain myself. "I'm not a beggar. I came to Chicago looking for work. My name is Margaret Callahan."

The man's gaze suddenly sharpened into something terrifying. His jaw locked. Through clenched teeth, he forced out a single, trembling sentence:

"What did you say your name was?"