Our Beautiful Terrible Lie
My voice was a guilty whisper in my own mind. Do I really have to burn him with the cigarette?
The man kneeling on the floor, surrounded by scattered hundred-dollar bills, inexplicably looked up, his eyes dark and unreadable.
The System’s voice was cold steel in my head. Deviation from the script will result in punishment.
A chill crawled up my spine.
But in the next second, something impossible happened.
Liam lunged forward, snatching the smoldering cigarette from between my fingers. With a choked gasp, he pressed it into the back of his own hand.
His eyes, blazing with a fierce, restrained disgust, met mine.
"Stop the act," he rasped, his voice raw.
I froze.
I hadn't said a word out loud.
How did he just play out the scene by himself?
1
The third time the System issued its directive—Humiliate Liam Walsh—I took the wad of cash he’d handed me and flung it into the air.
The crisp hundred-dollar bills rained down around us like crimson confetti in the dim light of the club.
His face, usually a mask of indifference, tightened for a fraction of a second. His thin lips pressed into a hard line.
I curved my own lips into the sneer the script demanded. "Kneel," I said, my voice dripping with manufactured scorn. "Pick up every last one. Do that, and maybe I’ll consider forgiving the interest you owe me."
It was a perfect, cliché villainess line.
We were in Onyx, a place where the city's elite came to burn through their trust funds. The colored light from the bar glinted off bottles of liquor that cost more than a semester's tuition. In the velvet-draped booths of this gilded cage, anything could happen. Forcing a scholarship kid to his knees over a little debt? That was so mundane it wouldn’t even earn a second glance from the table next to us.
Liam's shadowed gaze darkened. A flash of anger, there and gone, replaced by that familiar, cold detachment. His obsidian eyes swept over me once, then he slowly, deliberately, knelt.
He actually began gathering the scattered bills.
A wave of snickering rippled through my friends.
"No way, he's actually doing it. So much for pride. I heard he was some kind of legend at Blackwood University. Doesn't he have any self-respect?"
Someone else scoffed. "Self-respect? Genevieve's family paid for his scholarship. The guy doesn't own the shirt on his back. What right does he have to self-respect?"
"He really thought because Gen played with him for a couple of months, he could climb his way into the Sinclair fortune. Pathetic."
The people in my circle were all heirs to one fortune or another, but the Sinclair name carried more weight. They orbited me, and seeing me put Liam in his place was just another form of entertainment, another chance to get on my good side.
The man on the floor didn't even look up. His face was lost in the shadows, but I could see the tension in his hand as he gripped the money, his knuckles white.
He could take it.
Of course he could. This was the man who would one day become a ruthless titan of industry, cold and untouchable.
The laughter around me continued.
Laugh it up, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth. You're all on his hit list. Enjoy the party while it lasts.
Oh, right. So was I.
I reached for my cigarette, my hand trembling slightly. I tapped the ash into the crystal tray. Tapped it again. And again.
Stop it. Stop shaking.
On the outside, I was Genevieve Sinclair, the cruel, untouchable heiress. On the inside, I was out of options.
I screamed at the System in the privacy of my mind. "Are you absolutely sure he won't have me murdered the second he gets a chance?"
We guarantee your safety upon completion of the plot, it replied, its tone maddeningly serene.
"That's not a no!"
2
The day I found out I was the villain—the "one that got away" who was destined to break him—I had just gotten Liam to finally admit he had feelings for me.
Then the System appeared.
It informed me that we were characters in a story.
I thought I was living a romance novel cliché: the wealthy heiress relentlessly pursuing the brilliant, penniless boy with a wounded soul. It had been love at first sight for me. Liam was sensitive and cold, a fortress who pushed everyone away. He ignored my every attempt at kindness, actively resisted my affection. But I was persistent. For every step he took back, I took ten forward.
I knew he was poor, so I secretly had gourmet meals delivered to his dorm. I saw that he had the grades for a top university, so I busted my ass to get into Blackwood with him. He worked three jobs to cover his expenses, so I anonymously paid his tuition and loaded his meal card with funds. I was determined to be the sun that melted his iceberg.
But the System told me my role wasn't the sun. I was the cautionary tale. The beautiful, cruel memory that would fuel his rise to power.
I didn't believe it.
It gave me what it called "corrective electroshock therapy."
I believed it then.
And my world shattered.
The System explained my purpose: to give the hero a taste of warmth and acceptance, only to drag him down into an even deeper hell. This betrayal was the catalyst. It would forge him into the dark, obsessive, and ruthless CEO he was destined to become. Only then could the heroine appear to "save" him and unlock the main love story.
The warmth part was done. Liam had fallen for me.
Now came the torture. The part that would trigger his transformation.
I refused.
The System informed me that refusal meant erasure from existence.
Okay, then. I guess I’d do it. I kind of wanted to live.
Under its duress, I began the first act of humiliation.
It was the day after we officially became a couple. He came to meet me, holding a small bouquet of flowers. They were perfect, delicate, with beads of morning dew clinging to the petals. I recognized a few of the blooms; they were outrageously expensive. I couldn't imagine how long he must have saved. He believed I deserved the best.
He walked toward me through the soft morning mist, a rare, gentle smile on his face that made him look impossibly young.
I met his hopeful gaze, forced my lips into a cold line, and delivered the first line of the script.
"Liam."
"I was just playing with you. You didn't actually take it seriously, did you?"
"I mean, look at yourself. Did you really think you were worthy of me?"
In an instant, the light in his eyes vanished, leaving behind nothing but a cold, dead emptiness.
3
My heart clenched as if squeezed by an invisible fist. A sharp, searing pain.
I pressed a hand to my chest, forcing the memory away.
Back in the club, the last hundred-dollar bill lay at my feet. He reached for it, his expression unreadable.
I hesitated for only a second before lifting my stiletto and placing it on the back of his hand, over the delicate bones of his fingers. I didn't press down. I couldn’t. I just held it there, looking down at him.
He looked up, and for a moment, his dark eyes were like a viper's, coiled and ready to strike. A flicker of raw hurt crossed his face before he masked it, his gaze dropping, hiding his emotions beneath the shadow of his thick lashes.
A sudden chill went through me, prickling the back of my neck. My fingers, still holding the cigarette, started to tremble again.
My eyes fell to his hand pinned beneath my shoe. It was a beautiful hand, elegant and long-fingered, but so thin you could see the blue veins beneath the skin.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't stop myself.
"Do I have to burn him with the cigarette?" I begged the System, my voice a pathetic whine in my head.
After all, that hand had to type code for his computer science classes. It had to wash dishes at the campus diner, prep lesson plans for his tutoring gigs, and create latte art at the coffee shop… he was working four jobs to pay me back.
This was just cruel.
As I stood there, torn, the man on the floor suddenly looked up again, his expression sharp. A storm seemed to gather in his eyes, followed by a flicker of... confusion? It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
The System's voice was sharp, threatening.
Host, your function as the villain is to make the protagonist despise you. This will catalyze his transformation. Any unnecessary displays of compassion are counterproductive.
Complete the script, and not only will your safety be guaranteed, but you will also receive a substantial reward.
But deviation… deviation has consequences.
The thought of erasure made my blood run cold.
But then, Liam moved. He shot to his feet, his shadow falling over me. He took a step closer, an aura of suppressed fury radiating from him. His dark eyes locked onto mine.
In the next second, he snatched the cigarette from my fingers and pressed the glowing tip firmly into the back of his own hand.
He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, but his eyes, filled with a profound and weary disgust, never left mine.
"Stop the act," he rasped.
I stared, dumbfounded.
I hadn't spoken. He had just followed the script… on his own. And after I’d stepped on his hand, he was calling me the phony? Did that even make sense? Was I actually driving him crazy?
He held the cigarette there, his handsome face contorted in pain, until a dark, ugly mark blistered his skin. Then, he dropped the extinguished butt at my feet and walked away without another word.
A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind.
Liam Walsh: Corruption Level 30%.
4
A good villain never rests. As the primary catalyst for the plot, even though I was an heiress, my life now revolved around stalking the protagonist and finding new ways to make his life miserable.
At six p.m., Liam started his shift at Cornerstone Coffee.
Outside the large, clean windows, the sky was ablaze with a spectacular sunset. The black apron he wore was tied neatly, accentuating his lean waist. The warm, golden light of the setting sun fell across his sculpted features, softening the perpetual chill in his expression. He was beautiful, like a figure in a painting.
I, however, was a nervous wreck, picking at my perfect manicure.
"You're telling me," I whispered to the air, "that I have to throw this coffee in his face?"
Across the cafe, Liam, who had been expertly crafting a latte, suddenly went still, his expression turning icy.
I shivered, frantically blowing on the surface of my coffee to cool it down.
"Doesn't my character have anything better to do than follow him around and bully him all day?" I complained to the System.
No.
I wanted to scream.
But it was useless. Steeling myself, I called him over.
When Liam stood beside my table, his presence quiet and watchful, I put on my mask of contempt.
"What is this?" I sneered, gesturing at the cup. "It tastes like plastic."
I closed my eyes, forcing out the last line. "Just like you. Cheap. And worthless."
The words hung in the air. I felt hollowed out, a ghost in my own body.
Liam was silent. His lashes were lowered, and his gaze on me was complicated, unreadable. He just watched me, and the intensity of it made my skin crawl.
Finally, a bitter, self-mocking smile touched his lips.
He looked directly at me, his eyes cold. "Is this the new torture you came up with for today, Genevieve?" His voice was a low, rough murmur. "Are you having fun?"
I sat up straighter, meeting his gaze. "Is this how you treat your customers?"
Throw it. You have to throw it.
My hand, wrapped around the mug, was shaking.
Damn you, System! I screamed internally. How am I supposed to do this? This is the face I fell in love with!
The System remained silent, offering no reprieve.
In the next moment, Liam calmly took the cup from my hand, and before I could react, he splashed its contents onto his own face.
Brown liquid dripped from his sharp jawline. The air seemed to freeze.
His dark eyes, full of a deep and profound weariness, locked onto mine.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
I could only stare.
He was doing it again. He was following the script by himself.
System, is this right?
The only answer was the cold, mechanical voice.
Liam Walsh: Corruption Level 50%.
5
Before I could process what had happened, a gentle female voice cut through the silence.
"Are… are you two fighting?"
A girl in a simple white dress stood there. She was so exquisitely beautiful it was hard to look away. Her face was etched with concern as she looked at the coffee-soaked Liam.
"I have a handkerchief. Would you like to use it?"
Liam seemed startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone to intervene on his behalf. After a long moment, he slowly took the offered cloth, his hand closing around it.
She smiled, a lovely, kind expression. Beautiful, gentle, empathetic.
Even without the System's input, I knew. This was the heroine. This was Sophia Hayes.
The System's tone, usually so clinical, was buzzing with excitement.
The kind-hearted heroine has finally appeared! The plot is getting back on track!
But I couldn't breathe. My entire body went rigid. The scene before me seemed to unfold in slow motion.
Sophia turned to me, her brow furrowed in disapproval. "I know who you are. You're that rich girl from the campus forums. I heard you two were a couple, but even so, you shouldn't humiliate someone in public like this. He's a person with dignity, not a toy for you to play with."
I bit my lip, the sharp metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I had no defense. Nothing I could say was true.
"She's not my girlfriend," a quiet voice said from behind Sophia.
Liam's gaze was fixed on the back of her neck, an intense, predatory look. It held a dangerous combination of obsession and determination.
Yes! This is it! The possessive, obsessive love story we wanted! the System cheered.
I lowered my eyes, a dense, throbbing pain spreading through my chest. My mind was a blank slate of white noise.
I turned and fled, my escape anything but graceful.
As I stepped out of the coffee shop, the last rays of sun had vanished from the horizon. Dusk was settling over the city.
The System issued a new command.
Have Liam walk you back to campus.
"Why are the missions coming so fast now?"
We have to strike while the iron is hot!
I sank onto a nearby bench, the cool evening air raising goosebumps on my bare arms. I didn't know how long I waited. Finally, the lights inside the coffee shop went out, and the streetlight above flickered on, casting a lonely yellow glow.
Liam emerged, having changed back into his plain black hoodie. He once again looked like the same cold, withdrawn boy I first met.
I took a deep breath, summoned my courage, and walked toward him. I adopted my most imperious tone. "Liam. It's dark. Walk me back to the dorms."
My heart was pounding.
His cold eyes slid over to me. "And why would I do that?"
He took one step away from me, then stopped abruptly, as if a thought had just struck him. He frowned. "Have you been waiting out here for three hours?"
I nodded, stunned that he’d noticed.
A flicker of irritation crossed his face. The fingers of his hand flexed and curled, as if he were fighting back some powerful impulse. He started walking again, his voice flat. "Let's go."
Something was strange about him. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was there.
I followed a few steps behind him, a silent shadow.
"Is that the whole mission?" I asked the System. "Just have him walk me home? Nothing else?" It seemed too simple, too kind.
I was right.
Do you remember the construction foreman your father fired for incompetence? the System asked.
I froze.
Tonight, he and a few of his friends are planning to kidnap you for ransom. Your task is to threaten Liam into protecting you, and then, while they're fighting, you run.
My heart seized. "Run? And then call the police for him, right?"
And then go wherever you please. Your part in this scene will be over.
I stopped walking. "That's inhuman."
After this, Liam will be hospitalized for at least two weeks. The heroine will visit and take care of him. Their relationship needs this time to develop.
"And if I don't do it?"
Then you'll be the one in that hospital bed for two weeks. Its voice was utterly devoid of emotion. He's the protagonist, the System reasoned. He may suffer now, but he's destined for greatness. You don't need to feel guilty. You're simply helping him through his trials.
But Liam was already brilliant. He didn't need these senseless, manufactured tragedies. They were nothing but cruel plot devices to set up a tortured romance. This kind of story needed a monster to be saved.
And my job was to create that monster.
For the first time, I didn't argue. I just walked in silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
So when Liam suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet night, I was caught completely off guard. "Genevieve," he asked, his tone strangely serious, "in this whole world, what is it that you want most?"
The answer came out before I could think. "Freedom."
Freedom from this script. Freedom from hurting him.
I stopped in my tracks, my breath catching. I looked up to call his name, but I realized we had turned into a dark, narrow alley. It was a shortcut to campus I'd taken a hundred times, but tonight it felt menacing, like the jaws of some hidden beast.
Panic seized me. I lunged forward, grabbing the hem of his hoodie to pull him back.
But it was too late. Several figures emerged from the shadows, moving fast.
In an instant, the tall figure in front of me spun around, pulling me into his arms. His body was a warm, solid shield around me. I felt the sickening thud of a pipe hitting his back, the vibration traveling through his body into mine.
I hadn't even had to threaten him. I had been trying to save him.
A dull, numb ache spread through my chest. I had hurt him again.
The next second, he pushed me away, hard.
"Run," he choked out. "Go!"
I stumbled, catching a glimpse of his face—pale and grim—before I turned and ran. I ran with everything I had, my lungs burning, my feet pounding against the pavement.
The System's voice was triumphant in my ear. Liam Walsh: Corruption Level 70%.
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