I’ve been married to Nick for six years. For four of those, a "sunshine girl" system host hijacked my body.

She used my flesh and blood to melt the heart of this ruthless billionaire. Then, today, I suddenly snatched the steering wheel back.

Rows of glowing text drifted through the air right in front of my eyes.

"The mission is almost complete. Why the hell is this loser side-character back to ruin everything?"

"Relax. There is no way the male lead will ever fall for a pathetic doormat like her."

Right on cue, Nick walked into the room carrying a glass of mango juice, a drink that literally made my stomach churn. He stared a hole right through my face.

Suppressing my gag reflex, I downed it in one gulp. I mimicked that sunshine girl, flashing him a bright, empty-headed smile.

The light in Nick’s eyes died instantly. He turned around like a puppet with cut strings, his footsteps heavy as lead.

1

Four years. I had no idea what Nick had been through, but he looked like a completely different person.

His face was gaunt, stripped down to sharp angles and bone. His eyes were sunken hollows, his jaw wired tight with tension. He carried a suffocating aura of death around him, completely stripped of the arrogant, high-flying heir I used to know. I almost didn't recognize him.

I dragged my gaze away from his face and looked at the empty glass of mango juice.

Judging by his intense focus, he had poured it specifically for me. I sucked in a sharp breath. My stomach immediately twisted into violent knots, and my first instinct was to wave it away in disgust.

The glowing comments popped up again.

[LMAO. The female lead drinks a glass of mango juice every single night before bed.]

[But this useless side-character saw a maid spit in her mango juice when she was a kid. She gags just looking at the stuff now.]

[Oh snap. Is the male lead about to realize the original trash wife is back?]

[Grab the popcorn! Once he figures it out, he’ll do whatever it takes to drag our Sunshine Girl back.]

[Wait, is he already suspicious? Was this juice a test?]

As the text floated by, the hand I had raised to push the glass away froze mid-air.

Nick seemed to catch that micro-hesitation. His pitch-black eyes locked onto mine. He stubbornly pushed the glass an inch closer, his voice betraying a sliver of desperate hope.

"Why aren't you taking it? Do you not want it?"

I ground my teeth together, forced my hand forward, and took the glass. Under his piercing scrutiny, I tipped my head back and chugged the thick liquid down. I swallowed the rising bile in my throat and forced out a bright, carefree giggle.

The chat was right. Down to my marrow, I was a coward. I had spent my entire life hiding in my shell, too terrified to even breathe too loudly. There was no way I could naturally pull off a smile this radiant. The only person who could laugh with such brazen confidence was the female lead who stole my life. Luckily, I still retained her memories.

The juice was gone. Now it was time to lean in and act sweet.

"I'm fine! The juice is super sweet. Thanks, hubby."

Before the words even fully left my mouth, the fragile hope in Nick’s eyes shattered into dust. He reverted back to that lifeless, hollow shell. Turning his back to me, he walked away, his posture radiating a freezing distance.

As he reached the doorway, his foot slipped. He slammed his hand against the doorframe, his knuckles turning white as he violently caught his balance. He nearly collapsed to the floor.

My heart skipped a beat. I scrambled out of bed barefoot to catch him. "Are you okay?"

Before my fingers could even graze his shirt, Nick flinched violently away. He didn't spare me a single glance as he strode out of the room.

My hand hung in the air. I stared blankly at the empty hallway, nervously biting my lower lip until I tasted iron.

Ever since I could remember, I had lived under the shadow of cold violence. The feeling of being treated like invisible dirt was carved into my bones. My body always reacted faster than my brain. The second I sensed hostility, my shoulders began to shake uncontrollably.

2

The moment the bedroom door clicked shut, the adrenaline wore off. I stumbled into the master bathroom, dropping to my knees. Clinging to the porcelain toilet, I threw up until my throat burned and my lungs screamed for air.

Only when my stomach was completely empty did I feel like a living, breathing human again.

The floating text started buzzing with activity.

[Holy shit. She actually faked her way through that?]

[Chill out. She’s still wearing the same face, and the dude isn't a mind reader. He won't figure it out instantly. Just watch.]

[Haha, did you guys see how pathetic she looked? Shaking like a leaf just because he glared at her.]

[Right? Our Sunshine baby never put up with that attitude. The colder he acted, the more she teased him. These past four years have been the ultimate grumpy-sunshine romance trope.]

[Exactly. Let's be real, he actually wanted to marry her older sister first. The sister was a total ray of light too.]

[Yup. The sister refused to marry him, so he had to settle for this doormat.]

The text faded. I used the tiled wall to drag myself upright and shuffled over to the marble sink.

I stared hard at the reflection in the mirror. Perfectly sculpted cheeks, arched brows, glowing skin, flawless makeup, and bright, sparkling eyes. The female lead had polished this meat suit until it shined blindingly bright.

So bright that I couldn't even recognize myself.

3

The chat wasn't lying. My older sister, Harper, was cut from the same cloth as that system host.

Passionate, outgoing, and wildly charismatic. No matter where she stood, she effortlessly stole the room. We shared the same mother, but our personalities were night and day.

I grew up entirely in Harper's shadow. I wore her hand-me-down dresses, ate the snacks she discarded, and used the pens she threw away. I was the ugly duckling constantly used to highlight the swan. Being treated as invisible for two decades had molded me into a deeply insecure ghost of a person.

I was used to walking with my shoulders hunched, hiding behind her, trying to blend into the wallpaper. I didn't speak up, I didn't stand out, and I was too terrified to even look people in the eye when saying hello.

The day the Sinclair family patriarch came to propose an alliance, my parents were over the moon. The old man didn't specify which granddaughter he wanted, but everyone knew the unspoken truth. The Sinclairs absolutely wanted the radiant, perfect Harper.

That night, Harper dressed to the nines for a dinner with the Sinclair family. She came home pale as a sheet, throwing herself into our mother's arms, sobbing hysterically.

"Mom, everyone says Nick is a literal psychopath! When he loses it, he beats people half to death. He knew I was there today and didn't even show his face. I bet they had him locked up in the basement! I'm not doing it, Mom. I'd rather die than marry a freak!"

Harper threw tantrums for three straight days. My mother cried tears of heartbreak for her golden child. Finally, she hardened her heart and turned her sights on me.

The very next day, without a single word of warning, they announced Harper was already engaged to someone else. Then, they shoved me into the black luxury car sent by the Sinclair family.

I curled into a tight ball in the backseat, shivering violently. My head was filled with the vicious rumors I had overheard. People said Nick was a flesh-eating monster. They said he was a ruthless psycho who turned on his own blood.

Looking at my pathetic reflection in the tinted window, I mentally prepared myself for a hundred different ways to die. Boiling water thrown in my face, getting slapped around, being mocked for not being Harper, or just getting kicked out onto the curb.

Whatever. I had been treated like a stray dog my whole life. Getting cursed out one more time wouldn't kill me.

But when Nick finally saw me, he didn't even lift an eyebrow. He just gave a curt nod.

"Anyone works," he threw out the words with zero emotion. He slid a signet ring off his pinky finger and tossed it into a drawer.

4

On our wedding night, we were both clueless.

After a clumsy, agonizing ordeal, I literally passed out from the pain.

When I opened my eyes again, the bedroom was bathed in the warm, dim glow of a wall sconce. Nick was sitting right by the bed. He held a warm, damp towel, repeatedly wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. His movements were incredibly light, like he was afraid I would shatter.

Seeing me wake up, he let out a massive breath. But the relief lasted only a second before his brows slammed together again.

"Hazel, if it hurt that badly, why didn't you make a sound?"

I was already terrified of him. I yanked the duvet up to my chin, trembling. I nodded frantically, then shook my head just as fast.

He froze. He clamped his mouth shut and didn't say another word. He just sat there, his dark eyes quietly studying me for a long time. There was an emotion hidden in his gaze that I couldn't read.

It looked like regret. Or maybe something else entirely.

For the next entire month, he didn't lay a single finger on me.

At first, I felt like I had dodged a bullet. But soon, a different kind of terror crept in. Did I disgust him? Did he think marrying me was a bad deal? Was he going to throw me out on the street? After all, he only took me because he had no other choice.

After years of surviving in the Woods household as a punching bag, fawning and people-pleasing were my only survival tactics. I locked myself in my room, blushing fiercely as I spent a whole day researching online. Late that night, taking a massive gulp of air, I squeezed my way into his slightly ajar bathroom door.

That night, I passed out three more times. Though, this time, it definitely wasn't from the pain.

The floating chat insisted Nick was a block of ice that could never be melted. I thought the same at first. But as the days bled into months, I realized he was just cold on the outside.

Whenever he traveled for business, he would video call me a dozen times a day. Keeping a straight, serious face, he would report mundane details like how many slices of beef he had for lunch. A few times, I was too slow to answer. He would stubbornly claim it was fine, but through the screen, he was visibly sulking, fully convinced he was hiding it perfectly.

Every evening when he walked through the front door, he always had something in his hands. A slice of cake from a bakery, or a neatly wrapped bouquet of flowers. Rain or shine, he never missed a day, always tossing them on the counter with a feigned nonchalance. "Just picked it up by the road."

I never had a good sense of style. Even if I spent hours staring at the mirror, my outfits always looked like a messy disaster.

Nick would sit on the velvet sofa behind me, pretending to read his financial reports, acting like he didn't notice my struggle.

But the next morning, I would wake up to a perfectly folded outfit sitting on my nightstand. From the base layers to the coat, right down to the matching necklace and handbag. It was immaculately styled.

From that day on, it was like a switch flipped inside him. He tirelessly prepared my outfits every single morning, mixing up the styles day after day, acting like a stressed-out father dressing his toddler.

5

The sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway snapped me back to reality.

I shook my head, clearing the memories. After chewing on my lip for a moment, I slid my feet into my slippers and cracked the door open as quietly as possible.

Being gone for four entire years, it would be a lie to say I didn't feel a deep attachment to this house.

The hallway was eerily silent. I looked down the corridor. The decor was exactly the same as it was four years ago. Even the potted monstera plant I used to take care of was still sitting by the bay window. Its leaves were lush and vibrant green, looking even healthier than when I used to water it.

Whoever was taking care of it had put a lot of love into it.

I couldn't control my legs. I drifted closer. But the second my fingertips brushed against a glossy green leaf, a voice like cracked ice struck my back.

"What are you doing out here?"

I turned to stone. Nick was standing in a dimly lit corner of the hall. His eyes were nailed to me. I couldn't read his expression in the shadows, but the suffocating pressure rolling off him made it hard to breathe.

I fought down the primal urge to run away. Forcing a rigid smile, I shook my head. "I... I was just walking around..."

"If you're still sick, don't wander the halls."

He dropped the freezing words, didn't spare me a second glance, and walked right past me.

Desperate to escape the suffocating air, I spun around and practically ran back to my room.

Because I fled so fast, I totally missed what happened next. The man stopped in his tracks, lowered his eyes, and pulled a pack of tissues from his pocket.

He meticulously wiped down the exact leaf I had just touched, cleaning it over and over again. Then, with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust, he tossed the crumpled tissue into the trash bin.

6

Back in the bedroom, I slid down the wooden door until I hit the floor. My hands and feet were freezing, and my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

This room, where I had safely lived for two years, now felt terrifyingly alien.

The space was drowned in an aggressive, blinding Barbie pink. A wildly obnoxious faux-fur rug covered the hardwood floor. The vanity was cluttered with dozens of absurdly expensive perfume bottles, crammed so tight there wasn't even room to set down a hairbrush.

With a shaking hand, I pulled open the walk-in closet. It was stuffed entirely with neon slip dresses, tight leather shorts, and backless club wear. The modest, perfectly tailored clothes Nick used to leave by my bed every morning were completely gone. Not a single thread remained.

As I flipped through the hangers, a bitter, sour ache rose in my chest. For four years, did that woman prance around in these clothes, laughing and flirting with him without a care in the world?

The text in the air was still floating lazily by.

[God, the way this side-character acts like a deer in headlights is hilarious.]

[Our Sunshine Girl turned this depressing haunted house into a cozy home. Now the male lead rushes home from the office every day just to see her.]

[Yep. Give it a few days. Once she gets used to the Sunshine Girl's lifestyle, she'll completely forget who she even is.]

I bit down on my lip and forced myself to look away from the closet.

Bang.

The bedroom door was violently shoved open, shattering my thoughts. I jumped out of my skin, spinning around.

Nick was back. He stood in the doorway, gripping a thin stack of papers in his hand. His eyes were colder than absolute zero. Without looking at my face, he tossed the papers onto the crowded vanity.

The documents slid across the marble, revealing the bold black letters at the top. The words burned my eyes.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

White noise filled my ears.

What was going on? Didn't the chat say the Sunshine Girl had completely melted this iceberg? Didn't they say they were living in a sweet, romantic dream? Why the hell was there a divorce paper?

Before I could process it, the floating text went crazy.

[Oh boy, here we go again. This is like the third time he's brought up divorce this month.]

[The male lead loves playing hard to get. Every time Sunshine acts cute and throws a tantrum, he instantly folds.]

[It's called foreplay, guys! Come on, side-character, don't just stand there! Use the Sunshine Girl's aggressive flirting tactics! Go kiss him!]

So that was it. This was just their little twisted roleplay game?

I swallowed hard, my palms slick with cold sweat. To keep him from realizing the host was gone, I had to play along. I squeezed my throat, forcing my voice to pitch an octave higher, mimicking the female lead's whiny tone.

"Hubby... stop trying to scare me with this stuff."

As I spoke, I walked over, picked up the papers, and ripped them in half right in front of him. The sound of tearing paper was deafening in the dead silent room.

Feeling dangerously bold, I reached out, aiming to gently tug at the hem of his suit jacket.

But the millisecond before my fingers grazed the dark wool fabric, Nick violently jerked backward. He moved so fast he nearly slammed his shoulder into the doorframe.

He stared down at the shredded paper on the floor. A flash of profound, visceral repulsion crossed his eyes, dropping the temperature of the room below freezing.

"Don't you ever use that tone with me again."

His voice was dangerously low, grinding through clenched teeth.

"Get out."

My hand froze in the empty air. Nick didn't look at me again. He turned on his heel, stormed out, and slammed the door so hard the walls rattled.