Chapter 2: The Dinner That Wasn’t

On the first day my wife’s first love—her old flame—returns to the States, she personally cooks at home to welcome him.

It’s almost surreal, seeing Lillian in yoga pants and an apron, hair up in a messy knot, face fresh and focused on the pasta pot. The granite countertop was cold under my palms, and the oven’s warmth barely reached the spot where I stood—definitely not part of the family circle. Outside, Lake Michigan glimmers under a gray winter sky, and inside, she’s humming to herself, pouring her heart into a homemade meal for someone who’s not me.

I help her wash vegetables at the kitchen island, but she tosses me a surgical mask and orders:

She barely glances my way, shoving a box of blue surgical masks across the counter. “Put it on. He doesn’t know I’m married yet. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

"When we eat later, just stand to the side and pretend to be security, got it?"

She doesn’t even wait for a reply before checking the oven. I catch a glimpse of myself in the stainless steel fridge—black turtleneck, mask, hair slicked back. The world’s least convincing bodyguard.

My stomach drops, but I paste on a smile. What else is new? Being invisible is practically my job description.

A while later, the doorbell rings.

The chime echoes through the open-plan living room. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, nerves tight as guitar strings. Showtime.

I dip into an awkward, over-the-top bow, feeling like a discount mall cop. “Good evening, sir. Welcome.”

Her old flame is about the same height as me, sharp-featured. Seeing me dressed like a bodyguard, he just nods, shrugs off his coat, and tosses it right at me.

The guy doesn’t even break stride—he peels off a Burberry trench and tosses it at my chest like I’m valet parking. "Here, hang this up for me, would you?"

I catch the coat, barely managing not to roll my eyes, and hang it neatly on the antique coat rack by the door. For a second, I imagine accidentally dropping it in the mud room, but nah—not worth the trouble.

My wife comes over at the sound, her cold face suddenly lighting up with happiness. Her hair’s up in a messy knot, but she looks like she just stepped out of a Vogue spread—effortless, untouchable, eyes locked on him like he’s the only person in the room. She runs straight into his arms, and the two of them stare at each other, gazes lingering.

He squeezes her waist, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself after years adrift. I catch the barest whiff of his cologne and Lillian’s perfume mingling—something sharp and sweet that makes my chest ache in a way I can’t admit.

But in the end, there’s an outsider here.

Me…

I stand there holding the guy’s coat like a prop, wishing I could shrink down to the size of a keychain and disappear into the couch cushions.

So he holds back and shoots me a glare.

His jaw tightens, eyes flicking to me, and for a second, I swear he’s about to say something that’ll sting. I brace myself, lips pressed tight.

"Lillian, is this the security guard your dad hired for you? Why’s he so rude?"

He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice. The words hang in the air, icy and dismissive.

Lillian hears this, and a flash of anger passes through her eyes as she looks at me: "Go stand by the door, turn your back, don’t disturb us while we eat."

Her voice is clipped and impatient, like I’ve embarrassed her in front of the prom king. My ears burn with humiliation, but I force myself to nod and shuffle to the door, shoulders hunched.

I say nothing, obediently turning around.

Inside, my heart throbs—every word another kick in the ribs. My hands curl into fists, but I don’t dare let them see.

Suddenly, it’s like grabbing a faulty phone charger—sharp, sudden, impossible to hide, but I grit my teeth and pretend it’s nothing.

It’s the system’s punishment.

A jolt so real it makes my vision blur, but I grit my teeth and ride it out, determined not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

I move slowly, already drenched in sweat.

My palms are clammy, and my shirt clings to my back. I swallow hard, praying they won’t notice.

Behind me, I can faintly hear the guy’s light laughter and their conversation, but it’s all growing distant.

Their voices sound warped, underwater—laughter ringing out, a clink of glasses. I focus on the pattern in the area rug, counting stitches to stay grounded.

Because after transmigrating as the female CEO’s stand-in for her old flame, the system gave me a kiss-up conquest task.

I’d barely landed in this strange world when that annoying system started barking orders, like it thought I was starring in some low-budget sitcom.

It wants me to pursue Lillian…

Like I haven’t tried that already, a dozen different ways—flowers, flattery, home-cooked breakfasts. None of it worked.

Now, the plot has reached the point where her old flame—the male lead—returns to the States, and the system wants me to beg her not to see him.

According to the script, I’m supposed to be desperate and clingy, pleading with her not to let him back into her life. But the more I try, the less she even notices I exist.

I’ve been sucking up to her for two years, day and night, coaxing her like a clown.

Every holiday, every date on the calendar—I tried to make her smile. Bought tickets to musicals she never attended, planned picnics she always skipped. It was like throwing confetti into the wind.

But she’s never given me a kind look.

She looks through me like I’m made of glass, or worse, a stain on her rug she can’t scrub out.

This time, I gave up on the task, so I got today’s electric shock punishment for failing.

Guess that’s my reward for growing a spine. The price of dignity is a shot of pain that leaves me breathless and shaky.

The system sees my pale, nearly collapsing face and sends a question mark.

In my head, it pops up: [?] Like it’s confused I’m not groveling.

[Why didn’t you beg her? If you give up on the conquest, you can’t return to your original world. What, do you really not want to go back?]