Chapter 3: Homesick

I want to go back.

Sometimes, late at night, I dream about home—about the old split-level on Maple Street in Des Moines, my mom calling from the kitchen, dad grilling in the backyard, the TV tuned to football. The smell of dad’s barbecue sauce always hit you before you even opened the front door. All of them waiting for me, hoping I’ll make it for Christmas Eve dinner.

My parents back home even made a table full of food, waiting for me to come home for Christmas Eve dinner.

There’d be glazed ham, mashed potatoes, cornbread stuffing—the works. Every Christmas, my dad gets a little too sentimental after two glasses of wine, and mom always pretends not to notice.

After I boarded the plane, the next time I opened my eyes, I had transmigrated into a book. In this unfamiliar world, I have to watch every step.

One minute I’m stuck in coach, fighting for armrest space. The next, I’m in a luxury penthouse, the windows fogged from the Chicago cold. The sense of displacement never really goes away.

But Lillian doesn’t even look me in the eye.

You’d think that after two years, she’d at least remember the color of my eyes, but I’m just a background character in her story.

I grit my teeth and endure the pain. Behind me, Lillian gives a cold order: "Come over and clean this up."

Her tone is so flat, it could freeze water. I push off the doorframe, muscles still twitching from the system’s shock, and force myself toward the dining room.

I walk over—it turns out the male lead accidentally knocked the plate to the floor.

Porcelain shards scatter across the hardwood, a smear of sauce painting the baseboard. Of course, I’m the one who gets to play janitor.

"I’ll go get a broom."

I keep my voice neutral, not too eager, not too slow. I just want to get this over with.

The male lead says impatiently, "A broom isn’t clean. Kneel down and pick it up with your hands."

His words slap me in the face, full of scorn. He doesn’t even bother looking up from his phone.

At that moment, the system jumps out, excited: [Hurry up and kneel, squeeze out a few tears, look pitifully at the female lead—acting like a kicked puppy is the most effective.]

The system’s advice flashes across my mind like a sleazy life coach. [Channel that sad puppy energy, bro!]

Lillian leans back slightly, looking at me with a complicated expression.

For a split second, her eyes flicker—maybe guilt, maybe annoyance, maybe something softer. Hard to say. She’s always been hard to read.

If it were before, I’d have numbly done as told. Lillian would probably frown and say I was disgusting and fake.

Back then, I’d have dropped to my knees without thinking, chasing whatever scraps of attention she’d throw my way. In return? Nothing but another sharp word.

But this time, I point at the debris on the floor.

I take a slow, steady breath and jab a finger at the mess.

"My hands aren’t clean either. Ms. Carter worked hard to cook for you—don’t waste it. Why don’t you lick it up yourself?"

The words hang in the air, heavy and dangerous. My heart pounds in my chest. For the first time, I let the sarcasm drip.

A trace of astonishment flashes in Lillian’s eyes, and the male lead stands up, barely holding back his anger: "Do you know who I am?"

He pushes back from the table, nostrils flaring, his voice an octave lower. The air in the room turns electric, like a summer thunderstorm about to break.

"Shane, apologize," Lillian orders coldly.

Her words cut through the tension, sharp as a cleaver. For a moment, all three of us freeze.

"Why should I?"

My voice comes out rougher than I expect. There’s a tremor there—fear, defiance, maybe both.

Facing my question, Lillian’s brow twitches with annoyance: "Since you took the Carter family’s money, you should know your place as a good dog, shouldn’t you?"

She spits it out, eyes flat and cold—like she’s talking to a dog that peed on her rug.

The male lead takes a sip of wine and agrees: "Lillian, let my people handle this. I really can’t stand the way he looks at you."

He swirls his glass, smirking like he’s above it all, already planning his next move.

My blood boils: "Lillian is my legal—"

For a split second, I almost blurt out the truth, but then—