Chapter 4: Broken Glass

Lillian smashes her wine glass to the ground with a crisp shatter.

The sound ricochets around the room, startling even the old golden retriever dozing by the fireplace. Everyone goes still.

"Get out, you get out!"

She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t look at anyone—just stares out the window, face tight with rage. The air feels colder now, the party over before it began.

Without looking back, I leave the house. Lillian is really angry this time.

I step into the night, the December chill cutting through my coat. I drop the surgical mask in the trash can on the porch and stuff my hands deep in my pockets, walking fast just to stay warm.

After all, what she cares about most is the male lead’s mood.

It’s always been that way. No matter what I do, I’m never her first choice—not even a backup.

I throw away the mask and wander aimlessly down the street, the system constantly berating me.

The neighborhood’s quiet except for the buzz of the streetlights. My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket, the system lighting up my brain like a broken GPS.

[Are you crazy! Do you know what you’re doing?]

[If you can’t win over the female lead, according to the plot, once the male lead finds out you’re her ex-husband, he’ll kill you.]

[Bro, hurry back and apologize, sweet-talk her!]

The system’s messages flash faster than texts from a desperate ex. I ignore them, letting the cold air numb my face.

……

Flashing neon, hazy noise—I head straight into a bar.

There’s a dive bar on the corner, neon sign buzzing, the kind of place with sticky floors and the faint smell of stale fries. The Bears game blared from a TV above the bar, and the bartender slid me another shot without a word.

After three B52 Bombers, feeling the icy fire in my veins, I’m on top of the world.

I knock back the shots, one after another, the burn chasing away the pain until everything’s loose and floaty. The music is loud, the crowd rowdy, and for a few minutes, I almost feel free.

I summon the system: "I’m not sweet-talking, not groveling, I’m not going back."

I say it out loud, ignoring the odd glance from a couple in the next booth. For once, I mean every word.

The system crashes for half a day, then sends a question mark.

Total silence. Then: [?] Like it can’t believe what I’ve just said.

I open my banking app—so many zeros in my balance, the alcohol makes me even more excited.

That’s more zeroes than I’ve ever seen outside a Powerball drawing.

"I’ve never seen so much money in my life. Go back? Who the hell wants to go back?"

A few people at the bar look over, but I don’t care. For the first time in ages, I feel like I have options.

"I’m young and capable, fit and healthy, single and rich, with everything I want—why would I leave?"

I could book a flight to Miami in the morning, or buy a new wardrobe, or just sleep in for a week. For once, the future doesn’t scare me.

The system is silent: [Wait, why did you suddenly change your mind? What about the male lead coming after you with a knife?]

There’s a beat of static, then: [Aren’t you afraid of him?]

Doesn’t matter.

I’ll save myself.

I order another strong drink and laugh openly: "Cut the crap. Aren’t you going to shock me? Go on, do it!"

I half-expect to get zapped right then and there, but all I feel is a pleasant, tipsy warmth.

System: [……]

The bouncer shoots me a look. I wave, down my drink, and slide out before anyone can change my mind.