Chapter 3: The Cost of Love (and Money)

A year ago, Caleb Foster nearly died. I chartered a private jet to fly him to Boston for treatment.

That night replayed in my mind: Natalie sobbing in the ER waiting room, her hands trembling as she clung to Caleb’s hoodie. My dad called in every favor, and I didn’t sleep for days, watching updates from Boston.

He was supposed to die, and honestly, I should’ve been quietly pleased.

I hate that part of me—the voice that wanted my rival gone. Still, the thought lingered, cold and ugly.

But Natalie cried her eyes out, her face streaked with tears, her gaze empty:

“Caleb, you pulled me out of the river. You said I had to live well to repay you. You can’t leave me alone.”

Her words haunted me. I heard them every time Natalie looked right through me, as if I’d never matter the way Caleb did.

From the moment he was taken into the ICU, Natalie waited outside for three days and nights, barely sleeping.

I’d brought her food, tried to coax her to take a nap. She refused everything but black coffee and worry.

I was genuinely worried she’d follow him. After all, if she died, I’d lose my target, and the system would erase me.

My hands shook as I scrolled through my system logs. My fate was tangled with hers, whether I liked it or not.

And even if she managed to hold on, with Caleb as her unattainable white knight, his influence would skyrocket. That would make my mission nearly impossible.

In the eyes of everyone at college, Caleb was the hero; I was the bank. I hated how true it felt.

So I just waved my hand: “Take care of it.”

I made a few phone calls, signed the checks. My name wasn’t on the paperwork, but the hospital staff knew. I hoped it’d tip the scales.

Unfortunately, not only did she not thank me, she became even colder:

“Saving him was your own choice. If you want to use this to threaten me, you can forget it.”

Her voice, always so calm, cut deeper than any insult. I realized there was no currency that could buy her affection.

I never had that kind of intention—after all, the system only counts sincerity.

I replayed our conversations in my mind, searching for the misstep, the moment things soured. But the system’s rules were ironclad: no shortcuts, only genuine effort.

So I competed with Caleb fair and square.

We both showed up at the same events, joined the same volunteer projects. I learned to fake interest in things she liked, hoping to outshine Caleb’s quiet charm.

Why can’t I, a rich young guy, beat a childhood friend?

All my resources, all my effort, and still—I was the runner-up in my own story.

Until I saw that photo of them holding hands, smiling so brightly.

It was the smile that stung—one I’d never seen directed at me.