Part 1His Guilt Made Me A Billionaire

Whenever Harrison Drake brought home a new Instagram starlet, I was the one who quietly leased them luxury penthouses across town.

When his side pieces clawed at each other’s throats in a VIP lounge over who held more sway in his bed, I stepped in with NDAs and checkbooks to smooth it over. Even two months ago, when their little catfight escalated and I was shoved down a flight of marble stairs—a fall that cost me our unborn child—the very first thing I whispered to Harrison upon waking wasn't an accusation.

I looked up into his pale, stricken face and said, "Don't worry, Harrison. I’ve already settled with them. No press. No police. Nothing that will touch your reputation."

Around the country clubs of Greenwich and the charity galas in Manhattan, people whispered that Vivian Drake was pathetic. They said a stray dog possessed more self-respect than I did. Once, a billionaire's wife cornered me in the powder room of the Met and hissed that I had single-handedly ruined the standard for society wives. Because of my endless, saintly deference, their husbands were looking at them and wondering why they couldn't be just as quiet, just as accommodating, just as completely broken.

None of them knew about the Interface.

Floating in my peripheral vision was an ethereal, translucent blue screen that only my eyes could perceive. It was simple arithmetic: drive Harrison’s Guilt Index to a perfect 100, and I would be awarded one billion dollars in cold, untraceable liquidity, accompanied by a clean, system-orchestrated exit. Better yet, the system gave me absolute analgesia. When I fell down those stairs and lost the baby, I hadn't felt a single twinge of physical agony.

Once the meter hit 100, the system would also initiate a total biological restoration. It wouldn't just erase the internal trauma Harrison had inflicted on my body; it would buff away every earthly flaw, right down to the faint silver scar on my knee from tumbling off a bicycle at age seven.

Thanks to my endless, saintly deference, Harrison’s Guilt Index had already climbed to 95.

In less than two weeks, I would be halfway across the world with ten figures in my pocket.

My phone chimed against the silk cushions. I was curled up on the sectional in our Greenwich estate, eating takeout in an oversized college hoodie and yesterday’s sweatpants, browsing through private social feeds.

Harrison had just posted an update to his exclusive circle.

The photograph showed him standing on the teak deck of his yacht off the coast of Rhode Island, the setting sun painting the Atlantic gold. His arm was wrapped possessively around a young woman. She was petite, wearing a simple white linen dress, her face devoid of heavy makeup, her eyes wide with a fragile, dewy innocence.

I zoomed in. She wasn't one of the polished socialites who had fought over him. She was someone new.

Memory tugged at the corners of my mind. A scholarship girl. Sadie Miller. Harrison’s family foundation had funded her ivy-league tuition two years ago.

Below the post, the comments from his elite circle rolled in like clockwork:

‘Looks like a downgrade from the runway models, Drake.’

‘A palate cleanser. Sometimes you get tired of wagyu and just want a simple bowl of broth.’

‘I don't know, there’s something pure about her. Lucky bastard.’

‘The only real luck Harrison has is Vivian. Name one other woman in our tax bracket who’d let him parade this without filing for half his empire.’

‘God, I wish my wife was half as docile.’

The banter went on until Harrison himself typed a reply—something he almost never did:

‘Watch your mouths. Sadie isn't like the others.’

Within sixty seconds, every single comment vanished. His circle knew the boundary had been drawn.

I studied the photo. Sadie lacked the sharp, striking elegance of Harrison's usual conquests, but the fact that he went out of his way to shield her publicly told me everything. He was infatuated. He felt protective.

The heavy double doors of the foyer clicked open.

Harrison strode into the living room, shedding his cashmere overcoat. The moment his gaze landed on my unwashed hair and baggy gray fleece, his dark eyebrows drew together in immediate distaste.

"You're still my wife, Vivian," he said, his tone dry and clipped. "Could you muster the decency to look like it? Anyone walking in here would assume Drake Enterprises went under."

I didn't argue. Instead, I carefully tucked my loose strands behind my ears, sitting up straight with a practiced, timid warmth.

"I’m sorry, Harrison," I said softly, keeping my voice small, slightly wounded. "You haven’t been home in a week. I just thought... there wasn't really anyone left to dress up for. But you're right. I'll make sure I look presentable from now on. I won't embarrass you."

His sharp jaw softened instantly. The edge of impatience bled out of his posture, replaced by that familiar, heavy prick of shame.

He crossed the room, sinking into the sofa beside me. Slowly, deliberately, his large hand reached out and rested against my lower abdomen. His thumb traced a gentle circle over the fabric, his eyes darkening with an instinctive flicker of remorse.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly. "Does it still hurt?"

He was talking about the miscarriage.

I shook my head, offering him a brave, hollow little smile. "I'm fine. Truly. The doctors said I've healed well."

Harrison exhaled, his hand traveling up to cup my cheek, his fingers stroking my skin with a tender, patronizing affection. "Good girl."

He reached inside his tailored jacket, pulling out a thick leather folio and a set of keys, setting them on the coffee table.

"I bought you a new property out in Whispering Pines," he said casually. "Ten wooded acres, completely private, fresh air. It’ll be much better for your recovery. Pack your things today. The movers will take care of the rest."

I blinked, letting a flicker of shock cross my face. "Today?"

Harrison nodded. "Sadie visited Emerald Point once. She fell in love with the gardens and the light in the master suite. It doesn't matter where you live, Vivian, but it matters to her. Let her have this place."

I looked down, pressing my lips together until they turned white. "Harrison... Emerald Point was our marital home. We picked the blueprints together."

"I know," he murmured, his thumb catching the edge of my jaw, tilting my face back up. "That’s why the estate in Whispering Pines is twice the size. Be reasonable. You're past the age of throwing tantrums over sentimental nonsense. Don't fight with a young girl over a house."

I kept my head bowed. I let the silence stretch for precisely two minutes, measuring the exact threshold where his patience would turn into irritation.

Then, I looked up and gave him an obedient nod. "Whatever you think is best."

A chime rang softly in my ear, and the luminous blue prompt flickered before my eyes:

[Harrison Drake's Guilt Index: +2. Current Total: 97.]