Part 3His Guilt Made Me A Billionaire

Three points left. It was time to finalize the board.

I had already decided on the United Kingdom. When the final curtain dropped, the system would issue me an immaculate British citizenship, complete with a clean lineage and verifiable background. But the physical footprint—the real estate, the vehicles—was up to me to arrange in advance.

Over the past three years of his calculated cruelty and subsequent remorse, Harrison had transferred an astronomical fortune into my private offshore accounts as "compensation." A quick audit showed over forty million pounds sitting quietly in an overseas trust.

More than enough to buy a historic townhouse in Kensington and a secluded stone cottage in the Cotswolds. Combined with the system’s one billion payout upon completion, my future was paved with ungodly luxury.

Within forty-eight hours, I had remotely completed the discreet acquisition of both properties and arranged for a private vintage Aston Martin to be delivered to a secure garage in London.

Just as I clicked the final confirmation on my laptop, Harrison’s name flashed across my phone screen.

"Come over to Emerald Point," he said without preamble.

"Is something wrong?" I asked softly.

"Sadie has had no appetite lately. She's nauseous, and she’s craving that iced tart plum cordial you used to brew from scratch."

Emerald Point. Our marital home, the estate I had vacated less than seventy-two hours ago.

He was asking the displaced wife to return to her stolen home to brew a stomach-soothing tonic for his pregnant mistress.

It was so brazen, so absurdly insulting, that my heart leaped with genuine excitement.

What a magnificent opportunity for guilt.

"Of course," I said, my voice rich with delicate, submissive melancholy. "I'll be right over."

Harrison paused, clearly taken aback by how easily I surrendered. When he spoke again, the sharpness was gone, replaced by an uneasy softness.

"She’s young, Vivian. She doesn't understand the boundaries yet. Don't take it to heart. I bought a set of vintage Colombian emeralds at Sotheby's yesterday—I know green is your favorite. I’ll have my driver drop them off at Whispering Pines tomorrow."

As the line clicked dead, the blue text flared:

[Harrison Drake's Guilt Index: +1. Current Total: 98.]

Even the cold, mechanical system couldn't resist dropping an encouraging prompt:

[Victory is within reach. Finish strong, Host.]

I dressed in a pale cashmere sweater, left my hair loose, and took the highway back toward Greenwich.

Two hours later, I pushed open the familiar wrought-iron doors of Emerald Point.

In the sunlit living room, Harrison and Sadie were curled up together on the wide linen sofa. Between them lay a glossy, heavy lookbook from Vera Wang, its pages glossy with bespoke bridal gowns.

Seeing me enter, Sadie hurried to shut the book, her cheeks flushing with theatrical innocence.

"Vivian," she murmured softly, her eyes wide. "I’m so sorry to drag you out here so late. I’ve just been feeling so terribly sick, and Harrison told me nobody makes that plum tonic like you do."

Before I could answer, Harrison glanced up from his watch, his brows furrowed. "What took you so long?"

"The traffic out of Whispering Pines was heavy," I replied, keeping my eyes low. "I came as fast as I could."

Harrison gave a brief nod. "Go ahead, then. Everything's in the pantry."

I washed my hands, tied an apron around my waist, and set to work in the expansive chef's kitchen. Through the open glass partition, the low hum of their conversation drifted clearly across the marble island.

"Harrison," Sadie’s voice was a soft, coy purr. "Looking at wedding dresses... won't Vivian be upset?"

Harrison chuckled, running a hand through her glossy hair. "Why do you care what she thinks?"

"Because she’s your wife. I’m nobody."

"Who told you that you're nobody?" Harrison’s voice turned firm, laced with an unsettling finality. "You're my woman. Vivian and I have been married for three years, and she couldn't carry an heir. The one time she conceived, she lost it. Her body has always been fragile, and at her age, another pregnancy is practically out of the question. A family like mine cannot end with me."

Sadie let out a delicate, musical laugh, burying her face into his shoulder. "You're terrible!"

Harrison turned a page of the lookbook. "Look. Pick whichever silhouette you like."

Standing over the simmering copper pot, I stared at the dark, bubbling plum reduction. Carefully, deliberately, I let the heavy silver ladle slip from my fingers.

Clang.

The sound cracked against the marble floor like a gunshot.

Both of them turned. I stood frozen by the island, letting the shadow of an utterly broken, humiliated smile bleed across my face.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling perfectly. "The handle was hot."

Harrison stared at me, his gaze locking onto my bruised, hollow smile. He didn't speak, but his knuckles on the sofa turned white.

A chime echoed in my skull:

[Harrison Drake's Guilt Index: +1. Current Total: 99.]

I picked up the ladle and turned back to the stove, letting a triumphant grin stretch across my lips.

Ninety-nine. Just one more push, and this entire wretched theater would collapse behind me.