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My roommate's simp was back again. She'd been standing downstairs for two hours already, drenched in the pouring rain. Henry Wilson, my roommate, glanced down from the balcony and slammed the window shut with a look of utter annoyance. "That pauper's here again. She is clinging like a fucking ghost. Annoying as hell." He tossed his wet towel onto my desk, bossing me around. "Yannis, go down and get rid of her for me." I wore headphones, listening to my loyal subordinate report the quarterly revenue for a ten-billion-dollar project. I looked up at Henry's face, one that thought itself devastatingly handsome, and felt absolutely nothing. Because I knew that the pauper he mocked was actually Olivia Warren, the only daughter of the city's wealthiest tycoon, cherished like a princess in the palm of his hand. And Henry? He was only cannon fodder in this power-fantasy novel I'd transmigrated into, destined to be crushed into dust.