Chapter 2
Thankfully, even though he was utterly repulsed, Wayne managed to suppress his murderous intent for the moment.
Finally, as if resigning himself to his fate, he squeezed out a few words.
"Get up," he said. "Put the ring on."
I felt like I'd just been pardoned, so I got up obediently and held out my trembling hand.
The massive diamond ring was slipped onto my ring finger, its icy touch making me shiver.
But I couldn't feel even a hint of happiness.
This wasn't an engagement ring.
This was a goddamn remote control for a ticking time bomb.
And the remote was in the hands of Wayne, that psycho.
To stay alive, I kicked off my 24/7 survival mode, sticking close to him at all times.
Every day, I was either busy charming Wayne or on my way to do just that.
But things turned out to be way harder than I'd ever imagined.
Early in the morning, Wayne sat at the head of the long dining table, elegantly flipping through the financial newspaper.
I walked over with a glass of milk, swaying my hips and using my most flirtatious tone.
"Good morning, honey," I purred.
I tiptoed and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
The number above his head jumped from five seconds to eight seconds.
I couldn't believe it was only three seconds.
My smile froze.
Wayne looked up from behind his newspaper, his eyes calm and indifferent, like he was watching a clown make a fool of herself.
"My name is Wayne," he said flatly. "And for the record, I don't like things that are too sweet."
The moment he finished speaking, the time dropped from seven seconds to five seconds.
Holy shit! He got annoyed, and boom, three seconds were gone.
I instantly put on a respectful face and set the milk down next to him.
"Mr. Todd, your milk. I've warmed it up, perfect for your stomach," I said.
I blinked my big, puppy-dog eyes and forced out the most sincere smile I could manage.
"I even added a spoonful of premium Manuka honey for you, so your day stays sweet," I said.
The number went up to six seconds.
It worked.
It was only one extra second, but that was a huge improvement.
I think I was finally figuring out how this worked.
Cheesy pick-up lines and shameless flirting only got me so far.
What really got to him was that sense of being treated like the emperor, making him feel like he was the only one that mattered.
So, I went full-on domestic goddess mode and became his top-tier housemaid.
When he was heading to work, I'd kneel to slip his shoes on for him, meticulously matching his tie and cufflinks, and smoothing out invisible creases on his suit.
When he had meetings, I'd time it perfectly, ignoring the secretary's protests, and personally bring him a health soup I'd cooked for him.
Then, right in front of all the executives, I'd feed him spoonful by spoonful.
When he got home, I'd present his slippers to him, help him out of his coat, and have him lie down on the couch.
Kneeling beside him, I'd give him a top-notch shoulder and leg massage.
My service was so over-the-top that even the butler, who made 20 thousand a month, was having a full-blown job crisis.
He kept shooting me looks, clearly wanting to say something but holding back every time.
And with all my over-the-top, borderline sacrificial efforts, the countdown above Wayne's head kept rising steadily.
It went from five seconds to 90 seconds, then to fifteen minutes.
Half a month later, that number finally hit the three-hour milestone.
Staring at that number, my eyes got all misty with emotion. I was seriously about to cry.
That meant even if I nodded off for a bit, he'd survive just fine for three whole hours.
I finally didn't have to leave the bathroom door open and keep an eye on him every time I needed to pee.
These precious hours were bought with every shred of dignity and pride I had left, each second paid for with my blood, sweat, and tears.
But my over-the-top antics caught the attention of someone else.
It was Sierra Tucker, Wayne's childhood sweetheart and the vice president of the Todd Group.
She was the definition of a power woman, always strutting around in four-inch heels, chin held so high that it could cut glass.
One day, she came over to discuss business with Wayne and happened to see me humming a tune, kneeling on the carpet in the walk-in closet, ironing the cuffs of his shirts one by one.
Every single one had to be done with absolute precision, not a single mistake allowed.
Sierra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and poisonous, like ice-tipped daggers.
She scoffed, "Natasha, are you really groveling like a dog now?
"What happened to the Ms. Scott who used to be all thorns, the one who wasn't afraid to put Wayne on the spot in front of everyone?
"So, the Scott family went bankrupt, and suddenly you got no spine? You're really willing to throw away your pride just for some cash?"
I didn't even bother to look up. It wasn't worth wasting my breath on her.
She didn't know a damn thing.
This wasn't about money. This was about survival, mine and Wayne's.
Seeing I kept quiet, Sierra marched over in her stiletto heels, the piercing click-clack stabbing through the silence.
She snatched the iron from my hand, the hot steam almost burning my face.
She sneered, "The Scott family goes under, and now you're latching onto Wayne like a parasite. You think I can't see right through you.
"Girls like you, using your body and sleazy moves to get ahead? Trust me, I've seen it all."
She bent down, her voice a poisonous hiss right in my ear, gleeful as she spat out her words.