Chapter 1

I hurled a pillow at him. "James, we're done. I've had it with you. I hate you."

James Sterling, my boyfriend, stood there, watching me quietly, his eyes bottomless.

When I thought he was finally about to explode with rage, he stepped forward, pulled me tightly into his arms, and spoke in a voice gentler than I'd ever heard, yet laced with a suffocating obsession. "I know.

"Don't be afraid. I will never leave you."

Oh my god. Why wouldn't he break up with me? Was he insane?

*****

I, Olivia Summers, had transmigrated into a novel. And it was a yandere story, where I was the woman doomed to die early.

At that moment, I was the male lead James's current girlfriend.

I was a stepping stone, someone James would personally get rid of for standing in the way of his romance with the heroine.

A cold, mechanical voice finished reciting the final story summary in my head, then faded away for good.

I stared at my drop-dead gorgeous face in the mirror, on the verge of tears.

Were you kidding me? I didn't want to die.

There was only one way to stay alive.

I had to break up with James, that crazy bastard, before the real heroine made her entrance. And it had to be him who broke up with me.

I took a deep breath and dialed James's number.

His cold, deep voice came through the line. "Speak."

I put on my most obnoxious gold-digger voice. "James, I've got my eye on this bag. It's a global limited edition, and it's two million dollars."

Inside, I hoped James would insult me, call me vain, call me a gold-digger, and dump me like garbage.

However, there was total silence on his end. My heart was in my throat.

Was he thinking about how to kill me? In the novel, James absolutely hated it when women asked him for cash.

"Address." James's voice came through again, flat and emotionless.

My heart skipped a beat, but I still texted him the address of the luxury store.

Half an hour later, a black Rolls-Royce pulled up outside the store.

James stepped out, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. He was tall and imposing, his good looks cold and unreadable, radiating an aura that practically screamed: "Stay away."

The staff was frozen in place, barely daring to breathe.

He walked right up to me, not hesitating.

I was sweating bullets but forced a money-hungry smile and pointed to the pink crocodile-skin bag in the window display. "That's the one. Isn't it gorgeous?"

Looked at me. I was acting like some clueless gold-digger. Wasn't it gross? Broke up with me.

But James didn't look at the bag. His eyes were locked onto my face.

His gaze was cold, like a freezing lake, ready to pull me under.

I felt my scalp tingle under his stare.

A sly smile played at his lips. His smile was gentle, like the first thaw of winter, but it made my skin crawl.

He lifted a hand, and his bodyguards moved in instantly.

James turned to the manager. "I'll take the entire collection, every color except the one she picked."

The manager and the staff were all left speechless.

I was as dumbfounded.

What the heck? This wasn't how the script went at all. Wasn't he supposed to shove a check in my face, look totally disgusted, and tell me to get out of his sight?'

James closed in step by step, caging me between his body and the wall.

He leaned down, his warm breath ghosting over my ear, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that all you're after?

"Olivia, you can be more greedy than that."

Greedy? I was only desperate to survive, seriously.

*****

James shoved me into his car.

The back seat and trunk were piled high with dozens of beautifully wrapped boxes.

I hugged the pink bag, the culprit behind all this, on the verge of tears.

Step one was an epic fail.

It seemed that my gold-digger act wasn't gross enough. It was time to be more shameless.

Back at his mansion, which was so huge it felt like a labyrinth, I launched round two of my desperate attempt to get dumped.

James's office was pure minimalism: black, white, gray, and absolutely zero other colors.

I spent the whole afternoon squeezing out every bit of my questionable artistic talent to make a painting so bright it was basically eye pollution.

On it was a sun with a creepy, toothy grin and a rainbow so crooked it looked like a toddler had gone wild with crayons.

It was so hideous that hanging it up would probably traumatize anyone who saw it.

I marched right into his study, holding my masterpiece with all the confidence in the world.

"James," I called out.

He was kicked back in his chair with his eyes closed, but as soon as he heard me, he opened them and gave me that intense, unreadable stare.

I smacked my masterpiece down on his desk. "If you really love me, you'll hang this painting front and center in your office."

He must be horrified by my taste. And he would call me tacky and kick me out.

James's eyes locked onto the painting, and he stared at it for what felt like forever.

The air in the study was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

I caught his fingers curling ever so slightly.

He was mad. He was definitely mad. That was what I wanted.

Although I was happy inside, on the outside, I wore my most bossy "if you don't hang it, you don't love me" expression.

After a moment, he suddenly let out a quiet laugh.

His laugh was low and deep, with a strange, unexplainable pleasure in it.

He picked up the painting, and his fingertips gently brushed over the exaggerated sun.

"Okay," James said, only one word.

My smile froze on my face.

Okay? Why? Did he realize that if he actually hung this eyesore up, his whole reputation for his taste was going to go up in flames?

He picked up his phone and called his assistant. "Take down the painting from my office."

The assistant on the other end sounded totally stunned, stammering, "M-Mr. Sterling, what should we put up instead?"

James's eyes glinted with amusement, his smile deepening as he looked at me. "Replace it with the one Mrs. Sterling painted for me."

He paused, his voice suddenly turning cold. "Get the best framer. I want it hanging front and center by tomorrow.

"And spread the word that if anyone dares say a bad word about this painting, they're out."

With that, James hung up, not giving his assistant a chance to say another word.