By the time I slammed the door behind me, I was half-starved, a little drunk, and about three bad decisions away from brawling in the street with my own "friends." If I ever saw those parasites again, I'd throttle them with a limited-edition designer scarf and send them the dry-cleaning bill.
My stomach grumbled a bitter, hollow sound. I'd barely touched my food at the restaurant, thanks to their spectacular ambush. Maybe I should have just thrown a chair through the window for emphasis. At least then Sera would have had an actual reason to hate me, instead of the usual "playboy alpha" routine I seemed doomed to perform on autopilot.
I kicked off my shoes, glared at the marble floor, and let my head thud against the wall with a melodramatic groan. The system, ever helpful, was already waiting with its signature brand of unsolicited commentary.
[New achievement unlocked: "Survived the Vultures Barely." Would you like a trophy or a refund for your pride?]
"If I wanted a refund, I'd need a time machine," I muttered. "And a bat."
[Suggestion: A bat with nails in it. Or perhaps a flaming pitchfork for dramatic effect.]
"I should've let the chef's knife do the talking at dinner," I grumbled. "Or maybe just weaponized a baguette. No one would expect it."
[Not unless they've met your so-called friends. Frankly, Host, I'd rather nap in a landfill than spend five minutes with them. The one with the sunglasses indoors? His brain is 90% tanning lotion.]
I snorted. "That's generous. I'd say sixty percent at best."
The conversation if you could call it that was enough to dull the ache in my chest, at least a little. I wandered into the kitchen and found the chef, a nervous-looking beta who managed to look both busy and apologetic at once.
"Hungry," I announced, leaning against the counter like a villain in a soap opera. "Something hot. Comfort food. And don't hold back on the carbs."
He blinked. "Any… dietary restrictions?"
"Yes. No bullshit."
He bowed and scurried off with the air of someone who had survived several wars, all of them in haute cuisine. I left him to it, retreating to my bedroom a cavernous, sterile place that would have made Dracula homesick.
I stripped out of my CEO armor, tossing the jacket and shirt onto a velvet chaise I'd never use. The shower was as absurd as everything else here: rain head, massage jets, enough steam to cleanse my soul if I had one left.
I let the water scald away the humiliation of the night.I thought about Sera.And her friend.And their matching, synchronized glares.I could still see the way Sera's friend had flipped me off, as if she was flicking a crumb from her table, and not single-handedly summing up my entire legacy.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. My life had changed so violently, so comically, since transmigrating into this hell-novel that it barely felt real. Once, I would have killed for the chance to run an empire, to look this good, to have money and power and options. Now I'd trade it all for an evening with a mediocre sandwich and a friend who didn't want my bank details.
I found sweatpants real, actual sweatpants in the closet, paired them with a threadbare tee, and collapsed onto my bed, hair still wet and mind racing.
Sera must think I'm the city's worst playboy. And maybe she's right. But at least the old me deserved it. This new version was just trying to survive dinner without ending up on a viral video montage of "Alpha Fails at Life."
[If it's any consolation, Host, the last time she saw you in public you rejected several omegas, refused to buy bottle service, and left your friends standing in the cold. That's a redemption arc compared to last week.]
"I'll add it to my resume," I sighed, staring at the ornate ceiling. "Special skills: Not a complete monster."
[You're also wearing sweatpants. Statistically, your villain rating just dropped 20%.]
"I'll try harder tomorrow. Maybe a unicorn onesie."
[Baby steps.]
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, there was a knock at the door a soft, uncertain one, as if the person behind it expected to be shot for treason. A servant, probably. I considered pretending to be dead, but my stomach vetoed the idea.
"Come in," I called, trying for "disinterested CEO" but probably landing closer to "retired warlord with low blood sugar."
The door creaked open, and a young beta woman peeked inside, eyes wide and hands twisting in her apron. "D-dinner is ready, Miss Ryvenhart."
"Thanks," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "I'll be there in a minute."
She bowed so fast I thought she might snap in half, then scampered away, her footsteps echoing down the hallway like a mouse in a horror movie.
I rolled my eyes. Maybe next time I'd try smiling, see if she fainted on the spot.
The dining room was empty except for me, the lights dimmed to something halfway between "cozy" and "crypt." My meal was waiting: a massive bowl of congee, roast chicken, pickled vegetables, and a plate of steamed buns that looked like small, edible clouds. I sat, ate, and felt my pulse slow for the first time all evening.
About halfway through, the chef himself popped his head in, hands clasped like a priest awaiting confession. "Miss Ryvenhart, is it ?"
"It's perfect," I interrupted. "If I could hug you without triggering an HR complaint, I would."
He blinked, then very cautiously smiled.
[Progress: Employee relations +1.]
I almost laughed aloud.The system was right: baby steps.
I finished dinner, feeling not quite content but at least fortified. My phone was blessedly silent. No more party invites, no scumbag "friends." Just me, some carbs, and a faint suspicion that tomorrow would probably suck in a brand new way.