My Billionaire Thinks I’m His Cat Not His Fiancée Chapter 02

My Billionaire Thinks I’m His Cat Not His Fiancée Chapter 02

A few months ago, I got laid off from my job.

I was sitting on a foldable stool by the roadside, eating a sandwich, when a System suddenly bound itself to me.

It told me to seduce Ethan Sterling, a billionaire.

I took in my split ends, the pilling on my sweater, and my scuffed white sneakers.

I stared blankly. [Me?]

The System: [Yes. He’s about to pass by right here.]

I thought it was a joke.

But that day, Ethan walked up to me. His usually cold eyes flickered—first with surprise, then with delight.

He grabbed me, put me in his car, and took me home.

A dirty, unemployed nobody? Repulsive. A dirty stray cat? Finders keepers.

At first, I thought I was just naturally gifted at this.

Until the day he called me to the bathroom and started trying to take my clothes off.

I instinctively swung a punch.

He made soft, soothing sounds while picking up the showerhead. “Don’t be scared. Bath time.”

It was horrifying.

I snatched the showerhead and sprayed him right in the face.

He stood there, soaked through. His shirt clung to his chest and abs —an unfairly distracting sight.

Water dripped down his brow and jaw.

Silent, he turned and walked out.

I followed him and found him searching on his phone: [Stray cat won’t bathe—what to do?]

I stared at the screen. Seriously?

After some testing, I confirmed it with the System.

Ethan wasn’t mentally ill. He didn’t have some weird fetish.

He just had a cognitive disorder.

He genuinely believed—with his whole heart—that I was a cat.

Even when I tried to run, he thought I was just stressed out and gently dragged me back.

To correct him, I dragged him to a pet shop.

I picked up a little calico kitten and held it up next to my face.

I said, “Look. Do we look the same?”

Ethan’s face flushed; he waved his hands and backed away, but I pressed forward.

He started breathing heavily, and red welts broke out on his arms.

The clerk panicked, grabbed some antihistamines, and pushed him out the door.

Perfect. Ethan Sterling, the cat lover, was allergic to cats.

So he doubled down on doting on me.

Thanks to him, I stepped into a luxury boutique for the first time.

By then, I’d more or less stopped fighting it.

To be fair, cat delusion aside, Ethan treated me incredibly well.

He gave me his credit card, let me trash the house, and I never had to dress up or put on makeup for the sake of the mission.

I just shuffled around in pajamas, snacking and making a mess, while the progress bar climbed on its own.

Occasionally, when he got too clingy, I’d swat him, and he’d say, “Such a fierce kitty.”

He sat me down at the jewelry counter and had me try on necklace after necklace.

“Wrap them all up,” he told the clerk.

Then he looked at me seriously and said, “My kitten looks beautiful in every single one.”

Under the clerk’s stunned, knowing gaze, I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

I covered his mouth and dragged him out.

Soon enough, word got around: Ethan Sterling had a spoiled little mistress.

Meanwhile, I looked at the progress bar and accepted my fate.

I let him snap endless photos of me, change his wallpaper to a shot of me passed out on the couch, and collect strands of my hair after blow-drying—solemnly declaring I needed better nutrition.

I even got used to him crouching by my bed every morning, watching me wake up, then cupping his face and letting out a soft, reverent sigh.

When he started taking me to the office, I didn’t even resist.

Spoiled cats get spoiled.

So when I ran into my old boss—the one who’d worked me into the ground—at his company?

I just pointed at Ethan.

“Animal abuse. You gonna take care of that?”