System Error: The Hero is a Villain? Chapter 05

System Error: The Hero is a Villain? Chapter 05

He caught my flailing easily. Wrapped a warm coat around me, shielding me from the chill.

The familiar scent of snow-pine cologne hit me.

I froze.

I looked up into Lucian’s smiling eyes.

“You lost.”

Weirdly, the moment I saw him, my terror drained away.

Even in failure, I felt safe.

I pouted. “Rematch? I didn’t know your place was this huge. Not fair.”

Lucian chuckled. “No rematches. You pinky swore.”

Moonlight gilded his devastating face, making him look unreal. More alluring than the moon itself.

My brain short-circuited.

It took me several seconds to look away, ears burning.

“Yeah. I forgot.”

Lucian studied me, then laughed softly.

“Then your memory needs work. Let me fix it.”

“The penalty for losing is…” He took my hand, laced our fingers, and pressed a solemn kiss to my knuckles. “Staying by my side.”

A gorgeous man whispering promises like that? Devastating.

It took three splashes of ice-cold water on my face to cool down.

Clarity returned. Panic followed.

“Oh no, system! I missed my only chance to escape! Now what?”

The system pondered. “New strategy.”

“Stop trying to run. Make Lucian so sick of you he throws you out himself.”

I blinked. “Possible?”

The system puffed up. “Trust me. I’ve studied men. I know them better than you.”

“Men hate clingy, irrational, controlling women.”

“Turn the annoying girlfriend act up to eleven. Be unreasonable 24/7. Get under his skin. I guarantee he’ll toss you out in days.”

Logical.

I nodded firmly. “Brilliant.”

The next evening, Lucian came home five minutes late.

He loosened his tie, radiating bone-deep exhaustion.

Perfect.

The system said targeting a man when he was tired doubled the effect.

I dashed over, threw myself into his arms, and unleashed loud, theatrical sobs.

Lucian stiffened. Then gently wiped my tears. “What’s wrong?”

I sniffled and grabbed his collar.

“Honey, are you cheating on me?”

Through blurry eyes, I saw his brow arch. “Oh?”

“I don’t care! I don’t care!”

“You’re late! You were with someone! You don’t want me anymore!”

I forced out every tear I had, dredging up my saddest memories.

I aimed for heartbroken. Desperate.

Then something warm brushed my cheek.

I turned, confused.

And stopped crying.

Lucian held a beautifully wrapped box of pastries. His tone was exasperatedly fond.

“See? I told you your memory was shot.”

“A few days ago, you mentioned Ferrara’s cannoli. Their handmade batch only drops three times a week. I detoured to grab some. That’s why I’m late.”

I froze. Memory returned. Days ago, I’d idly watched a food blog about an eighty-year-old bakery in Brooklyn’s Little Italy. Three generations.

Crispy shells. Creamy filling. Even mob bosses pre-ordered days in advance. I’d never expected to taste it.

Yet Lucian had bought it for me.

I clutched my chest, fighting a traitorous flutter.

Not falling for a handsome face!

My gaze darted. Landed on a smudge of red on his collar. Aha. New angle.

“Wait. What’s that on your shirt?”

Renewed vigor.

I rose on tiptoe and yanked his collar open.

“Lipstick stain!”