Grant’s Fortress, My Prison

"Help me?" Grant narrowed his eyes. "What do I need your help for?" He leaned back, sizing up the air like he could see right through me.

Of course, it’s to fall in love, you big idiot. But I couldn’t say that out loud. So I went for the mysterious route: "To help you fulfill your destiny."

That’s right. His destiny is to learn to truly love someone. The day he marries for love is the day I retire with my bonus. I could practically see the finish line—if only he’d cooperate for once.

"Destiny?" Grant’s voice was noncommittal. "What does destiny want from me?" He sounded skeptical, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

The trick to sounding mysterious is to say just enough, keep things vague, and let the imagination do the rest. Oldest trick in the book.

"Can’t say too much. All I can tell you is it concerns the family. If you succeed, things will be stable. If you fail, there’ll be disaster." I let the words hang in the air, dramatic as possible.

A leader’s marriage affects the whole family. If it’s unhappy, everything falls apart. And in this family, disaster is always one bad decision away. Trust me, I’ve seen it.

Grant went silent. For a long, heavy moment, he just stared at the desk.

"Our family’s already been through enough. How could we survive more trouble?" Grant frowned, clearly troubled by my words. He stared at the papers, lost in thought, the weight of it all visible in his eyes.

I nodded, feeling oddly satisfied. "If you fulfill your destiny, none of that will happen." No pressure, right?

Grant didn’t even hesitate. "Please, tell me what to do!" His tone was urgent, almost desperate, like he was grabbing for a lifeline.

I moved to help him up, but before I knew it, Grant lunged—blade flashing, stabbing straight through where I stood!

"Did I miss this time?" Grant’s smile was sly, eyes sharp and calculating as he waited for a reaction.

I stared at the blade sticking out of me, then stepped back. The resistance at the tip vanished, and Grant’s face twisted in confusion. "Gone?" he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I’d totally underestimated this guy. I thought he could only hear me—not actually try to shish-kebab me! Lucky for me, I’m not corporeal, or I’d be toast. Mental note: never stand too close to Grant when he’s holding anything sharp. Ever.

I should’ve known. Grant isn’t the type to listen to anyone, ever. If he were, there wouldn’t be so many failed hosts in that mass grave. The fact that he can sense me at all is wild. That off-target attack? Probably just a ploy to make me drop my guard. From the start, he didn’t buy a word I said. To him, I’m probably not a ghost, god, demon, or human—just some trick cooked up by Mrs. Whitmore’s faction.

How does someone this skeptical end up head of the family? Then again, maybe that’s exactly why he’s still breathing.

I went quiet, watching and waiting for his next move. Grant calmly put away his blade, not even trying to hide the calculation in his eyes. He was sizing me up, just like everyone else in his life.

"You’re with Mrs. Whitmore, aren’t you?" His tone was sharp, suspicion clear.

"I know I stabbed you just now, but I don’t know what trick you used—there’s not a drop of blood on my blade." He sounded almost impressed, but not enough to let down his guard.

"You do have some skills," he admitted, grudgingly.

"Join me. Whatever Mrs. Whitmore offers, I’ll double it." He sounded like he was hiring a new accountant, not negotiating with a supernatural entity. Business as usual for Grant.

I rubbed my aching temples. What do you do when the male lead only cares about work? I pressed my hands together and silently vowed: never again will I pick a workaholic as a male lead! If only there was a system for picking better systems. Now that would be a real innovation.

The air hung silent for a while, the tension thick as molasses.

Grant wondered aloud, "Could I really have stabbed her to death?" He sounded almost curious, like he was running the numbers in his head.

I just stared at him, speechless. "Yeah, right," I muttered, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

"Not dead? Why aren’t you talking?" Grant pressed, peering at the spot where my voice had come from.

"I can’t communicate with you," I deadpanned, trying to sound as robotic as possible.

Grant calmly fixed his gaze on the empty air. Compared to his earlier act, his tone was almost normal now. If my voice sounded full of resentment, well, maybe it was—three years without a bonus will do that to a system.

"No more pretending?" Grant’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement in his voice.

My tone grew sharper, more annoyed—if I had hackles, they’d be up.

"Pretend what? I told the truth. If you don’t believe me, don’t come begging later, idiot." I couldn’t help myself—the insult just slipped out.

"You’re not sent by Mrs. Whitmore?" His suspicion was genuine, but there was a flicker of doubt now.