Chapter 2: Aftershocks

I locked myself in the bathroom. The flickering fluorescent bulb overhead painted the cracked tiles a sickly yellow. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my phone. I splashed cold water on my face, watching it drip into the cracked sink, hoping the shock would wake me up.

All the frustration I’d bottled up finally burst out. My hands balled into fists, knuckles white. The ache in my chest only grew heavier, like a lead weight pulling me under.

"Celebrating halfway and then failing—no wonder you’re your boss’s favorite," I muttered bitterly.

The system was fuming. [Seriously? You had to remind him it was your birthday? Men and their cheap guilt—classic.]

My head throbbed. After days of overtime, I felt hollowed out. I leaned weakly against the sink, staring at my pale reflection. Water dripped from the tap, each drop echoing like a countdown I was losing.

The system’s voice was weak now. [How about you just ask him to hook up?]

I let out a dry laugh. "How about I ask him to drop dead?"

If only it were that easy.

The game’s creator had closed all loopholes. Words like "sleep" and "die"—forbidden. You couldn’t use the same reason twice, either.

Getting rejected for marriage was, after seven years, one of my last cards. Now I was stuck.

The sound of running water echoed, mocking me. I sat on the toilet, racking my brain for some new request he’d refuse. The overhead light glared, as if judging my every failed escape.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. My fingers hovered, nerves jangling.

When I answered, a gentle woman’s voice came through.

"Miss Rachel, it’s Emily Lane."

I gripped the sink tightly, knuckles pressing into the cold ceramic, desperate for something solid to hold onto.

Emily laughed softly, a little smug. She sounded just like those girls in high school who always got what they wanted—never had to try too hard.

"You probably don’t know me well, but that’s fine. I know you very well."

"I’ve eaten the lunches you made for Jason, worn the shirts you washed for him. Last time he spent your birthday with you, when he rushed over to see me, your hair was still caught in his tie clip."

I leaned against the bathtub, my tone icy. "So what?"

Emily’s voice was almost sing-song. "You really don’t get it, do you? Last year on your birthday, he was in my bed. This year, I made sure he forgot you—again. Do I really need to spell out who Jason Carter loves?"

I wanted to scream, to throw my phone across the room. Instead, I stared at my reflection, willing myself not to cry. Seven years, and the fine lines at the corners of my eyes were starting to show. The eyes that used to light up for Jason were dull now, rimmed with exhaustion. My reflection almost seemed to flinch, like it couldn’t bear to look at me either.

I took a shaky breath. "No need, because Jason Carter is going to marry me."

There was a pause, then Emily’s voice sharpened. "Don’t try to piss me off with that. You’ll never win against me."

A sharp knock rattled the door—Jason’s signature, impatient rhythm. I hid the phone behind my back, threw open the door, and forced my voice to steady: "Will you go try on wedding dresses with me tomorrow?"

Jason blinked, surprised. Then, unexpectedly, he hugged me, his voice soft in a way I hardly recognized.

"Okay. On the wedding day, you’ll be the most beautiful bride."

I hung up, swallowing the nausea that rose in my throat. I let Jason kiss me. His lips were warm, but I felt nothing—just the urge to disappear. Emily, don’t let me down. I’m counting on you.