Chapter 7: The Stand-In’s Deal

Lillian glances at me coolly, neither denying the male lead’s arrangement to fire me nor stopping my request.

Her poker face is world-class—she doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just watches.

But the system is unsettled.

[Hey, what are you doing? He’s your love rival—why are you smiling at him?]

[Are you really giving up on the female lead?]

The panic in its tone is almost funny. For once, I feel oddly calm.

"Shane."

Lillian suddenly calls my name, looking puzzled.

She hesitates, voice softer than usual. I almost ask what’s wrong, but bite my tongue.

"Shut up."

This line was from the system, but Lillian still looks at me steadily, as if confirming something.

The room goes quiet. I hold my breath, waiting for another shock that doesn’t come.

I’ve already followed the system’s words—surely it won’t shock me again?

I take a mental victory lap, my nerves settling for the first time all day.

This female lead, I’m done chasing.

I let the thought echo, feeling the weight lift off my chest.

Can’t I just be a greedy, lustful, ordinary guy?

Maybe I’ll buy a new car, hit the gym, finally learn to play the guitar—something, anything, other than this endless emotional limbo.

Divorce the female lead, take the money and run, get far away from this mess.

The paperwork’s in my hand, and for once, freedom feels real.

Thinking this, I gesture “please” to the male lead. He gives me a cold look and stiffly walks ahead.

He stalks down the hallway, footsteps echoing. I follow, closing the office door behind us.

In the empty office, without hesitation, I get straight to the point: "Actually, Lillian and I are already married."

The words land like a bomb. His face goes pale, then beet red, jaw working.

The male lead’s face instantly changes, fists clenched: "Do you want to die?"

He steps in close, nostrils flaring. I throw up my hands, palms out.

I crank up my survival instinct and quickly change the subject.

"Bro, you’re finally back. She’s been missing you like crazy."

"She only married me because you left her and went abroad. I’m just a stand-in, clearly marked, paid monthly."

"And I live on the first floor, she lives on the second—we barely say a few words a week."

I lay it on thick, making myself sound as harmless as possible. I even add a little self-deprecating chuckle for good measure.

……

Hearing this, the male lead’s anger drops by seventy percent: "So you’re just an actor she hired?"

His tone softens, suspicion replaced by condescension. I nod like a bobblehead.

I nod like crazy: "Yes, she just wanted to use me to piss you off. Don’t worry, during this time, besides me, she hasn’t had contact with any other man."

I keep my voice earnest, almost pleading. Anything to make him let me off the hook.

The male lead’s face relaxes, and he immediately adds me on Facebook, sends a Venmo for a million on the spot, and asks me to provide updates.

The notification buzzes in my pocket—a cool million, just like that. I try not to let my jaw drop.

When I check the payment, the system jumps out at the wrong time to scold me.

[You’re obsessed with money? Do you have no self-respect? Are you really willing to hand over the female lead?]

I snort. For a million bucks, I’d hand over my Spotify playlist, too.

After the male lead leaves, I remain calm, ignoring the system.

His shoes click away down the hall, leaving a faint scent of cedar in the air. I lean back in the chair, breathing for the first time in hours.

I don’t want to be anyone’s second choice.

I remind myself that self-worth can’t be measured by anyone’s approval, least of all Lillian’s.

As for women, there’ll be plenty in the future.

Chicago’s full of them. I’ll be just fine.