Chapter 1: The Wrong Leading Man

Logan Hayes thought he was the main character. At least, that’s what he believed. Every day, he swaggered around town with a new girl on his arm every night, always managing to mess up my plans somehow. But what he didn’t know was—whoever I chose to chase, that person became the leading man.

Most folks in our small city had a story about Logan. He was the kind of guy you’d spot at the country club one night—then catch at a late-night diner the next, always with a new girl and that reckless, half-daring grin, like he knew a secret no one else did. It was almost like he knew the world revolved around him—or maybe he just liked pretending it did. But he never saw the real game. He never realized: I was the one who really set the stage.

Lately, Logan’s been acting weird. He won’t answer my calls, doesn’t text back, and is totally off the grid. When I tried reaching out to his assistant, all I got were excuses like “he’s busy” or “he’s tied up.” It brought me back to those early days, chasing after him. But things have changed. Back then, his feelings for me were zero. Now, they’re at ninety. The system says I need the leading man’s affection to hit one hundred for the mission to succeed. That means I’m just one step away. But now, everything’s stalled. Logan ignores me, even though I’m already his publicly acknowledged girlfriend in his circle. Desperate, I turn to the only thing I can trust: the system. I can’t wait any longer, so I contact the system: “I want to use points to get Logan’s upcoming schedule.”

I tap my phone screen, the blue interface flickering at the edge of my vision. The system’s chipper, slightly robotic voice chimes in: “Request complete! Logan Hayes will be at Maple Heights Estate tonight, celebrating Peyton Foster’s birthday.”

At eight that evening, I pull up to Maple Heights Estate. No invitation needed—when you’re Logan’s girlfriend, you just walk right in. A waiter leads me inside. The lights are dazzling. Logan is surrounded by a bunch of people playing poker. He’s wearing a tailored shirt, collar open, sleeves half-rolled, hair a little tousled, whispering something in the ear of the woman on his lap. Someone notices me and coughs, “Logan, your girl’s here.”

The party’s got that old-money vibe—crystal glasses clinking, the scent of gardenias mixing with top-shelf whiskey. For a second, the laughter feels like it’s echoing off marble walls. Logan glances my way—just a glance—then acts like he didn’t see me, going right back to his cards and his playful banter. The room feels tense. When the woman on his lap giggles, I recognize her as the birthday girl, Peyton Foster. I hand over my gift and say, “Happy birthday, Peyton.” I brace myself. Something’s off tonight.

She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry for stealing your boyfriend.”

She says it like a joke, but her eyes are daring me. After that, she pretends to get up, but Logan pulls her right back onto his lap. “Just stay here,” he says, not even looking at me. Peyton keeps apologizing, but her face says she doesn’t mean it. I’m not about to make a scene, not here. So I settle onto a leather couch in the corner. Logan’s acting off, I think. I should have caught on sooner, but I kept hoping things weren’t as bad as they seemed. So what’s the problem?

So what’s the problem?

I glance around, trying to read the room—the laughter a little too loud, the glances a little too sharp. Before I can figure it out, someone sits down beside me. It’s Carter Foster, Peyton’s brother—the guy Logan can’t stand. Carter is the golden boy—the kind parents brag about at PTA meetings. Some admire him, others think he’s too perfect. Logan is definitely in the second camp.

Carter asks, “Want some cake?”

He says it with that all-American, can’t-say-no kind of charm. I nod. He hosts me like a gentleman, worried I’ll feel left out, and keeps me company. Suddenly, the system pings: “Male lead affection increased by 2, current affection: 92.”

My heart skips. Surprised, I look up and see Logan watching me—a flicker of red-hot anger in his eyes. He stares at me, I catch a flash of anger in his eyes, then he shuts it down. Logan knocks over his cards and says, “I’m out.”

The poker table quiets, the sound of chips clattering to a halt. Under everyone’s gaze, he pushes past Carter and sits down next to me.

“Whipped, man—finally caved, huh?”

A couple of the guys snicker from the other side of the room. “Told you Logan couldn’t hold out. As soon as his girl shows up, he’s right over there.”

“Pay up, pay up—who just said we’d need a new leading lady?” Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?

Someone else laughs, “No rush, let’s watch how this plays out.”

So all this recent coldness was just for show, so he wouldn’t lose face in front of his friends. I’m a little relieved. Letting myself enjoy his attention, I act a little spoiled: “You just had another woman on your lap—don’t sit so close.”

I cross my arms, trying to keep my voice steady, but my heart’s racing. But Logan just looks at me, ice-cold. “Do you care?”

His voice cuts through the music and chatter, low and sharp.

“What?”

“Do you care who I touch?” His voice drops, even colder now. “The love you keep talking about—isn’t it just for your mission?”

A chill runs down my spine. He meets my eyes and asks, “How much is left? How much more do I need to love you?”

Before I can answer, he laughs bitterly. “Sorry, I’m done playing.”

He leans back, jaw tight. “I heard there’s a punishment for failing the mission. I’ll wait for the day you disappear.” I freeze. I can’t breathe.

This is my fifth time in a strategy world. The previous missions went too smoothly—I’d almost forgotten failure was even possible. I don’t know what happens if I fail. Maybe Logan’s right. Maybe I really will die.

My hands are cold as I squeeze them together in my lap. The system prompts: “Do you want to change your target?”

I remember those two points Logan’s affection just rose. I’m not ready to give up. I force out, “Let me try again.”

Logan’s expression stays frosty. I try to play dumb: “What are you talking about? I don’t get it—what mission? I’m with you because I love you, what else could it be?”

He looks at me like I’m something he scraped off his shoe. “Cut the fake affection. I can’t stand it.”

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, voice trembling. My chest feels tight. “Did someone say something to you?”

Logan exhales sharply, then looks at me, like he wishes I’d disappear. “What counts as your mission failing?” he asks. “Is it if I go public with another woman? Sleep with her? Or get married?”

Even in the warmth of the party, I go cold all over. I can hardly believe that the man who now wants me gone was whispering sweet things just days ago. When I don’t answer, he sneers, “Try me.”

He stands, voice rising above the crowd. “Everyone—” Logan raises his voice, grabbing the room’s attention. “I’ve got news. I’m getting married.”

All eyes swing to us. My heart pounds. I want to disappear.

Someone hoots, “Congrats, Logan! Congrats to your girl!”

Another chimes in, “Congrats!”

Someone else, a little tipsy, slaps him on the back: “Not easy—finally moving up!”

A couple of the regulars nudge each other, whispering, “Let’s see what happens next.”

Amid the cheers and clinking glasses, Logan stands up. He leaves me, walks to Peyton, takes her hand, wraps his arm around her and says, almost too intimately, “You’re congratulating the wrong person—your real leading lady is right here.”

The whole room goes silent. Some look at him, some at me, some at Peyton, all confused. I watch as Peyton leans into Logan’s arms and kisses his cheek. Logan raises his eyebrows at me, as if to ask if my mission’s failed yet. My stomach twists.

System prompt: “Host, the situation is dangerous. You can’t let him keep this up.”

Logan’s lost it, just wanting to burn everything down. The panic hits me hard. But he’s the one lighting the match, and I’m the one who’ll get burned. I don’t know what exactly will make the mission fail, but if he keeps this up, it’s inevitable. My chest tightens. I decide instantly: “Change target.”

System asks: “Change to whom?”