Chapter 1: Ditchside Billionaire and the Side Chick’s Curse

A year ago, I found a tall, handsome man—injured and with amnesia—by the muddy drainage ditch on the edge of our lakeside town.

It was a muggy, bug-filled evening, the kind where the air sticks to your skin and the only thing louder than the crickets is the distant rumble of pickup trucks rolling down Main Street. I was hauling a crate of old fishing gear home when I spotted him, half-submerged in the ditch, bloodied and dazed. His clothes were soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, but even then, you could tell he didn’t belong here—a total mystery in a small town where everyone knows your business. I remember kneeling down beside him, the gravel digging into my knees, and thinking, Well, hell, what now? Not every day you fish a man out of a ditch.

But then his memory came back, and he turned out to be the heir to one of those big-deal New York families.

Turns out, the lost guy I dragged home in my rusty old pickup was Carter Whitaker—yeah, that Whitaker. The ones with the penthouse on Park Avenue, the family name on half the buildings in Manhattan. The day the news broke, folks in town nearly dropped their sweet tea all the way to the next county. Suddenly, the guy everyone thought was a drifter became the talk of every breakfast table and church potluck. Whitaker money, Whitaker power, Whitaker everything.

And just like that, saving Carter Whitaker’s life meant I got to rise right along with him. I spent his money, used his body, bossed him around, and called him a jerk whenever I felt like it. Not bad, right?

It was like I’d stumbled into a fairy tale, except instead of glass slippers, I got designer shoes and an unlimited credit card. Not bad, right? I’d nudge Carter out of bed in the mornings, drag him to the farmer’s market on Saturdays, and tease him mercilessly about his city-boy ways. He let me, too. He’d grumble, but always give in—half amused, half resigned. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me with this weird, fond look. I’d just roll my eyes and call him a jerk. That’s what you do when you’re terrified of falling for someone out of your league.

One day, right after I’d bossed Carter around like usual, these weird floating comments popped up in front of my eyes:

[This side chick is way too much! She treats the male lead like a dog!]

[The real heroine was the one who actually saved him—she left him by the ditch to get help, and the side chick just happened to scoop him up.]

[Once the male lead finds out who really saved him, this girl’s toast!]

My heart just about jumped out of my chest. It was like some cosmic judge had pulled back the curtain and started keeping score on my sins. I stared at those comments, blinking, half convinced I’d finally lost it. But there they were, floating in the air like neon signs. I freaked out. I stopped treating Carter like my personal plaything.

I started watching my words, tiptoeing around him like he was made of glass. Every time I wanted to boss him around or steal a kiss, I’d freeze up, remembering those comments. It was torture. I even started making him coffee the way he liked it—black, no sugar, and I held back the snarky remarks. Carter noticed, of course. He’s not an idiot. He’d raise an eyebrow, but I’d just smile and pretend everything was fine, even as my stomach twisted itself into knots.

Then one day, I saw Carter’s browser history:

What to do if my girlfriend isn’t interested in me anymore

Oh my god, Carter…

What does it mean if my girlfriend says "you've worked hard"

Seriously?

Is two times in thirty minutes a bad sign

Are you kidding me?

I flopped on the bed, grumbling:

“Carter Whitaker, you jerk. Is this how you repay the girl who saved you? My back’s about to break.”

The mattress was still warm from where he’d been. I sprawled out, limbs everywhere, staring at the water-stained ceiling. My voice was muffled, part whine, part real complaint. If you’d told me a year ago I’d be complaining about too much action with a billionaire…

I’d have laughed you out of the bar.

Carter knelt beside me, towel in hand, helping me clean up. He shot back without thinking, dabbing at my shoulder:

“I’m the one doing all the work. What’s wrong with your back?”

He looked way too pleased with himself, I swear. His old, smug grin flashed for a second. Meanwhile I was limp and wrecked—he still had the nerve to tease me.

I was convinced he was doing it on purpose, trying to wear me out so I’d die in bed and he wouldn’t have to repay his debt. Typical Carter.

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him. Carter’s the type who’d play the long game, smiling sweetly while scheming behind my back. I eyed him suspiciously, trying to decide if he was secretly gloating. Maybe he thought if he wore me out, I’d finally stop demanding repayment for saving his life. As if.

So, annoyed, I raised my hand and gave him a slap.

“I told you to stop in the middle, didn’t I? How dare you ignore your savior’s orders!”

But my slap was so weak, I barely made contact. Still, his face turned to the side, bangs falling over his forehead so I couldn’t read his expression. The hand resting on my thigh clenched a little tighter.

There was a pause—a beat where the sound was barely a whisper, more like a gentle tap than a real slap. The look in his eyes changed, something fierce and vulnerable flickering there. For a second, he went still, and I could feel the tension in his grip—like he was fighting something inside himself. My breath caught. Had I finally pushed him too far?

I almost backed down. But I kept going:

“You have no idea how hard it was carrying you back from that ditch. My back’s been ruined ever since—how am I supposed to take this kind of abuse now?”

I couldn’t help it—I started whining, just like always.

My voice caught, sounding more like a pout than I meant. I tried to sound tough, but it came out like a plea.

Old habits die hard.

Carter sighed, like he was fighting to hold something back. His hand pressed into my waist, kneading slow circles: “Is this pressure okay?”

I squinted, letting out a contented hum.

The tension in the room faded a little. Carter’s hands were warm, steady. For a second, the world shrank down to just his touch, and it almost made me forget the floating comments hovering in the air.

Right then, more floating comments appeared in front of me:

[This side chick is way too much! She treats the male lead like a dog!]

[The real heroine was the one who actually saved him—she left him by the ditch to get help, and the side chick just happened to scoop him up.]

[Once the male lead finds out who really saved him, this girl’s toast!]

I was doomed.

Game over.

The words glowed like exit signs, impossible to ignore. I swallowed hard.

I’m a scheming dockworker’s daughter—my specialty is using favors as leverage, guilt-tripping people into paying me back.

Growing up on the docks, you learn quick: nothing’s free, and everything’s a transaction. My dad used to say, “If you do someone a favor, you make sure they remember it.” I’d gotten good at cashing in on guilt, making folks feel like they owed me—whether it was a borrowed truck or a borrowed heart.

But this time, I was in way over my head.

But now, my leverage with Carter Whitaker was gone. And he’s not exactly known for his morals. I was dead meat.

Great. Just great.

I started picturing all the ways Carter could get even. None of them ended well for me. The Whitakers didn’t get to the top by being nice. My hands went cold just thinking about it. If he decided I was a fraud, there’d be nowhere to hide—not in this town, not anywhere. I’d be toast.

Because not only did I treat him like a servant, I’d forced myself on him, too.

It hit me all at once—the late nights, the teasing, the way I’d dragged him into my mess without ever asking what he wanted. I’d crossed every line, and for what? A little power, a little comfort?

Shame burned in my chest.

Back in the lakeside town, I’d already dragged Carter into bed. He never looked like he wanted to be there. Face cold, eyes blank—just going through the motions.

I remembered those first nights, the awkwardness between us. Carter would lie stiff as a board, eyes fixed on the ceiling, like he was waiting for it to be over. I’d try to joke, to coax a smile out of him, but he never relaxed. I thought maybe he just needed time. Turns out, he needed something I couldn’t give.

Later, when Carter regained his memory, the Whitaker family’s butler told me—straight-faced, like it was just another Tuesday—that Carter was indifferent to sex. Hated being touched. Someone once tried to grab his hand, and they were never seen again.

The butler’s words haunted me.

Untouchable. That’s what he was.

The floating comments kept coming:

[My poor male lead, kept himself pure for twenty-six years, only to be ruined by this evil side chick.]

[I’m crying, he saved himself for so long, and she just bulldozed right in!]

[Serves her right if the male lead locks her in a basement forever!]

The comments were relentless, piling on the guilt. I felt like I was on trial.

Noticing me freeze up, Carter looked over.

“Did I hurt you?”

His voice was soft, almost worried. I blinked, startled by the concern in his eyes. For a second, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t the villain after all.

I grabbed his hand, still massaging me, and crawled up to kneel beside him, voice barely above a whisper, hands shaking.

“Um… Carter… Actually, I wasn’t the one who saved you back then. I just happened to pass by the ditch and brought you home. But even if I don’t deserve credit, I still tried my best, right?”

My confession tumbled out in a rush. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah, I know.” Carter lowered his lashes. “You carried me for two miles. Otherwise, I’d have died by that ditch. I owe you for life.”

He squeezed my hand, grounding me.

“You’ve said that a bunch of times—I remember.”

I tried to smile.

He took my hand, placed it on his chest, and slowly guided it downward, leaning back so his dark eyes locked onto mine. His skin was warm beneath my palm, his heart beating steady and strong.

“So ask me to pay you back however you want.”

“What?”

My mind went blank. Was he serious?

Floating comments:

[Good grief, what has this side chick turned our cold, aloof CEO into!]

[Can I get a how-to?]

[You want a how-to? Wait till the male lead finds out the truth—she’s toast. What, you want a permanent dungeon pass too?]

The peanut gallery was relentless. I ignored them.

He was sprawled out on the floor, abs smooth and defined. Around his neck was a collar—the one I’d bought online with his money, for a hefty price. The moment I saw it, I knew it belonged on him.

Right now, the chain jingled with his movements, clashing with his aloof face—a collision of restraint and desire.

The sight was almost too much. The chain glinted in the lamplight.

Normally, I’d have pounced like a hungry wolf.

But this time, I shoved him away.

My hands shook as I pushed him away. For the first time, I realized... there were lines I couldn’t cross—not with Carter, not with anyone. The collar felt heavier than ever, a symbol of everything I’d taken for granted.

“No, no, you’ve repaid me enough. I’ll never force you or boss you around again.”

At my words, Carter’s face instantly darkened.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

He looked at me like I’d just betrayed him, his eyes shuttered and cold. I felt a pang of guilt, sharper than any collar.

“Why? You found another dog?”

“What dog? Are you kidding me?”

I quickly protested, “What dog? Don’t be ridiculous. In my eyes, you’ve always been the untouchable CEO—totally out of my league.”

His expression soured even more. He lowered his head, thinking for a few seconds.

“Sorry, I’ve got too much baggage. I’ll work harder at being a good dog from now on.”

What the hell?

For the first time, I hated my shameless past behavior.

How did I do this to Carter?

If he ever found out I wasn’t his real savior, he’d tear me to pieces.

My stomach twisted. I’d never seen Carter so lost. I wanted to fix it, but every word felt wrong, every gesture clumsy. I’m no good with words—dockworker’s daughter and all—and the more I tried to explain, the worse it sounded. So I decided to prove my change with actions. I turned to leave.

But after only a couple of steps, my wrist was yanked back. I looked down—realized the collar was still attached. When I pulled away, his neck stretched forward, the skin beneath the collar turning red from friction.

He looked up at me, his face full of humiliation and conflict. The air went still.

The floating comments exploded:

[No way, is the male lead really crawling like a dog?]

[City folks sure play rough!]

[Girl, can I get a couple episodes in your role?]

[That’s it, I want the how-to—even if it means a permanent dungeon pass!]

His move nearly scared me out of my wits.

I scrambled over.

My hands fumbled, heart pounding. Carter’s eyes never left my face.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it. You never have to wear this again.”

My hands fumbled with the clasp, Carter’s gaze fixed on my face, silent. Once I got the collar off, I scrambled out of the room. I missed the look in his eyes.

I bolted, feet barely touching the floor. Behind me, Carter sat on the carpet. I never saw the way his eyes followed me, lost and longing.