Everyone knows I'm Mila Pruitt's doormat.
What they don't know is the price tag. For three years, I played her pathetic lapdog for two hundred thousand a month.
But now, the contract's up. Three years fulfilled.
The problem? She wants me to keep performing—without the paycheck. I sold my pride for money. A free show? Absolutely not.
——
The banquet hall reeked of perfume and expensive alcohol. It was Mila's birthday, and she was already swaying, cheeks flushed.
I plastered on frantic concern. "Mila, please slow down. Your stomach's been acting up—you'll make yourself sick."
The sharks descended instantly.
"It's her birthday, for God's sake," one sneered, swirling champagne. "Who are you to kill the vibe? Since when does a pet give orders?"
"Know your place, Liam. You're just a dog begging for scraps."
"We're not leaving until we can't stand," a man shouted. "Stop being a buzzkill. You think you matter here?"
Internally, I didn't flinch. Three years had turned their insults into white noise. As long as the check cleared, their barking meant nothing.
Externally, I shrank. Shoulders slumped, lip bitten—the perfect image of a man crushed by inadequacy. It satisfied their need for superiority.
Mila didn't defend me. She basked in it, shooting me a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
"Remember your place, Liam. My life is none of your business. You don't have the right to worry about me. Can't handle it? Get out of my house."
I lowered my head, let out a shaky sigh, and retreated to the kitchen to prepare her hangover soup.
Behind me, the laughter erupted louder.
Leading it was Finn Mason, her assistant.
"Ms. Pruitt, you've trained him well," he jeered. "He'd jump off a cliff if you asked. The man's incapable of leaving you."
His eyes found mine—cold, venomous. Finn came from money, though not Pruitt-level money. He'd taken the assistant job to get into Mila's bed and bank account.
I was the obstacle. He'd tried everything—public humiliation, smear campaigns—desperate to force me out. He wanted Mila to see me as pathetic enough to discard.
Unfortunately for him, my dignity had a price he couldn't match. And Mila had no intention of letting her favorite toy go.
I'd become his thorn. He hated every second.
Mila knew exactly what Finn was doing. She loved the drama—it fed her ego.
Tonight, fueled by wine and arrogance, she escalated the game. In front of everyone, she stumbled over and dropped onto Finn's lap.
His eyes lit up. Greedy delight washed over his face as his arms snaked around her waist.
Just then, I walked out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl of hangover soup.
I froze. Saw Mila nestled in Finn's arms.
With practiced ease, I arranged my features into the perfect mask of a jealous, heartbroken husband.
