Chapter 17
Kinsley sat on the sofa, fuming. She grabbed a throw pillow and slammed it down hard.
Once. Twice.
On the third strike, her strength suddenly vanished. She slumped, staring up at the ceiling.
When he holds me last night, his arms are so firm.
When he whispers my name, his voice is so real.
I almost believe this isn’t just a transaction.
In one out-of-control moment, I even think about how wonderful it would be if this contract had no expiration date.
What if everything could slowly become real?
She closed her eyes, a sharp tightness constricting her chest.
And this morning, after he wakes up, he says, “I’ll have the housekeeper prepare the medicine for you.”
That sentence cuts through my heart like a blade.
He only cares about risk and control, refusing to let even a shred of “possibility” exist.
Talking to me about “medicine” and “staying home,” he is as calm as if he were just assigning a task.
Yes, it really is just work. I am the one who misjudged everything.
Even though he showed me his true self last night, today he puts his suit back on, buttons his cuffs, and reverts to that precise, cold man.
So, that intimacy was merely a physical indulgence in a moment of weakness. Yet I, I mistook it for hope.
She covered her face with her hands, breathing rapidly through her fingers.
Falling for him was not happiness; it was a profound agony.
She felt a sudden, burning shame—shame for having anticipated a contract extension, shame for having genuinely lost her heart in his arms.
Now, she began to regret signing the contract in the first place.
A fleeting thought flashed through her mind—to run.
But in the next second, she dismissed it.
“You’re just furious, Kinsley,” she told herself. “You signed the contract yourself; you have no right to complain.”
That realization stung worse than the medicine he had offered.
Minutes later, she calmed down. She had to find something to do, or her thoughts would never stop circling this disaster. Kinsley reached for her textbook to review the day’s lessons, but though she flipped through the pages, nothing sank in. His cold, clinical words kept echoing in her mind.
Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and swiped to answer immediately.
“Chris, what’s up?”
“There’s a short drama. The director fired the lead actress last-minute; they’re short a person. Can you make it?”
She sprang off the sofa, electrified.
“Yes! Yes! When do you need me?”
“As soon as possible. Because we’re on a tight schedule, the pay will be based on your last project, plus a little extra.”
“Chris, I love you!”
She hung up the phone and clenched her fists in triumph—“Yes!”
How could she pass up an opportunity like this?
But... Aaron forbade her from leaving earlier.
She thought about it. He only told me not to go to school; he didn’t specifically say I couldn’t go to film. Kinsley repacked her bag, ready to head out. She hesitated, wondering if she should tell Aaron. She typed into the chat box:
There’s a production team that needs someone urgently. I have to go now. I’m not going back to school; it won’t be an issue.
The reply came back swiftly:
Stay home. Don’t go anywhere.
But they’re in a rush, and I already gave them my word. I don’t want to ruin the working relationship.
There was no immediate reply. Kinsley waited, growing anxious. A moment later, a message popped up:
The relationship isn’t worth it. Are you that desperate for money?
Kinsley’s temper flared. She tapped out the words rapidly:
Of course! You’ve known that from the start.
The other side went quiet for a long while. Before long, a banking notification pinged on Kinsley’s phone.
Fifty thousand? Her heart skipped a beat. A message appeared in the chat:
Extra work compensation.
A lump formed in her throat, as if she were being choked. So, last night was just another item to be settled on the invoice.
“Madam,” the housekeeper’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “This is from Mr. Hoffman.”
A box of emergency contraceptive pills was held out to her. Her face flushed red as she took the box and shoved it into her bag.
“Thank you.”
The housekeeper respectfully handed her a glass of water. “Mr. Hoffman asked that you take it immediately.”
Her face burned even hotter, a wave of shame washing over her. Contraceptives. Extra work compensation. In his eyes, there was only risk control. Her love, to him, was nothing more than a variable that “needed to be handled.” And his way of handling it was simple: money.
Kinsley suddenly felt a wave of nausea.
“Right...”
She reached into her bag, pulled out the box, read the instructions, and popped a single pill. It was white, round, and tiny—like a period at the end of a sentence. Then let everything end right here.
Just as she picked up the pill, her phone rang again. “Kinsley, the director is losing his mind. When are you getting here?”
She glanced up; the housekeeper was still waiting respectfully. Kinsley gave a cold, internal smile. She placed the pill on her tongue and washed it down with the water. She set the glass back on the housekeeper’s tray, offered a faint, hollow smile, and turned to leave.
“Madam, Mr. Hoffman said you must stay home—”
Kinsley ignored her and strode out the door. She put the phone back to her ear, her voice chillingly calm.
“Chris, I’m already on my way.”
----
The car sped out of the villa gates. In the rearview mirror, the house grew smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a speck. Finally, her tears broke free.
She had once been naive enough to hope, while in his arms, that their contract could be extended indefinitely. But he? He chose to settle their intimacy with nothing more than money.
She pressed down on the accelerator, letting the wind rush in through the open window, blowing her mind into clarity. In his eyes, she truly was nothing more than a contract.