The System ordered me to "redeem" my depressed husband with the power of love. I said, "Hard pass." When he picked up a knife to slash his wrist, I didn't bat an eye. Instead, I threw open the balcony window and shrieked like a banshee: "My brand new limited-edition Louboutins just snapped! Oh God, why me? I literally can’t go on!" Afraid of alerting the neighbors, my husband had to put down the knife and come over to comfort me. "Don't cry," he mumbled. "We’ll go to the mall. I’ll buy you a new pair." In the middle of the night, when he tried to slip away to the train tracks to "find some peace," I shoved my ice-cold feet directly under his shirt, right against his chest. "I’m freezing to death here. Warm me up, right now." The man shuddered from the cold, frowned, and grabbed my feet. He had no choice but to tuck the duvet tighter around us. After living together for a while, he still wanted to die. I remained indifferent. "Fine. But before you off yourself, let's get a divorce." My husband froze. "Do I have to divorce you to die?" I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "Duh. I can only leave this hellhole if I divorce you!" Suddenly, the man panicked and wrapped his arms around me. "Then I’m not dying. I don’t want a divorce." 1 I was, unfortunately, the "chosen one." The System plucked me out of my life and dropped me into this script as the wife of Julian Vance. The wife of a gloomy, depressed billionaire heir. The System, using that self-righteous, "great responsibility" voice, tried to lecture me: [Ms. Chloe, in this narrative, you can only return to your original world if you successfully redeem and heal your wounded husband.] I ripped open the blackout curtains, letting the blinding light hit my dead-tired eyes. "Why?" I snapped. "I work like a dog nine-to-five, commute in traffic, and come home exhausted. Now I have to babysit a grown man and convince him life is worth living? I want to die half the time!" So, when Julian went through his episodes, I usually pretended I was blind. After the System issued multiple warnings that I ignored, it finally gave up. [Fine. If you can be cold enough to ignore a man this hot, then do whatever you want, Chloe. You’re on your own!] Without the System nagging me, I completely stopped caring if this man lived or died. 2 Because Julian was a trust-fund baby, his old man left him a mountain of inheritance. The guy didn't have to work a day in his life. He was the living embodiment of that internet aesthetic: "I don't want money, I just want to feel something." Too much cash, nowhere to spend it, so he got depressed. And I, a corporate wage slave, got kidnapped into this world to "save" the sad rich boy. Please. Don't regular people's lives matter? I didn't care about his existential dread. Since he was legally my husband, he could make himself useful. Today, like every day, he was rotting in his bedroom. I banged on the door aggressively. He got annoyed and cracked it open an inch. A pair of dark, sunken eyes stared out at me. "What?" His tone was flat. "I’m starving. Go make food." My tone was worse. "No." He tried to slam the door and lock it, but I jammed my foot in the gap and shoved it open. The man was six-foot-two, standing there expressionless. His bangs were so long they covered his eyes; all I could see was a sharp, pale jawline. Looking at his zombie-like state, my rage spiked. "Go cook. Then, go downstairs and get a haircut. You look like the ghost from The Ring." He was already pale, and with that hair, he literally looked like a spirit. Julian didn't move. I lost my patience. I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He stumbled right into my arms, looking genuinely panicked. "Are you crazy?" he gasped. I brushed his messy bangs back and clipped a pink hair clip from my own head onto his. Seeing his handsome face fully revealed, my anger instantly cooled by fifty percent. My voice involuntarily softened. "Be a good boy. You’re my husband, right? If you don't feed me, who will?" Julian blinked, seemingly processing the logic. I let him go. He smoothed out his wrinkled shirt, rolled down his sleeves to cover the scars on his arms, and turned to grab the apron from the kitchen. "Spicy pork stir-fry again?" came his quiet voice from the kitchen a moment later. I collapsed onto the sofa. "Yep." 3 How do you deal with a mentally ill person? Treat them like a normal person. After dinner, while he was washing dishes, I grabbed his coat and stood in the hallway, blocking his retreat to his bedroom. "Dishes are done. Let me go back to my room," he said coldly. But with that pink cartoon hair clip on his head, his "cool guy" act was hilarious. "Pfft—" I snorted. "What are you laughing at?" His brow furrowed. An actual expression. "Honestly? You’re kind of cute sometimes." He opened his mouth to argue, but I pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. We agreed on a haircut. I’m tired of living with a ghost." 4 Julian was mad. After the barber finished, he angrily shoved the pink clip back into my hand. "Here." I looked at the man in front of me—clean-cut, strikingly handsome—and couldn't figure out why he was pouting. But since he was giving me attitude, I ignored him. The upscale gated community was empty at night. We walked single file, with enough distance between us to fit a semi-truck. He power-walked ahead; I lagged behind, distracted by animals. "Psst, hey kitty. Hey puppy. Come here, babies." A pristine tortoiseshell cat and a filthy, matted Samoyed. One was a stray; the other looked like a fresh dump-and-run. Stray cat rule: Finders keepers. Stray dog rule: Same thing. My karma must have peaked tonight. A cat and a dog? The Samoyed’s tail was wagging like a propeller. The cat was rubbing its head against my sweatpants. I was giggling like an idiot. Julian heard me. He turned around. With his hair cut, the gloomy vibe was gone. Standing there with his hands in his pockets, he looked like a model. "Why are you walking so slow?" he asked dryly. I picked at my ear and tilted my head. "Blah blah blah. Can't hear you from that zip code."
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