Bowen slammed the whiskey glass down on the marble bar.

The violent crash of crystal against stone echoed through the penthouse. It was a desperate attempt to use physical noise to take back control of the room.

Aria didn't even blink. Her eyelashes remained perfectly still. She just stood there, watching his pathetic performance with calm, calculating eyes.

Bowen ground his teeth together. He remembered a scene from a trashy reality show he had watched the night before. He forced his face into a rigid mask of authority and spat out a command.

"Take off your clothes."

Aria rolled her eyes internally. The dialogue was worse than a B-list Hollywood movie.

Handler 377 flashed a frantic red light in her retinas. The system demanded she act humiliated. It wanted her to cross her arms, cry, and beg for mercy.

Aria ignored it. Fighting him would only drag out this terrible script. Obedience was the fastest way to end the scene.

She raised her right hand. Her fingers brushed against the thin silk strap of her nightgown.

Bowen's pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked almost entirely black. He hadn't expected her to actually do it. He expected a fight.

Aria flicked her index finger. The left strap slipped off her shoulder, exposing a large expanse of pale, bare skin.

Bowen stopped breathing. His lungs locked up. His gaze snapped away from her skin as if he had been burned, locking onto the floor-to-ceiling windows on his right.

But the morning sun was too bright. The glass acted like a perfect mirror, reflecting Aria's every move right back at him. He couldn't escape her image.

Aria noticed his desperate attempt to look away. She took a small step forward. Her bare toes almost brushed against the edge of his expensive leather slippers.

The silk nightgown slid down her body with a soft, whispering friction. It pooled in a dark puddle on the rug around her ankles.

Bowen's blood rushed to his head. A loud ringing noise filled his ears. His brain completely short-circuited.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything to regain his footing. His throat was so dry it felt like it was coated in sand. No sound came out.

Aria tilted her head. She noticed the tips of his ears. They were glowing a violent, bright red.

A single drop of warm, dark red liquid fell from Bowen's right nostril. It hit the white marble counter with a wet tap.

Aria froze. She stared at the spot of blood. The ruthless Wall Street predator was actually having a nosebleed just because a woman dropped her nightgown in front of him.

Bowen raised his hand slowly. He touched the skin above his lip. He looked down at his fingertips, seeing the smear of fresh blood. His face went completely slack with horror.

Aria bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She had to use every ounce of her professional training to stop herself from bursting into laughter.

She instantly changed her expression. Her eyes softened into deep, genuine concern.

She reached out her bare arm. Her cool fingertips pressed gently against the exposed skin of his chest, right where his robe hung open.

The second her skin touched his, she felt his pectoral muscle. It was locked as tight as a block of concrete.

Bowen jumped backward like he had been struck by lightning. His spine slammed hard against the edge of the bar.

He frantically wiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing the blood across his cheek. He was trying to scrape together whatever dignity he had left.

Aria let her voice drip with sweet, innocent concern. "Do you want me to call a doctor for you?"

Her eyes, however, danced with pure mockery.

Bowen's face flushed a deep, furious purple. "Shut up!" he barked.

His voice cracked on the second word, pitching up into an embarrassing squeak.

He spun around, his bare feet slipping slightly on the polished floor. He practically ran toward the bathroom, his broad shoulders hunched in total defeat.

The heavy bathroom door slammed shut behind him. A second later, the loud rush of the shower turning on full blast echoed through the wall. Cold water.

Aria bent down. She picked up her silk nightgown and slipped it back over her head.

She looked at the empty air where the system screen usually hovered.

"This is your male lead?" she said out loud, her voice dripping with ice.

The sound of the shower finally stopped.

Inside the bathroom, Bowen grabbed a thick towel and scrubbed the cold water from his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and forced himself to take ten deep, slow breaths.

He pulled the belt of his black robe tight, knotting it aggressively. He convinced himself the nosebleed was just dry air. He was Bowen Greene. He was a monster in the boardroom. He could handle one woman.

He pushed the bathroom door open and marched back into the living room. His eyes locked onto Aria.

Aria was sitting sideways on the expensive leather sofa. She was holding a heavy silver lighter she found on the coffee table, flipping the lid open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic click. She didn't even look up when he walked in.

Bowen walked over and stopped right in front of her. He stood tall, trying to cast a dark shadow over her body.

He cleared his throat. He dropped his voice into a deep, vibrating register that sounded completely unnatural.

"Don't think you've won anything, woman."

Aria's left eyebrow twitched. The forced gravel in his voice was physically painful to listen to.

Before she could speak, Handler 377 flashed a bright gold notification box across her vision.

[High-Reward Task Triggered: Counter the male lead's provocation. Say the exact phrase: "Is that it?" with a mocking expression. Reward: Flawless Skin Gene Upgrade.]

Aria's heart skipped a beat. As an actress whose face was her entire livelihood, a genetic skin upgrade was worth more than a million dollars. She accepted the task instantly.

Aria snapped the silver lighter shut. She slowly lifted her chin.

Her eyes started at Bowen's face. She dragged her gaze down his neck, over his chest, and let it drop lower.

She intentionally stopped her eyes right at the knot of his bathrobe, staring directly at his crotch.

Bowen felt the physical weight of her stare. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His knees jerked, and he subconsciously pressed his legs closer together.

Aria let out a short, breathy laugh. The sound bounced off the high ceiling, filled with absolute contempt.

She tilted her head to the side. She curled her upper lip into a perfect sneer, mixing pity with disgust.

"Is that it?" she asked.

The three words hit Bowen like a physical blow to the stomach.

His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock. It was as if she had just pulled a gun and shot him in the chest.

The fragile shell of his male ego shattered into a million pieces. His bottom lip actually trembled.

He raised a shaking finger, pointing at her. He opened his mouth, but his brain couldn't form a single word of defense. He just stood there, stuttering over empty air.

A sharp, pleasant chime rang in Aria's head. [Task Complete. Reward Distributed.]

A rush of cool, minty energy washed over Aria's body. She felt her pores tighten. The dull ache of exhaustion vanished from her face.

She lifted her hand and stared at the back of it. The skin, which had felt slightly dry and tight just moments ago, was now as smooth as silk, even glowing with a healthy radiance under the light.

Aria smiled, completely mesmerized by her own hand. She ignored the towering man standing in front of her.

Bowen sucked in a ragged breath. He desperately tried to glue his pride back together. "I... I was just off my game today. The market was stressful."

Aria didn't look at him. She just gave a vague, dismissive nod, waving her perfect hand in the air. "Sure. I'm very busy right now."

A crushing wave of defeat slammed into Bowen. His brutal negotiation tactics, the ones that made old Wall Street billionaires sweat, were completely useless against her.

He grabbed a handful of his damp hair and yanked it in frustration. He spun on his heel and walked stiffly toward the master bedroom. He needed to hide.

The bedroom door clicked shut.

Aria stood up. She walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling mirror near the entryway to inspect her new face.

She touched her cheek. It was flawless. She realized right then that this system wasn't a curse. It was a tool. And she was going to use it to bleed this world dry.

Aria waited until she heard the heavy thud of Bowen throwing himself onto the bed in the other room.

She turned away from the mirror and walked into the massive walk-in closet attached to the living area.

Rows of designer dresses and sharp suits lined the walls. She reached out, letting her fingers drag across the cold silk and heavy wool fabrics.

She sat down on the round velvet ottoman in the center of the room. "System. Give me the full background file."

A glowing blue screen expanded in the air. Pages of text detailing the plot of 'The Sterling Contract' scrolled past her eyes.

Aria read fast. The original Aria Mcgee was the unwanted second daughter of a decaying Long Island family.

The Mcgee corporation was drowning in debt. They needed Bowen Greene's capital to survive.

Her father, Preston, and her older sister, Ivy, had set a trap. They drugged Aria, shoved her into a town car, and delivered her to Bowen's penthouse like a piece of meat to secure the lifestyle agreement.

Aria let out a harsh, barking laugh. The plot was so incredibly stupid she couldn't believe a human brain wrote it.

She kept reading. The original Aria didn't even have access to her own trust fund. She lived in a converted broom closet on the ground floor of the Mcgee estate.

A cold, heavy anger settled in Aria's chest. Her jaw tightened. She hated weak characters. She despised victims who just laid down and took the beating.

Handler 377 chimed in. [Host must follow the tragic trajectory. Endure the family's abuse. Suffer the male lead's misunderstandings. Achieve the ultimate painful romance.]

"Shut up," Aria said out loud.

She stood up and started pacing the length of the closet. Her mind shifted into problem-solving mode.

First, she had to cut ties with Bowen. He was a distraction.

Second, she needed to go back to Long Island. She was going to rip that trust fund out of her father's greedy hands and burn her sister's life to the ground.

Aria stopped in front of a rack of women's clothing Bowen had apparently pre-purchased. It was a row of perfectly hung, delicate designer dresses-exactly the kind of fragile, ultra-feminine wardrobe a man like him would buy for a helpless victim. She grabbed a sleek, dark navy silk wrap dress that looked the most structured of the bunch.

She stripped off the nightgown and pulled the dress on. The fabric hugged her ribs perfectly. The original owner was weak, but her bone structure was built for high fashion.

Aria stood in front of the closet mirror. She pulled her hair back, picking up a stiff black bobby pin from the vanity tray and casually pinning a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She practiced a cold, dead-eyed socialite smile. It was flawless.

A loud, muffled bang came from the living room. It sounded like heavy wood hitting bone.

Aria dropped her smile. She walked to the closet door and pressed her ear against the wood.

Bowen's voice leaked through, hissing a string of violent curses. He had stubbed his toe on the coffee table.

Aria rolled her eyes. The big, bad billionaire couldn't even walk across a room without injuring himself.

She grabbed the brass handle of the closet door, ready to march out and leave the hotel.

Before she could turn the knob, a sharp, hollow cramp twisted her stomach. Her body let out a loud, embarrassing growl.

She hadn't eaten anything since she woke up in this body. Her blood sugar was crashing.

Aria let go of the handle. She looked out into the living room and saw the leather-bound room service menu sitting on the side table.

She wasn't going to leave on an empty stomach.

She walked over to the phone, picked up the heavy receiver, and dialed the kitchen. She ordered the Beluga caviar breakfast.

She hung up the phone and sank into the plush cushions of the sofa. She crossed her legs, ready to make the billionaire pay for her breakfast.