Mila Pruitt wore a smile of triumphant satisfaction.

I, on the other hand, felt a complicated mix of emotions churn in my chest.

Three years of playing the professional sycophant had taught me a harsh truth: Mila's psyche was twisted, perhaps even a little perverse. She thrived on the humiliation of others.

But did that matter to me? Hardly.

As long as the monthly two hundred thousand dollars hit my bank account on time, I would happily remain her most loyal doormat.

Mila finished the hangover soup I had simmered for her, wiped her mouth, and issued her next command. "I want millet porridge tomorrow to settle my stomach. Have it here before six in the morning."

She didn't wait for a response. "Good. Now get lost."

I contorted my face into a mask of bitterness. Under the mocking gazes of Finn Mason and his entourage, I slumped my shoulders and trudged out of the Pruitt family's luxury mansion, the very picture of a heartbroken man.

The moment I stepped past the estate gates, the misery vanished. A grin stretched across my face.

Today marked the final day of the three-year agreement I had signed with Mila.

For thirty-six months, I had provided her with perfect emotional validation and ego-stroking services. Surely, she would renew the contract. And given the quality of my work, I wondered if the two hundred thousand monthly salary might see a bump?

I was genuinely looking forward to the negotiation.

I climbed onto my battered electric scooter and headed toward the urban village. The wind whipped past me, and I was calculating my potential raise when the roar of an engine surged from behind.

A motorcycle screamed up beside me.

Before I could react, the passenger swung a heavy iron rod directly at my head.

Adrenaline spiked. I jerked the handlebars, barely dodging the lethal blow, but the metal pipe slammed into my shoulder and arm with a sickening thud. The force sent me flying. I hit the pavement hard, my scooter skidding away in a shower of sparks.

Pain exploded through my arm, radiating down to my fingertips.

The motorcycle didn't circle back for a second hit. Instead, the rider slowed just enough for the passenger to shout a warning.

"Stay away from Mila Pruitt! Consider this a small lesson. Next time, we take your life!"

With a roar of the throttle, they sped off into the night.

I sat on the asphalt, clutching my throbbing arm, and watched their taillights fade. My brow furrowed.

Was Mila's suitor so insecure he couldn't hold back?

Finn's smug, sneering face immediately flashed in my mind.

Great. Since when did being a paid simp come with occupational hazards?

If Mila wanted to renew the contract tomorrow, she was definitely paying for my medical bills. I needed hazard pay.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the gates of the Pruitt mansion.

My shoulder and arm were swollen, pulsing with a dull ache. Fortunately, nothing felt broken. A few days of rest would clear it up.

I hadn't slept a wink the night before.

It wasn't the pain from the attack that kept me awake, nor fear of the thugs. It was the fact that Mila hadn't transferred my money.

For three years, Mila had never been late.

Yesterday was the final day of our agreement. By the terms of the contract, the funds should have cleared before midnight. I had stared at my phone all night, waiting for a notification that never came.

So, this morning's millet porridge delivery had a dual purpose: breakfast and debt collection.

I pressed the doorbell and waited. Minutes ticked by.

Finally, the heavy oak door swung open.

But it wasn't Mila standing there. It was Finn.

My stomach dropped. He had stayed the night?

Did this mean Mila had finally accepted his advances? Were they officially a couple now?

This was a disaster.

If Finn had secured his position, my services as a placeholder and ego-boost would no longer be required. My career as a high-paid admirer was about to crash and burn.

My expression soured instantly.

In this economy, finding a job that paid two hundred grand a month—without requiring me to sell my body—was nearly impossible. Losing this gig would be catastrophic.

Finn, however, completely misinterpreted my look of financial panic.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at me with arrogant disdain. A cold sneer played on his lips.

"In the end, you're nothing more than a bootlicking dog, Gilbert. Did you really think you could compete with me?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Was last night's lesson not enough? You actually have the nerve to show your face here today?"

I fixed a cold stare on him.

I'd already suspected he was behind the two bikers who jumped me last night. Hearing him confess it so brazenly lit a fresh spark of rage in my chest.

Finn didn't flinch. A smirk curled his lip.

"You really think your pretty face is enough to keep your job as Mila's lapdog?" He stepped closer, voice dripping with malice. "If I ruin that face, think she'll still keep you around?"

He reached out to pat my cheek—pure, dripping condescension.

Before his skin could graze mine, I snatched his wrist.

His eyes widened. He tried to yank free, but my grip was iron. Shock flickered across his face—clearly he hadn't expected the 'simp' to have any strength.

"My face isn't for you to touch," I said quietly.

His expression twisted. He raised his free hand to strike, cursing, "You ungrateful little—"

I didn't let him finish. My foot drove into his stomach, sending him flying backward.

The kick connected solid. He hit the floor hard, rolling and clutching his abdomen, curling into a ball as he groaned.

In the past, I would've endured his insults. Played the punching bag.

But after last night's ambush, I was done being the victim. Watching him writhe felt like releasing a breath I'd held for three years.

The commotion drew Mila from the bedroom.

She froze, staring at the scene, before her face contorted. "Liam! Have you lost your mind?"

"How dare you touch him? Have you forgotten who you are?" She pointed a trembling finger at the floor. "On your knees. Now. Apologize to Finn."

Seeing her rush to defend him confirmed it. They were definitely together.

Well, my career as a professional doormat was officially over anyway.

I ignored her command, walked over, and placed the thermos on the dining table. "Ms. Pruitt," I said, tone polite but distant. "Here's the millet porridge you asked for. Drink it while it's hot."

"Don't play dumb with me!" she screamed. "I said get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness! Did you hear me?"

On the floor, Finn peeked up, a gleam of malicious triumph in his eyes despite his pain. He loved seeing her defend him. Loved watching me get put in my place.

I looked at Mila and shook my head.

She gaped at me. For three years, I'd been her obedient dog. My defiance short-circuited her brain. Shock quickly morphed into blind rage.

She lashed out, swinging her hand toward my face.

I stepped back calmly, letting her hand slice through empty air.

"You dare dodge me?" she hissed, eyes burning. "Liam, you—"

"Ms. Pruitt," I interrupted, voice cool. "Read the contract. No hitting the face."

I straightened, meeting her eyes dead-on.

"Besides, our three-year agreement ended yesterday. You still owe me my final month's salary. I waited all night for the transfer. It never came."

I added dryly, "Maybe you were too drunk to remember. If it's not too much trouble, please settle the bill."

Mila's face darkened instantly. The air turned heavy, charged with her fury.

Finn Mason froze, eyes wide with genuine shock. Clearly, he had no idea about our arrangement—that Mila paid me a salary to play her devoted admirer.

Her glare could have drawn blood.

I didn't flinch. I kept my expression pleasant and detached—the perfect mask of a contract employee finishing his shift.

"Liam," she hissed through gritted teeth. "Do you have any idea how many men are desperate for my attention? How many would kill to take your place?"

She stepped closer, voice dripping with disdain. "That contract? The monthly payments? That was charity. You should feel honored I let you breathe the same air as me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Even without a cent, standing by my side is the greatest privilege of your pathetic life. Yet here you are, talking about money?" She scoffed. "You've disappointed me, Liam."

She pointed at the door. "Get out. I never want to see your face again."

Her chest heaved with indignation. In her twisted logic, money was irrelevant—I was supposed to be captivated by her charm, a slave to her beauty, not a contractor demanding a final invoice in front of her new toy.

I met her murderous glare calmly. Forget it.

She had been prompt with payments for three years. I could write off this last month as a parting gift.

We were done. No debts, no ties.

I had saved enough for the orphanage and the elderly neighbors' medical bills. Greed had no place here.

I offered her one last polite nod. "Understood, Ms. Pruitt. I wish you wealth and health in the future. Goodbye."

I turned and walked away without waiting for a dismissal.

As I crossed the threshold, a flicker of panic cracked Mila's icy facade. She stepped forward, hand reaching out as if to stop me.

She likely didn't understand her own reaction. To her, I was just a paid admirer, a jester for her amusement. Yet three years of constant presence had etched me into her life deeper than she realized.

My sudden departure left a vacuum—a suffocating emptiness she hadn't anticipated.

Just as her lips parted to call me back, Finn scrambled up from the floor. He moved close, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Good riddance to that ungrateful dog."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't be upset, Mila. I'm here now. I'll take care of you a thousand times better than he ever could."

Mila seemed dazed. She ignored Finn's intense stare, her eyes still fixed on the empty doorway where I had disappeared.

A flash of pure malice darkened Finn's eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by his mask of gentle concern.

By noon, the internet was ablaze with rumors about me.

Paid trolls flooded the forums, branding me a soulless gigolo who preyed on wealthy women. The stories were elaborate—claiming I scammed heiresses to fund a lavish lifestyle and manipulated their emotions for cash.

The harassment wasn't just digital.

Vandals tracked down my rental apartment, splashing red paint and filth across my front door.

Through it all, I remained silent.