A Love Unwritten

For three years, I paid millions to have Caleb Mitchell as my boyfriend. I funded his sister's experimental cancer treatment, and in return, the brilliant, proud student played the part of my loving companion. He resented being bought, but I was foolish enough to fall in love with him.

That foolishness ended two months ago, after a fall from a horse left me with a concussion. I woke up with the horrifying knowledge that my entire life was a lie—I was just the villainess in a novel, a footnote in a story about him.

In this story, Caleb was the hero, destined to reunite with his true love, Frances. I was the obstacle he had to overcome. My pre-written fate was to go mad with jealousy, try to destroy them, and end up ruined and dead.

I thought it was a hallucination until the plot began to unfold. The final proof was the vintage watch I spent months restoring for his birthday. A week later, he gave it to Frances, telling her it was just some old trinket he'd found.

According to the script, seeing that watch on her wrist was supposed to make me fly into a hysterical rage, sealing my tragic fate.

But I refuse to follow their story. If the villainess is destined for a tragic end, then this villainess will simply disappear from the book altogether.

I slid a black credit card across the polished desk. "I want to be declared dead," I told the man who specialized in new beginnings. "Lost at sea. No body."

Chapter 1

"I want to disappear," I said, my voice steady.

The man across the polished mahogany desk didn't flinch. He wore a tailored suit that probably cost more than a car, but his eyes were like a reptile's, cold and unblinking. His office was sterile, smelling of old money and secrets.

"Disappear, or be declared dead?" he asked, his tone flat. "There's a price difference."

"Declared dead," I confirmed. "Lost at sea. No body, or one that's unidentifiable but matches my general description. I want it to be convincing."

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Our services are top-tier, Miss Osborne. We guarantee a clean slate. New identity, new life. The arrangements for the 'accident' will be flawless. No one will ever find you unless you want to be found."

I slid a black credit card across the desk. It had no name, only a number. "That's the deposit. The rest will be transferred upon confirmation of my successful 'death'."

He picked up the card, his movements economical. "Understood. We will be in touch with the final details."

I stood up, my business here concluded. I walked out of the nondescript building and into the bustling noise of a New York afternoon. A sleek black car was waiting at the curb, the driver holding the door open.

"Good afternoon, Miss Osborne," he said, his head bowed respectfully.

I nodded and got in, the plush leather seats a familiar comfort. The car pulled smoothly into traffic, heading towards the Upper East Side. I stared out the window at the city I was about to leave behind forever.

The car stopped in front of a modern glass-and-steel skyscraper. This wasn't my family's home. It was the penthouse I shared with him. The man I had bought.

I stepped into the private elevator, and it whisked me silently to the top floor. The doors opened directly into a vast living room with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Central Park.

It was a beautiful cage.

The apartment was quiet. I knew he wasn't home. He was still at Columbia, where he was the brilliant, struggling student I had plucked from obscurity.

I walked to the bar and poured myself a glass of water, my hand perfectly steady. I had to be. My life depended on it.

A few minutes later, the elevator chimed. Caleb Mitchell stepped out, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was beautiful, with sharp cheekbones, intense dark eyes, and an air of quiet pride that hadn't been broken, even by our arrangement. He looked like the hero of a story.

He was. Just not mine.

He saw me and his expression, which had been neutral, cooled. He dropped his backpack by the door.

He walked towards me, his long legs closing the distance in a few strides. He reached out to cup my face, his touch a practiced, empty gesture. "You're home early."

I flinched and turned my head away, his hand falling to his side. "Don't touch me."

His brows furrowed. "What's wrong, Jaliyah? Another bad day at the charity gala planning committee?" His voice held a faint, almost unnoticeable trace of mockery. He thought my life was a series of frivolous events.

He wasn't entirely wrong. It used to be.

"I have a headache," I lied, turning my back to him to place the glass in the sink. It was the easiest excuse. He always accepted it.