"I … I think there's a misunderstanding here," I said carefully to Henry. "I never asked for a new phone."
Henry kept smiling at me. "I'm only following the Young Master's orders," he explained. "I've already set up the laptop and phone, so you can use them right away, Young Madam."
He held the paper bag toward me again, leaving me no choice but to take it. My fingers curled around the handles awkwardly. "Th-thank you .…"
"You're welcome, Young Madam," Henry said with a slight bow. "I also saved my number in your phone so you can call me anytime you need something."
I hesitated, lowering my voice. "What about … Mr. Brixton's number?" My eyes darted away, embarrassed to even ask. "Did you … also put that in?"
Even though Lando was technically my husband now, I wasn't sure if he'd let me call him whenever I wanted. After all, I know he was a busy man.
"Yes," Henry answered quickly. "Young Master actually said you may call him if you need anything."
I blinked several times, unable to believe that Lando had given me his number without me even asking.
"I see …," I muttered, clutching the bag tighter. "Once again, thank you, Mr. Fletcher."
Henry smiled gently. "Please, just call me Henry."
"Alright." I smiled sweetly at him. "Thank you, Henry."
After that, I closed the door and immediately pulled out the new phone and laptop. Both of them were brand new—holy shit, he even bought me an expensive laptop!
Without wasting a second, I pressed his number on my phone. To my surprise, he picked up on the first ring.
"Mr. Brixton, I think there's been a mistake," I blurted out. "I only wanted to borrow your old laptop, not … have you buy me a new one."
Lando was silent for a few seconds before saying, "I don't own an old laptop." He continued, "Do you not like my presents?"
P-presents?! For what? It wasn't even my birthday. Why would I deserve presents?
"I-I like them!" I said quickly, panicking at the thought of hurting his feelings. "But … but today isn't my birthday."
Back at the orphanage, I only ever received presents on my birthday or when someone donated their second-hand stuff to us.
Even after I became an actress, I only got gifts on my birthday or during special occasions, since my agency strictly forbade fans from sending random presents.
Well, that was fair. I mean, no company would want their office overflowing with boxes of gifts.
But the point was, I thought people only got presents on birthdays or special occasions.
"Today is your wedding day," Lando said casually, as if it wasn't his wedding day too. "Just think of it as your wedding present."
If he gave me a wedding present, didn't that mean I should also give him one?
But I didn't know what he liked! And if I gave him something cheap, wouldn't that insult him?
Maybe I should just ask what he liked. But before I could, he said, "I'm sorry, but I have an important meeting right now. I'll call you later."
"Wait—" I started, but the line went dead.
Of course he was busy. He was the founder and CEO of ZENTRA Media, after all.
"System," I whispered, "do you know what men like? I've never had a boyfriend before, so I have no idea."
[The system has also never had a boyfriend, Host.]
I was left speechless. Of course the system had never had a boyfriend! It was a freaking machine!
Huffing, I plopped the laptop onto the desk and opened the browser. Fine, if the system couldn't help, the internet would.
There were so many things I wanted to search, but first, I had to look up something very important.
I typed quickly on the keyboard, and after hitting enter, dozens of headlines flashed across the screen.
'Police Statement: Actress Helena Moore Commits Suicide by Jumping from Motel.'
What? Suicide?!
I scrolled down, and more articles about me appeared.
'Drowning in Debt, Helena Moore Turns to Online Prostitution Before Ending Her Life'
Online prostitution? How could they find a way to tarnish my name even after I died?!
'Helena Moore's Darkest Secret Exposed'
No. No, this isn't me. They're lying! They're all fucking lying!
My hand trembled so badly on the mouse that the cursor jerked uncontrollably across the screen.
The more I read, the faster my heart raced. My chest tightened, my throat felt blocked, and oxygen refused to reach my lungs. My eyes burned, and tears slid down my cheeks before I even realized it.
"M-medicine," I stammered desperately to the system. "I-I need my asthma medicine."
[Host … you don't have asthma in this body.]
Then why couldn't I breathe?! It felt like something was crushing my chest, sealing off my throat.
My chest rose and fell rapidly, but it felt like not a single drop of oxygen was reaching my lungs.
It was terrifying and suffocating all at once.
I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared.
I'm so scared.
[Danger! Danger! Host's body is experiencing a panic attack!]
[Oxygen Level: Stable … but irregular breathing detected!]
[Host, you need to breathe!]
But I can't …
[Yes, you can, Host.]
[Now inhale slowly for 4 seconds. One … two … three … four.]
[Good. Now hold it for 7 seconds.]
My vision swam, but I held on to the numbers like they were a lifeline.
[Exhale slowly. Eight seconds.]
The release came with a sob, but some of the pressure in my chest finally eased.
The system then gently urged me to repeat it again.
My trembling hands clung to the desk, my tears blurring everything, yet I forced myself to follow its voice. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again and again.
Little by little, the tightness in my throat loosened, and the dizzy fog in my head began to fade.
By the fifth cycle, my body was still shaking, but the worst of it had passed. I took a deep breath and leaned against the chair, my face wet and my heart pounding, but at least I was breathing again.
"I … I thought I was going to die," I whispered hoarsely.
[Host, panic attacks feel dangerous, but they will not kill you.]
Maybe not physically, but mentally because it felt like something inside me had shattered.
Slowly, I turned my eyes back to the laptop screen, tears slipping down my cheeks as I forced myself to read the headlines.
Apparently, that building was known as a brothel, so of course people assumed I had been involved in online prostitution.
A bitter sound escaped my throat, half a sob, half a laugh. My fists tightened in my lap, nails biting deep into my palms until it hurt.
Unfair. It was all so unfair.
Why did people always paint me as something filthy? Why did they believe I was capable of such things when I had done none of it?
What had I done to deserve this? Was I really that unlikable?
More than that, why did the police immediately declare it as suicide instead of conducting a deeper investigation? Were there no witnesses who saw me being chased by a group of men?
I'd never been afraid of bullies or the cruel words people spat at me. But those men … that day … I had been terrified, so terrified that I didn't even hesitate before jumping.
Honestly, I knew it was such a stupid act because what the hell was I even thinking? There was no way I could survive a fall like that.
But at the same time, I felt relieved that I had jumped.
It was better to die in one piece than let those men break me until nothing was left.
"Can you tell me where I was buried?" I asked the system softly, my voice unsteady after finally pulling myself together.