My Villain Was My Destiny

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As a top-tier Operative for the System, my current assignment was simple: capture the heart of this world's male lead.

To conquer Troy Croft, I operated on a simple, reverse-engineered principle: relentless devotion breaks the hardest stone. Day in and day out, I threw myself at him, manufacturing encounters, pushing boundaries, and tangling myself in his sheets. I firmly believed that if I poured enough heat into him, even a man made of absolute ice would eventually melt.

Tonight, I was playing my greatest hit. I had him pinned against the leather sofa, my fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his immaculately tailored dress shirt.

Just as his breathing began to fray, just as that dark, consuming haze of lust finally clouded his eyes, the Systems alarm violently shattered the inside of my skull.

[Warning! Target allocation error!]

[Troy Croft is the designated antagonist of this narrative. He is a cold-blooded sociopath who fundamentally despises being touched or pursued. If you continue this seduction, he will tear you apart until there is nothing left but ash!]

[The true male lead is about to enter the timeline. Host, you must disengage immediately and prepare for the new objective!]

My body went rigid. For two agonizing seconds, the silence in the room was deafening. Then, without a shred of hesitation, I unhooked my leg from around his waist.

I rolled off him with practiced efficiency, scooping up my scattered clothes from the rug and pulling them over my chilled skin.

I was halfway to the door when a hand clamped around my wrist. The heat of his palm was like a branding iron.

Troys brow was deeply furrowed. Beneath the heavy, lingering veil of interrupted desire in his eyes, a dark, dangerous displeasure was rapidly boiling to the surface.

"Why did you stop?"

1.

I stared down at the hand manacling my wrist. His nails were neatly trimmed, the faint, abrasive calluses on his palms digging into my fragile bones. His grip was absolute.

"I just remembered... I left the gas burner on at my apartment."

It was the cheapest, most pathetic lie I could have conjured.

Troy let out a low, breathy scoff. He sat up slowly, his unbuttoned shirt falling open to reveal the sharp planes of his chest. A single bead of sweat traced the line of his collarbone, vanishing into the shadows.

"Belinda," he murmured, his voice deadly soft. "What do you take me for?"

With one violent yank, I was pulled backward, crashing hard against his chest. The solid muscle bruised my nose, making my eyes water.

"Let me go, Troy."

I forced my expression into a mask of ice. If the System said he was going to grind my bones to dust, then every second I remained in his orbit was another shovelful of dirt on my own grave.

The lust bled out of his eyes in an instant, replaced by a layer of frost that made the air in the room drop ten degrees.

"Weren't you just saying, less than five minutes ago, that you couldn't live a single day of this life without me?"

I twisted violently, wrenching myself from his grasp.

"I was out of my mind. I've sobered up."

I snatched my purse from the armchair and bolted out the front door of the penthouse without a backward glance. As soon as the biting night wind hit my face, a violent shiver racked my spine.

Inside my head, the System was frantic.

[New target localized: Patrick Craig. Wall Street wunderkind, old money elite. He is currently attending a private celebration at Obsidian.]

[Please note, Host: Patrick is your true destiny. Troy is nothing but a psychotic roadblock hindering your progress.]

I flagged down a yellow cab, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Obsidian. Step on it."

The heavy bass of the club's sound system vibrated through the floorboards as I stood at the end of the VIP corridor, staring at the door the System had highlighted in neon blue in my mind's eye.

I pushed the heavy oak door open. The room was thick with the smell of expensive bourbon and cigar smoke.

Sitting dead center was a man in a deep navy suit. His features were elegant, refined, radiating an effortless, aristocratic warmth. Patrick Craig.

He was leaning down to listen to someone beside him, a gentle, easy smile playing on his lips.

This. This was the blueprint of a perfect male lead. Not like Troy, who walked around with a permanent scowl, looking as if the entire world owed him a billion dollars in blood money.

I took a deep breath, grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and glided toward him.

"Mr. Craig. I've heard so much about you."

I executed my signature movea perfectly calculated slip of the heel, sending me tumbling gracefully toward his chest. It was a classic trope, but it had a hundred percent success rate.

Except, a hand caught my shoulder before I could reach him. The grip was brutal, immovable. It wasn't Patrick's.

I whipped my head around. Troys shadow fell over me, his face a storm of quiet fury.

I had no idea how he had followed me so fast. He was completely put together now, his shirt buttoned up to his throat, the picture of lethal composure.

"Did you turn off the gas, Ms. Belinda?"

He was smiling, but he was grinding his teeth so hard I could hear the enamel squeak. Every syllable was spat with venom.

The room plunged into sudden silence. Patrick looked at us, his brow raised in mild confusion.

"Troy? Who is this?"

Troy didn't look at him. His pitch-black eyes were locked onto mine, drilling into my skull.

"Just a lunatic who walked into the wrong room."

He hauled me out of the VIP lounge by my arm, his grip so vicious I thought he might actually dislocate my shoulder.

"Troy, are you out of your mind?!"

I finally managed to rip my arm free as we hit the empty hallway. The flickering neon lights from the main floor made my head spin.

He backed me into the corner, planting both hands flat against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in.

"You ran away from me... for that?" he sneered, his chest heaving. "That's your standard now?"

I let out a harsh laugh.

"What's wrong with Patrick? He's gentle. He's considerate. Unlike some people who don't even know how the muscles in their face form a smile."

Troys face morphed into something truly terrifying. He leaned in until his forehead was resting heavily against mine, trapping my breath in my throat.

"Belinda. You chased me for three months. You sent me ninety-nine arrangements of black roses. You waited in the lobby of my building for two weeks straight just to bring me coffee. And now you're telling me you've swapped me out?"

I averted my eyes, a wave of genuine guilt washing over me. I had only done all of that for the mission. How was I supposed to know the System had a glitch?

"I was blind," I whispered to his chest. "I'm cured now."

I pushed against his sternum. He felt like a wall of solid granite. He didn't budge an inch.

"Cured?"

He let out a low, rough laugh. It didn't reach his eyes. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

"Let me help you relapse."

He lunged. It wasn't a kiss. His teeth sank into the tender flesh of my neck, right over the pulse point. The sharp, metallic tang of blood instantly flooded the narrow space between us.

2.

A sharp cry tore from my throat.

"Troy! Are you a rabid dog?!"

I shoved at his shoulders with everything I had, but the harder I fought, the tighter he crushed me against his body, until the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall.

Patrick emerged from the shadows.

"Troy, I don't think that's a very gentlemanly way to treat a lady."

Troy finally released me. I brought a trembling hand to my neck, feeling the wet, perfectly curved imprint of his teeth.

He turned slowly, shifting his broad shoulders to completely block me from Patrick's view.

"Patrick. Mind your own goddamn business."

Patrick calmly adjusted his cuffs.

"The lady doesn't look like she wants to go with you." He extended a hand toward me, his eyes kind. "Do you need some help?"

The System shrieked in my ears: [Now! Take his hand! This is a massive opportunity to farm affinity points!]

I stepped around Troy's imposing frame and walked straight toward Patrick.

Troys face went deadly pale. A violent, volatile rage swirled in his dark eyes.

"Belinda. Take one more step. I dare you."

I ignored him entirely, slipping my arm through Patrick's.

"Mr. Craig, could you give me a ride home?"

Patrick offered a reassuring smile.

"It would be my pleasure."

Patricks car rode smooth, the cabin smelling faintly of sandalwood and expensive leather.

"Your friend back there... he seems to have quite a strong opinion of you," Patrick remarked casually, his eyes on the road.

I rubbed my aching wrist, staring out the window at the blurred city lights.

"Just an ex-pursuer. He doesn't know how to take a hint."

The System chimed brightly: [Patrick Craig Affinity +5. Current Total: 5.]

I let out a long exhale. So this was how the game was supposed to be played. Smooth, rational, elegant.

When we pulled up to my apartment building, Patrick stepped out to open my door.

"Belinda, if you don't mind, I'd love to get your number."

I pulled out my phone. Just as the screen lit up, a blinding set of high beams cut through the darkness.

A sleek black Bentley roared down the quiet street, accelerating to a terrifying speed, aiming straight for the rear of Patrick's car.

Crash!

The deafening sound of crunching metal shattered the quiet night. The entire trunk of Patrick's luxury sedan caved in like a crushed soda can.

The Bentley lurched to a halt. The driver's side door swung open, and Troy stepped out into the street. He was holding a solid titanium golf club. His face was a mask of chilling apathy.

"My apologies," he said, his voice carrying over the hissing radiator. "My foot slipped off the brake."

He stared at Patrick with a calmness that made my blood run entirely cold.

Patricks polite veneer cracked.

"Are you insane, Croft? Thats attempted vehicular manslaughter."

Troy scoffed. He dragged the heavy head of the golf club against the asphalt, the metal shrieking as he walked slowly toward us.

"File a police report. Let's see which precinct in this city has the guts to process the paperwork."

He stopped, turning his dead eyes toward me.

"Come here."

My feet were glued to the pavement. I couldn't breathe.

"Troy, you need psychiatric help."

Without warning, he swung the club in a vicious arc. The remaining taillight on Patricks car exploded into a shower of red glass, raining down on the pavement.

"Belinda. I will say it one last time. Come here."

He spoke so softly, but the sheer gravity in his voice made my spine tingle with primal fear.

The System was losing its digital mind: [Warning! Troy Croft's corruption meter is critical! Host, placate him immediately, or the timeline will collapse!]

I looked at Patrick, who was visibly shaken, and then back at Troy, who looked ready to burn the entire block to the ground.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked toward the man holding the golf club.

"I'll go with you. Just... stop this."

Troy dropped the club. It clattered against the street. He gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my hips, and shoved me into the passenger seat of the ruined Bentley.

3.

The locks clicked down instantly. He circled the car, dropped into the drivers seat, and floored the accelerator. The sudden G-force pinned me to the seat, making the city lights streak into blinding lines.

He didn't take me to the townhouse we usually frequented. He took me to a sterile, minimalist penthouse high above the skyline. It felt less like a home and more like a beautifully curated glass cage.

He dragged me inside, threw me onto the massive bed, and caged me in with his body.

"What kind of sick game are you playing, Belinda?"

He caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.

"You crawl into my bed, and the very next second you're throwing yourself at Patrick Craig?"

I stared blankly past his shoulder, fixing my eyes on the modern chandelier overhead.

"I told you. I don't want you anymore."

"Troy, you hated it when I smothered you. I'm finally letting you go. You should be throwing a parade."

He leaned down, his face mere inches from mine, his breathing ragged.

"Who gave you permission to let go?"

"You forced your way into my life, and now you think you can just walk out?"

He began tearing at my clothes with a frenzied, desperate energy. Gone was the tightly-wound, calculated CEO. This was a man unraveling.

"You started this, Belinda."

He crashed his mouth over mine. It was a suffocating, punishing kiss, laced with dominance and a terrifying undercurrent of grief.

I thrashed beneath him, but he easily captured both my wrists in one large hand, pinning them above my head.

"Let me go..."

"Troy, if you do this, I will hate you."

He froze. For a heartbeat, the air was entirely still. Then, a broken, hollow laugh tumbled from his lips.

"Then hate me. Hate me with everything you have. It's infinitely better than you forgetting me."

When I woke up the next morning, the space beside me was empty and cold.

A heavy, metallic band was locked securely around my left ankle. It had a blinking red LED light. A custom GPS monitor. If I tried to tamper with it, it would scream.

I tugged at it. It didn't yield a millimeter. He had put me under house arrest.

The System sighed dramatically in my mind. [Host... Patrick's affinity just dropped to 3. He thinks you're toxic drama. You need to get out of here, or the mission will officially fail.]

I stared at the morning sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"And how exactly do I do that? Sprout wings and fly off the balcony?"

The bedroom door clicked open. A woman in a neat uniform walked in, carrying a silver breakfast tray.

"Ms. Belinda. Mr. Croft left instructions that you are to finish everything on this plate."

I eyed the housekeeper.

"Where is he?"

"Mr. Croft is at the office."

I didn't argue. I picked up the silver spoon and took a bite of the oatmeal, my brain working in overdrive.

Troy was a paranoid obsessive. Fighting him head-on would only make him tighten the leash. I had to stroke the lion's mane, lull him into a false sense of security, and wait for the cage door to crack open.

For the next few days, I played the perfect, docile pet.

When he came home, I would walk up to him and wrap my arms around his waist. When he brought his laptop to the living room, I sat on his lap and fed him fruit.

The way he looked at me grew darker, deeper. Beneath the possessive fury, there were flashes of a desperate, intoxicating tenderness.

"If you had just been this good from the beginning, you wouldn't have had to suffer," he murmured one evening, his long fingers absentmindedly stroking my cheek.

I leaned into his palm, closing my eyes.

"I was wrong, Troy. I realized Patrick doesn't hold a candle to you."

A flicker of raw triumph crossed his eyes. It was fleeting, but I caught it.

"Then prove it."

The next evening, he unlocked the monitor from my ankle and took me as his date to the Croft Enterprise Annual Gala.

4.

Patrick was there. When he saw me draped on Troy's arm, his expression tightened with a messy cocktail of pity and confusion.

Troy held my waist in a vice grip, parading me through the ballroom like a king showing off the crown jewels.

"Go offer Mr. Craig a drink," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Show him exactly whose woman you are."

I took a flute of champagne and walked toward Patrick. I could feel the weight of Troy's gaze burning into my spine.

Patrick lowered his voice the moment I was close enough. "Belinda, if he's holding you against your will, blink twice. I have lawyers. I can call the police."

I offered a perfectly manicured smile.

"You're overthinking it, Patrick. Troy and I just... enjoy playing rough."

I leaned in, brushing my shoulder against his, and dropped my voice to a barely audible whisper. "Do me a favor. Tomorrow at 3:00 PM. Have your car waiting in the service alley behind the Croft building."

Patrick stiffened.

I didn't give him a chance to respond. I tipped the champagne back, swallowed it down, and walked straight back into Troy's waiting arms.

Troy looked thoroughly satisfied. Right in the middle of the crowded ballroom, he tilted my chin up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to my forehead.

"Good girl."

The System chimed in: [Patrick Craig Affinity restored to 10. You've triggered his white-knight complex. Brilliant play, Host.]

The next afternoon, Troy had a mandatory, closed-door boardroom meeting with his international investors.

He left me in his sprawling executive office, placing two massive security guards outside the double doors.

I sat on the white leather sofa, flipping through a magazine.

"I'm craving an iced matcha from the cafe downstairs," I called out, showing one of the guards a picture on my phone.

The guard shifted uncomfortably.

"Ms. Belinda, Mr. Croft gave strict orders"

"He told you to keep an eye on me, he didn't say you had to starve me. It's a two-minute elevator ride. One of you goes, one of you stays. What's the problem?"

The guards exchanged a look. Eventually, one of them jogged toward the elevators, while the other stood squarely in the doorway, his eyes locked on me.

I stood up and stretched.

"I'm going to go touch up my makeup."

I walked into Troys private en-suite bathroom and locked the door. I had mapped this out weeks ago. There was a small, frosted ventilation window above the tub that opened out onto a heavy-duty rain awning.

I kicked off my heels, scrambled up the marble tile, squeezed through the narrow frame, and slid down the drainage pipe into the damp alleyway below.

Patrick's sleek sedan was idling by the dumpsters. I yanked the passenger door open and threw myself inside.

"Drive! Go!"

Patrick didn't ask questions. He navigated us out of the city, driving two hours deep into upstate New York, pulling up to a secluded, rustic cabin surrounded by dense woods.

"My family's hunting lodge. It's off the grid. He won't find you here," Patrick said, handing me a mug of hot tea.

I wrapped my freezing hands around the ceramic.

"Why are you doing this, Patrick?"

He sat across from me, the firelight reflecting in his steady, gentle eyes.

"Because I despise men who treat women like property. Love isn't a cage, Belinda."

The System's voice was practically singing: [Affinity +20! Current Total: 30. Strike while the iron is hot, Host! Lock him down!]

I was just parting my lips to deliver a tear-jerking speech about finding true safety, when my phone vibrated violently against the wooden table.

An incoming FaceTime call. From Troy.

My hands shook as I swiped to answer.

On the screen, Troy was sitting at his massive desk, casually flipping through the magazine I had left on his sofa.

"Belinda," he said softly. "Did you really think a boy like Patrick could keep you safe?"

He looked up at the camera. His eyes were devoid of all humanity. It was the look of a predator staring at cornered prey.

"Look out the window."

My blood turned to ice. I dropped the phone, sprinting to the cabin window.

The woods were alive with headlights. A dozen black SUVs had silently surrounded the perimeter of the property, boxing us in entirely.

Troy's voice drifted from the speaker of the dropped phone.

"Patrick. You stole something that belongs to me. The price for that... is going to ruin you."

Patrick's face drained of all color. He stared out the window at the army of vehicles.

"How... how did he find us so fast?"

The video call disconnected.

Less than three minutes later, the heavy oak door of the cabin was kicked off its hinges.

Troy walked in over the splintered wood. He didn't say a word. He walked straight up to Patrick, pulled his fist back, and delivered a sickening blow to his jaw.

Patrick crashed into the coffee table, blood instantly pooling at the corner of his mouth.

"Troy, stop!"

I threw myself between them, shielding Patrick with my body.

Troy stared down at me. The violence radiating from his pores was suffocating.

"You faked submission. You ran. For him?"

He reached down, twisting his fist into my hair, forcing my head back so I was looking up into his terrifying gaze.

"I've been too soft on you, Belinda. Haven't I?"