Chapter 1

A line of cold, emotionless text burned itself into my vision, overlaying the half-finished canvas in front of me.

[Muse System Activated. Main Task: Sever the parasitic relationship with Liam. Final Goal: Achieve artistic and personal freedom.]

The words were stark, glowing with a faint blue light that only I could see. I didn't flinch, I had gotten used to this strange "Muse" over the past year, this system that had appeared in my life when my despair was at its peak. It was my secret guide, my only hope.

[Sub-quest issued: Facilitate the marriage between Liam and his childhood sweetheart, Scarlett.]

I put down my paintbrush, the smell of oil paint and turpentine filling the sterile, white penthouse apartment Liam called my "studio." It was more of a gilded cage. Every canvas, every tube of paint, every meal I ate was paid for by him. In return, my art, my time, my body-they all belonged to him.

My mind drifted back three years, to the rundown studio I shared with two other artists, the constant hunger in my stomach, the rejections from gallery after gallery. Then Liam had walked in. Wealthy, powerful, an art collector with a reputation for discovering new talent. He saw my work, he saw me, and he bought it all. He bought my entire collection and then he bought my life. He promised me the world, a space to create without worry, all the resources I could ever need.

I was so naive, so desperate. I thought it was love, or at least patronage born from a deep appreciation of my art. I gave up everything. I left my friends, my small apartment, my independence. I fell into his arms, believing he was my savior. But saviors don't put you in a cage, no matter how beautiful it is. His support became control, his praise became a tool to mold my art into what he wanted. My passion was stifled, my canvases became reflections of his desires, not my soul.

A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. It wasn't just the cage, it was the lie. The lie was a woman named Scarlett. She was the one he truly wanted, the one he talked about in his sleep, the name he sometimes whispered after we made love. Scarlett, the renowned art critic, his childhood friend, the one who was always just out of his reach. I was just a placeholder, a pretty distraction, an artist he could own while he obsessed over the one woman he couldn't.

My hand tightened into a fist. The system was right. This wasn't love, it was a parasitic relationship, and it was draining the life and art out of me. The new sub-quest was my only way out. I had to get Liam to marry Scarlett. I had to push them together, to make him finally achieve his obsession, so that he would finally, finally let me go. This was my new project, my most important masterpiece: my own freedom.

Just as the thought solidified in my mind, the sound of the private elevator door opening echoed through the penthouse. Liam was home. I quickly composed myself, wiping the defiance from my face and replacing it with the gentle, pliant expression he expected.

He walked in, his expensive suit perfectly tailored, his face handsome but cold. He barely glanced at my painting. His eyes, as always, were searching for something else.

"Did you see the news?" he asked, his voice clipped. "Scarlett is back in town. She's attending the Art Gala tonight."

My heart gave a small, painful jolt. It was starting. I kept my voice steady, feigning simple curiosity.

"Oh? That's wonderful for the art community."

He finally looked at me, but his gaze was distant, seeing her, not me. "I need you to come with me. Behave yourself. Don't embarrass me."

The words were a casual, brutal dismissal of my worth. I was an accessory he had to bring, a dog he had to remind to stay on its leash. I felt a familiar wave of humiliation wash over me, but I pushed it down, burying it deep. This was part of the process. I nodded meekly.

"Of course, Liam. I'll get ready."

He grunted in response, already pulling out his phone, probably trying to find a way to orchestrate a "chance" meeting with her. He didn't know that from this moment on, I would be the one orchestrating everything. I turned and walked towards the bedroom, my steps measured and calm. Inside, I was a storm of pain and resolve. He wanted me to be a doll on his arm, a silent testament to his good taste. Fine. I would play the part perfectly. I would be the perfect, supportive mistress, all while setting the stage for his grand romance and my own escape.