Seven years of love or seven years of bad luck

My step-brother twisted my love confession for his best friend, Elliott, branding me a manipulative social climber. For seven years, a glowing "Disgust Meter" above Elliott' s head confirmed his hatred, forcing me to flee New York.

When I returned, I woke up in his apartment to a shocking truth. He confessed the meter was a malfunctioning "Pure Love System"-the rising numbers had always been a measure of his love, not his disgust.

But just as hope bloomed, my step-brother sent me a screenshot from a group chat: "Elliott's Marriage Bet." His friends laughed about me being a "side quest," a pawn in a cruel game to get him to marry someone else.

My heart shattered. Was his confession just another lie? Was I nothing more than a toy to be broken for their amusement?

But when Elliott dropped to one knee in a Parisian boardroom, publicly declaring war on my brother and swearing his love was real, I knew the truth was far more complicated than I ever imagined.

Chapter 1

Alexia Chase POV

My step-brother Jarrod received my intimate confession for Elliott, his best friend, and used it to brand me a manipulative social climber, initiating seven years of deep-seated contempt.

Over Elliott's head, a glowing numerical display appeared the day he turned against me. I called it the "Disgust Meter"—a cruel, hovering number that seemed to measure his revulsion. But I never understood where it came from, or why only I could see it.

The number first appeared the night Elliott called me a gold-digger. A flickering red "37" above his head, pulsing like a heartbeat. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it wouldn't go away. I thought I was going insane.

As the years passed, I learned to live with it—my private torment, a digital judge confirming my unworthiness.

This digital torment drove me away from New York, from everything I had once hoped for.

My mother's remarriage to Jarrod's father had plunged me into a world of unimaginable wealth, a world I never fully belonged to. Jarrod, always arrogant and possessive, saw my mother and me as gold-digging intruders. He maliciously twisted my innocent draft message into a sick obsession with him, turning Elliott, the one person who had ever made me feel seen, against me. Elliott, the heir to a formidable real estate empire, became cold, his once kind gaze now holding a judgment that fueled the meter above his head. I fled to Chicago, burying myself in architecture, trying to build an identity free from their shadow. But the past had a way of pulling me back.

The memory of the phone vibrating in my hand, the screen displaying Jarrod's name, still brought a cold dread. I had spent hours crafting that message, pouring out my teenage heart to Elliott, too shy to send it directly. It was a draft, a safe place for my secret hopes. Somehow, it found its way to Jarrod. His furious call, his voice dripping with revulsion, shattered my world. He called me sick, twisted, a parasite. He threatened to expose me. He did not need to threaten. He already had. Elliott, hearing Jarrod's venomous account, simply looked at me with an expression that froze my blood. That was the day the meter appeared, a chilling red "37" above Elliott's head, stark against the opulent backdrop of the Hoffman mansion.

That number, at first, was a mere flicker. I saw it over his head, a bright, digital glow. I squinted, trying to make sense of it. Was it a trick of the light? The number was small, and it seemed to pulse with a faint energy. No one else ever reacted to it. It was mine alone—a private torment, and a mystery I could never solve.

I tried to research it online, found nothing. I considered seeing a psychiatrist, but fear stopped me. What if they thought I was crazy? What if the Hoffmans found out? So I kept silent, and the meter became my cross to bear.