Chapter 2: The Husband Who Doesn't Exist
Miller had a dream.
A peaceful one.
He was in a quiet village, farming vegetables, raising chickens, living a life free from CEOs, contracts, and death flags.
"Ah… this is life…"
Then suddenly—
"Assistant Miller."
The chickens exploded.
The sky cracked.
And Cloe appeared in the clouds like an unpaid bill.
"Stay closer to me."
Miller woke up screaming.
"I TAKE IT BACK, I DON'T WANT PEACE!!"
Morning.
He stood in front of the mirror again, looking like a man who had already lost custody of his happiness.
"Okay. Think calmly."
He raised one finger.
"Fact one: I am the villain."
Second finger.
"Fact two: Staying close to Cloe = faster death."
Third finger.
"Conclusion: I need to stay far away from her."
He nodded confidently.
"Yes. Genius plan."
Ten minutes later—
"Assistant Miller, the CEO asked you to sit in her office from now on."
Miller: "…"
He looked at the employee.
"…What?"
"She said it's for efficiency."
"…Efficiency of what? My funeral?"
Five minutes later—
Miller sat inside the CEO's office.
Not outside.
Not nearby.
Inside.
Right. Next. To. Her.
"…I made a mistake in life somewhere," he whispered.
Across from him, Cloe worked silently, flipping through documents like a queen reviewing the fate of kingdoms.
Elegant. Calm.
Terrifying.
Miller tried to act invisible.
He opened his laptop.
Typed something random.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
Don't look at her.
Don't talk to her.
Don't breathe too loudly.
"Assistant Miller."
He froze.
"…Yes, CEO?"
"Come here."
He didn't want to.
His soul didn't want to.
But his salary did.
So he stood up and walked over.
"Yes?"
Cloe turned the laptop screen toward him.
"Fix this."
Miller glanced at it.
Paused.
"…This is perfect."
"I know," she replied calmly.
"…Then why—"
"I want to see how you think."
Miller: "…"
Ah.
A test.
A trap.
A villain recruitment exam.
He stared at the screen like it personally offended him.
"Okay… change this section," he said slowly. "It looks good, but it can be sharper."
Cloe watched him.
Closely.
Too closely.
Miller could practically hear the system voice in his head:
[Caution: Interest Level Increasing]
"…Done," he said, stepping back immediately like he touched something illegal.
Cloe didn't respond right away.
She simply looked at the document.
Then at him.
"…You're better than I expected."
Miller forced a smile.
"I aim to disappoint."
Hours later—
Lunch time.
Miller tried to escape.
He really did.
He even reached the elevator.
Pressed the button.
Waited.
Waited.
Then—
"Assistant Miller."
He closed his eyes.
"…I knew it."
He turned around slowly.
Cloe stood there again.
Of course she did.
"Lunch," she said.
Miller blinked.
"…Yes. I am aware lunch exists."
"You're coming with me."
"…Why?"
She looked at him like he asked why gravity exists.
"Because you're my assistant."
"…Assistants eat separately. It's a tradition. A cultural thing. Very important."
"No."
Restaurant.
Expensive.
Too expensive.
Miller looked at the menu and immediately lost confidence.
"…Do they have water?" he whispered.
Cloe ordered calmly.
Without even looking.
Of course she didn't need to.
She probably owned the place.
Food arrived.
Miller stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at the food.
"…This is dangerous."
Cloe raised an eyebrow.
"The food?"
"No. The situation."
They ate in silence.
Well—
Cloe ate.
Miller tried to survive.
Then suddenly—
"Do you believe in marriage?"
Miller choked.
"…That escalated quickly."
He coughed.
Recovered.
"…Depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I'm dying in the future or not."
Silence.
Cloe looked at him.
Longer this time.
"…You're strange."
"Thank you. I try."
Meanwhile—
In a quiet house—
Andro sat alone again.
The food from last night still untouched.
The new meal in front of him slowly getting cold.
He looked at the clock.
Then at the door.
Waiting.
Still waiting.
He picked up his phone.
Scrolled to a name.
Cloe
His finger hovered.
Stopped.
Lowered.
"…She's busy."
His voice was soft.
Almost apologetic.
As if he was the one at fault.
Back at the restaurant—
Cloe placed her fork down.
"From today, you'll handle more of my personal schedule."
Miller froze.
"…Define 'personal.'"
"Everything."
"…That sounds illegal."
"It's efficient."
"…For who?"
"For me."
Miller: Of course it is.
After lunch—
They returned to the office.
Miller walked slightly behind her.
Head low.
Brain screaming.
"This is wrong. This is not how the story goes."
In the original plot—
Cloe was cold.
Distant.
Uninterested.
She only noticed the assistant later.
After many dramatic events.
But now?
Day one.
And she was already—
"…Too interested."
Miller stopped walking.
His expression turned serious.
"This is the butterfly effect."
His transmigration changed things.
Small actions.
Big consequences.
And right now—
The biggest problem wasn't himself.
It was—
"…The male lead."
That night—
Miller stood in front of a modest house.
Not a mansion.
Not luxurious.
Simple.
Quiet.
He stared at the door.
"This is where Andro lives."
The man who was supposed to suffer.
The man who was supposed to endure everything.
The man who—
"…dies."
Miller clenched his fists.
"I'm not letting that happen."
He took a deep breath.
Raised his hand.
Knocked.
The door opened slowly.
And there he was.
Andro.
Calm eyes.
Gentle face.
A quiet presence.
He looked at Miller.
"…Yes?"
Miller froze.
Because this—
This was not a character.
This was a person.
A very tired person.
"…I—" Miller paused.
Then blurted out—
"Please divorce your wife."
Silence.
Heavy.
Deadly silence.
Andro blinked.
"…What?"
Miller: "…I started wrong."