Face Slapping

I was the heroine of a sweet-wife story: delicate, soft, and made to be swept off my feet.

All I had to do was behave and let one man after another dote on me.

My stepbrother was walking toward me with a glass of milk when a system appeared.

It told me that, according to the plot, I was supposed to develop a sex addiction that very day. From then on, the slightest contact with a man would leave me unbearably aroused, and it would only get worse.

That sounded pretty good to me.

I drained the milk in one gulp.

My stepbrother smiled.

I smiled too.

The system gave an even more wicked little chuckle.

“Except I just changed it into an addiction to studying.”

I started dating someone online.

He claimed he was the crown prince of Beijing’s elite.

I claimed I was the princess of Nancheng.

He said he was six foot two, had eight-pack abs, and measured seven inches where it counted.

I said I was a D cup with a body no woman could rival.

When we finally met, I stared at him in shock.

“Wait—the actual crown prince of Beijing’s elite dates online? You’re surprisingly down-to-earth.”

He looked even more stunned.

“Wait—not one thing you told me was true? You really can lie through your teeth.”

I was a male celebrity drowning in scandals.

Online, people said I had schemed my way to the top. They said my private life was filthy and promiscuous.

My family said I was jealous of the adopted son they had taken in, that I had racked my brains trying to ruin him.

My friends said I was two-faced and treacherous, not someone worth getting close to.

Even my fiancé believed I could never compare to my younger brother, who was generous, graceful, kind, and innocent.

If that was how it was, then I would leave your world behind.

I was never meant to be defined or controlled by anyone.