Chapter 1My Unwilling Muse

The System told me I had to save my depressed husband. I told it to go to hell.

When he held a blade to his arm, I didn't rush over to tear it away. I didn't scream or beg. Instead, I marched over to the balcony, threw the window open, and wailed at the top of my lungs to the quiet, upscale suburban street below.

"My limited-edition Louboutins! The heel just snapped! God above, why even bother living anymore?"

Gavin froze. He looked at the blade, then at me, then at the neighbors’ windows across the street. Fearing a scene more than his own inner demons, he sighed, put the knife down, and walked over to guide me back inside.

"Stop crying, Sandy," he muttered, his voice raspy from disuse. "We’ll go to the city tomorrow. I’ll buy you a new pair."

At 3:00 AM, when he tried to slip out of bed to find some lonely bridge or quiet train track to vanish on, I didn't offer a hug or a therapy session. I simply shoved my ice-cold feet directly into the small of his back, right under his silk pajamas.

"I’m freezing to death, Gavin. Be a man and warm me up."

He jolted, a shudder running through his frame as my frozen toes made contact with his skin. He frowned, his brow furrowing in the dark, but he eventually turned around and wrapped his hands around my feet, pulling the duvet tighter around us both.

After months of this, he was still miserable, and I still acted like I didn't care.

"Fine," I said one morning over coffee. "If you’re so hell-bent on dying, let’s get a divorce first."

Gavin blinked, looking genuinely stunned. "Is a divorce a prerequisite for suicide now?"

I rolled my eyes. "Duh. I’m only trapped in this miserable house because I’m legally tied to you. Once we’re divorced, I can finally get the hell out of here and start my real life."

Suddenly, his grip on my hand tightened. He pulled me toward him, his eyes flickering with a sudden, sharp anxiety. "Then I’m not doing it. I’m not divorcing you."

I was the unlucky soul chosen by "The Program"—a cosmic glitch or a high-tech system, I wasn't sure—to inhabit the body of Sandy Miller, the wife of Gavin Miller.

Gavin was the quintessential "brooding, tortured artist" type. Rich, handsome, and deeply, darkly depressed.

The System had used a tone of divine burden when it first briefed me: [Ms. Miller, in this narrative, the only way you can return to your original world is by successfully redeeming your broken husband.]

I had responded by ripping open the heavy, blackout curtains of our master suite, squinting at the sunlight. "Why me? I spent my real life working ten-hour shifts like a dog. Now I’m supposed to come here and play therapist for a man who has everything but can’t find a reason to wake up? I’m the one who wants to quit life, thanks."

So, whenever Gavin tried to end it, I played the role of the oblivious, demanding wife.

After several failed attempts by the System to "guide" me toward a more nurturing approach, it finally gave up.

[Fine. If you can be this cold-hearted toward a man that gorgeous, Sandy, you’re on your own. Good luck.]

Without the System’s nagging, I truly stopped giving a damn about his "redemption."

Gavin was a "trust-fund baby" in the truest sense. His father had left him a fortune, meaning he didn't have to work a single day in his life. He was the poster child for the "I don't need money, I just need love" demographic.

Too much money, too little purpose. Hence, the depression.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, I had been a corporate drone, a marketing strategist who measured my life in coffee cups and spreadsheets. Being dragged into this world to "save" a sad prince was the height of irony.

In my book, a commoner’s life was just as valuable. If he was my husband, he was going to be useful. I wasn't about to play the doting martyr while he sulked in the shadows.

Today, he was doing his usual routine: locked in his studio, refusing to come out.

I pounded on the door with zero grace.

Fed up with the noise, he cracked the door open an inch. A single, dark, brooding eye stared out at me.

"What?" his voice was flat, cold.

"I’m hungry," I snapped, my tone even worse than his. "Go make dinner."

"No."

He started to shut the door, but I jammed my foot in the frame and shoved. Gavin stood there, six-foot-one of wasted potential, staring at me with a blank expression. His hair had grown too long, covering his eyes, leaving only the sharp, pale line of his jaw visible.

Looking at him, my annoyance flared. "Make dinner, then go downstairs and cut that hair. You look like a Victorian ghost. It’s depressing."

He was naturally pale, and with the long hair, he looked more like a specter than a man.

Gavin didn't move.

I lost my patience. I grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He stumbled, falling slightly into me, looking startled and vulnerable.

"Are you insane?" he whispered.

I brushed the hair out of his face and took a pink, plastic cartoon clip from my own hair, pinning his bangs back. Seeing his handsome face fully revealed, my anger softened just a fraction.

"Sweetie," I said, my voice dropping to a faux-tender hum. "You’re my husband. I’m hungry. If you don't take care of me, who will?"

He froze, a flicker of logic seemingly piercing through his fog. He straightened his rumpled shirt, pulled down his sleeves to hide the scars on his wrists, and walked toward the kitchen. He tied an apron around his waist without another word.

"The usual? Braised short ribs?" he asked quietly after a moment.

I flopped onto the sofa. "Yeah. That’ll do."

How do you live with someone who’s "broken"?

You treat them like they’re normal.

After dinner, while he was finishing the dishes, I stood in the doorway holding his coat.

"Dishes are done. Can I go back to my room now?" he asked, still cold, but the pink cartoon clip in his hair made the whole "dark prince" act look ridiculous.

I couldn't help it. I snorted. Then I laughed.

"What?" His brow furrowed.

"Nothing. You’re just... surprisingly cute sometimes," I said honestly.

He opened his mouth to retort, but I pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh. We’re going to the barber. I refuse to share a house with a ghost."