1 Staring at the plate of boiled carrots in front of me, tears welled up in my eyes. “Mr. Ashford, I’ve been eating rabbit food for two weeks straight. Can I please, please request just a few slices of boiled pork?” Harry sat across the long mahogany dining table, his long legs elegantly crossed, his brow furrowed slightly. “Nonsense. Your digestive tract is far too delicate. Eating meat will cause a fatal blockage. Be a good girl and finish your carrot. I’ve scheduled the doctor to come clip your nails this afternoon.” Despondent, I picked up the orange root and began to gnaw on it. Two weeks ago, Harry, the most feared and ruthless billionaire in the city, survived a terrible car crash. Unfortunately, his brain didn’t escape unscathed. He woke up firmly believing that I was a premium, ridiculously expensive lop-eared rabbit he had purchased. To keep his “pet” healthy, he confiscated every single one of my snacks and put me on a strict herbivore diet. Clutching my hollow stomach, I made a silent vow: the exact second this system mission ended, I was going to devour ten consecutive meals of spicy Sichuan hotpot. … I sat on the plush sofa, staring in grim silence at the heavy-duty stainless-steel nail clippers in Harry’s hand. In my head, the system’s voice chimed with cold, mechanical insistence: Host, please cooperate with the target’s daily grooming routine. Current progress: sixty percent. My inner voice shrieked back: What kind of lunatic feeds a rabbit pig-sized portions of grass?! If I eat one more carrot, my skin is going to turn permanently orange! Harry stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me. He wore a tailored charcoal-black designer shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, pale, and powerful wrists. A look of profound, terrifying tenderness washed over his face as he expertly shook out a massive cashmere blanket. “Stay still, sweetheart. Rabbits are prone to severe stress during grooming. If I don’t swaddle you, you might thrash and break your own spine.” His tone was so gentle it made my skin crawl. Before I could utter a word of protest, darkness descended. He threw the blanket over my head and, with practiced efficiency, wrapped me up into a tightly sealed burrito. I struggled, kicking wildly inside my woolly prison, but Harry scooped me up by the waist with zero effort. He strode over to the armchair, sat down, and pinned me firmly against his lap. Even through the thick layers of cashmere, I could feel the hard, unyielding contour of his thigh muscles. Holding my waist secure with one hand, he used his other hand to patiently coax my right hand out from the edge of the blanket. “Doctor, you may begin. Watch the quick. Don’t make her bleed.” The private physician stood nearby, his expression a mix of profound regret and utter bewilderment, looking as though he were silently screaming: Are you two playing some sick roleplay game, and why am I a part of it? “Mr. Ashford, technically speaking, this rabbit’s nails are still well within a healthy length.” Harry’s gaze instantly turned arctic. He looked up, and the temperature in the room plummeted. “Are you questioning my caretaking?” The doctor shut his mouth instantly and brought down the clippers. Snap. A tiny sliver of nail fell onto the astronomically expensive Persian rug. I stared blankly at the ceiling, utterly defeated. Harry looked down at me, his eyes brimming with affection. Freeing one hand, he gently stroked the crown of my head, running his fingers smoothly down my hair with a highly professional pet-grooming technique. “Such a good girl today. You’ll get two Timothy hay biscuits as a reward tonight.” My vision went dark. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. When was this nightmare going to end? Two weeks ago, I had collapsed into a flower bed outside my office building after pulling three consecutive all-nighters. When I woke up, a bizarre voice calling itself “The System” had taken up residence in my brain. The System told me that if I successfully won the heart of the Ashford Group’s supreme CEO, Harry, I would receive a cool ten million dollars in cash. Ten million dollars! I accepted the offer before the entity could even finish its sentence. But wait, I had asked back then. Do I do the classic clumsy intern routine? Is this billionaire guy actually as brainless as the ones in web novels? If I wasn’t mistaken, the system’s tone had carried a hint of mischief. Of course not. We are a respectable, high-end system. We don’t do trashy tropes. I’ve already laid the groundwork for you. Whether you pocket that ten million is entirely up to your execution. I had been bursting with confidence. At the time, Harry’s luxury sedan was parked on the curb. With a fresh bandage wrapped around his head and a cold, ruthless glint in his eyes, he stepped out of the vehicle surrounded by a phalanx of bodyguards. Just as I was preparing to fake-collapse in front of him to spark a meeting, he froze. He stared at me, his icy, chiseled features suddenly melting into a bizarre look of pure, ecstatic joy. Dismissing his guards with a wave, he strode right up to me, took off his designer blazer, wrapped it around my shoulders, and lifted me into the car. “A stray lop-eared rabbit won’t survive the winter,” he murmured softly. “You’re coming home with me.” At the time, I genuinely thought he was just playing some incredibly specific, high-society roleplay game. It wasn’t until the next morning, when the butler served me a plate of plain boiled broccoli and three raw carrots, that the horrifying reality set in. Harry wasn’t insane. He was still the ruthless corporate shark who signed multi-billion-dollar deals and drove his competitors to bankruptcy without blinking an eye. He had simply, in his own mind, placed me behind a strict species barrier. I screamed for the system in my head, but it went dead silent. I absolutely hate silent treatment, I grumbled. Late that night, as I lay in the middle of a massive, silk-sheeted bed, my stomach roared in furious protest. I couldn’t take it anymore. Tossing the duvet aside, I crept out of the bedroom, slipped down the grand spiral staircase, and sneaked into the kitchen. Two weeks of rabbit food had left me practically seeing green. I rummaged through the cabinets and finally found a pack of imported cured sausages in the back of the refrigerator. The second I tore the packaging open and the rich, savory aroma hit my nose, I nearly wept with joy. I took a massive, eager bite. Suddenly, the overhead motion lights flared to life. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, clad in charcoal silk pajamas, his expression entirely blank. Then, his gaze dropped to my hand, and his pupils dilated with sheer terror. The half-eaten sausage suddenly felt like a ticking bomb. Harry lunged forward, covering the distance in two strides. He snatched the sausage from my grasp and hurled it into the trash can. Cupping my chin with a firm, trembling hand, his voice cracked with suppressed panic. “Spit it out!” “I already swallowed it!” I mumbled around his fingers. Harry turned pale, radiating a terrifying, suffocating aura. He spun toward the hallway and roared, “Alfred! Call Dr. Thomas immediately! Tell him to bring gastric lavage equipment!” The mansion erupted into absolute chaos. I was scooped up, marched back to my bedroom, and tucked tightly into bed. He knelt by the bedside, resting his large palm over my stomach, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Rabbits cannot digest meat,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Your digestive tract will shut down. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to you.” His hand was warm, his touch unbelievably gentle. Looking at the raw, genuine terror in his eyes, a sudden pang of guilt hit me. Ten minutes later, poor Dr. Thomas burst into the room clutching his medical bag, gasping for breath. After listening to Harry’s frantic explanation, the doctor stared at me, healthy and perfectly rosy-cheeked, and fell into a profound state of existential confusion. He checked my temperature, listened to my heartbeat, and finally, with a heavy sigh, prescribed a box of chewable pediatric antacids. Harry didn’t return to his own room that night. He sat by my bedside, and every hour, he would gently massage my stomach through the blanket. Sometime in the dead of night, in a half-dreaming state, I caught the soft murmur of his voice. “When I was eight, I had no choice. That man forced me to abandon you. But I have you back now. I’ll take good care of you this time. Sleep well.” When the morning sun filtered through the curtains, I opened my eyes. He had fallen asleep propped up against the armchair, his brow still furrowed, his fingers still clutching the foil pack of antacids. The system chimed in my mind: Affection progress: sixty-five percent. He cares for you deeply. “Obviously,” I retorted internally. “If anyone dropped a small fortune on a prized pet, they’d treat it like royalty too.” To prevent me from sneaking “toxic” human food again, Harry made a drastic executive decision: he was taking me to work. The atmosphere at the Ashford Group headquarters reached peak absurdity that morning. From the ground lobby to the executive suites on the top floor, employees barely dared to breathe. Their cold-blooded, terrifying CEO had just walked into the office holding a woman’s hand. Not only that, but he was also carrying a high-tech insulated bento box filled to the brim with boiled greens and custom-made hay cakes. Up in the executive suite, the secretaries had all changed into soft-soled slippers, gliding across the floor like silent ghosts so as not to startle the boss’s guest. Harry had ordered his assistants to clear out a large section right next to his massive mahogany desk. He had it laid with thick, plush carpeting, furnished with a giant designer beanbag chair, and even installed a solid-gold automatic water fountain. Thus, I was installed in my incredibly lavish cage. “Stay here and play, sweetheart. If you get bored, use the tablet. Don’t wander off.” After giving me a gentle pat, Harry turned back to his desk. In an instant, the warmth vanished from his face, and he was once again the terrifying Wall Street titan who ruled the business world. At two in the afternoon, department heads lined up to deliver their quarterly reports. Sitting on my beanbag, chewing listlessly on a tasteless hay biscuit, I watched them get systematically torn to shreds. That was until the head of marketing walked in. I froze. Marcus. After the New Year holidays, I had pulled ninety days of brutal overtime, eagerly anticipating the project bonus. Instead, Marcus had hijacked my entire portfolio, spread vile rumors about my personal life, and gotten me fired. Before I left, he had gloated, promising to blackball me from the entire industry. Now, Marcus stood with his head bowed, trembling as he handed over his reports, practically drenched in obnoxious cologne. Harry flipped through a couple of pages before slamming the folder onto the desk. Papers scattered across the floor. Marcus flinched, quickly dropping to his knees to gather them. As he scrambled to pick up the sheets near my play area, he looked up. The moment our eyes met, his jaw dropped. “Vivian?! What on earth are you doing here?” His shrill, grating voice shattered the quiet of the office. He scrambled to his feet, pointing a finger at me. “Mr. Ashford, you can’t let this woman deceive you! Back in my department, she was a shameless gold digger. She’ll do absolutely anything for money! First you try to con me, and now you’re trying to play Mr. Ashford?” I watched his dramatic performance with a cold stare, not even bothered to defend myself. The air in the room instantly turned to stone. Harry stood up slowly, walked around the mahogany desk, and stopped right in front of Marcus. Towering over the man, his eyes were colder than ice. “You are being extremely loud.” Marcus blinked, stammering, “Mr. Ashford, I only wanted to warn you that she…” “Shut up.” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried a lethal edge. “A rabbit’s hearing is incredibly sensitive. Loud noises cause severe psychological trauma. Who do you think you are, yelling in her presence?” Marcus looked utterly dumbfounded. He stood frozen for a long moment, completely unable to process what Harry was talking about. I, however, let a wicked grin spread across my face. Catching Marcus’s eye, I silently mouthed: You are so dead. Panicking, Marcus’s face twisted as he feared I would expose his past misdeeds to Harry. Desperate to cover his tracks, he doubled down on his slander. “Mr. Ashford, I’m doing this for your own good! She’s a fraud who slept her way to the top!” Harry’s brow furrowed, and he took a step back in pure disgust. “Did I not tell you to shut up? And the cheap cologne you’re wearing is offensive. A rabbit’s respiratory tract is highly delicate. Your foul scent is a hazard to her health.” He pressed the intercom button, his voice dripping with absolute malice. “Security, get up here and throw this trash out. Tell HR he is terminated immediately, effective today. Ensure he is blacklisted from the entire industry.” Pale as a ghost, Marcus shrieked and flailed as three security guards dragged him down the hall. I offered him a cheerful little wave and a sweet smile. How the tables have turned.
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