“Don’t call me ‘sweetie’!” you shout, just as your male love interest grabs you from behind and yells, “What are you trying to do? Kill her?” Your back hits his very solid chest, and his arms wrap around your tiny waist, and once again, I remind you I have given you plenty of reasons to be happy with your current situation.

Well, the security guard who threw the banana peel could be a cause for dissatisfaction. He’s staring at you and your hot guy, one raised eyebrow appearing over the rim of his sunglasses. “Uh, yes? That was your order, sir: kill the next person who interrupted your meditation session.”

Loverboy groans. “That was a figure of speech! It's irritating when people bother me. Well, I can’t kick her out now.”

“Even though she broke in?” security guard number two asks. They’re minor side characters who don’t need names. Henceforth and onward, they shall be One and Two.

“If I don’t apologize, she’ll sue me for every penny I’ve got,” your mafioso says.

“Um… I’m right here,” you remind everyone.

Your man releases you as if you burned him. When you turn to face him, he’s rubbing his temple and frowning. “What was it you shouted earlier?” he asks. “‘Don’t call me’ something?”

Oh, yes. The problem with you saying things out loud when you should just be thinking them. How will you get out of this one, hm?

“No, I said… I want some linguine,” you improvise. Not bad. Well, except it makes you sound even crazier, and the gorgeous CEO standing before you is now looking at you askance.

“Are you okay? I’ve heard you’ll do anything to get what you want, but this seems weird, even for you.”

You see an opportunity and seize it. “Then we’ve never met before?” You stick your hand out and put on a bright smile. “Hello, I’m Y/n. Nice to meet you.”

He looks down at your hand, back at your face, and down at your hand again before shrugging and shaking your hand. “Hello, I’m BTS. BTS Hunk. I can’t say it’s been nice to meet you, but—”

“‘Beets’? Like the vegetable?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, not like the vegetable. It’s spelled ‘B T S.’ My mom has dyslexia and left out a couple of letters when she—”

“BTS?” you shriek. “My male love interest is BTS?”

He slaps his hand over your mouth. “No shrieking! Look, you said you wanted linguine. If I get you some, will you promise not to sue me for my guards trying to kill you?”

A lawsuit is the last thing on your mind right now. You nod.

“Good.” He removes his hand from your face and sighs his relief. “Well, c’mon. It’s past dinnertime anyway. I’ll have the chef make linguine, and in the meantime, you can…”

“I could use a little air,” you tell him, trying to be helpful. And also hoping for a few minutes alone so you can ply me with questions.

“Sure. We can go to the conservatory then.” He turns and walks away, and you follow him, hobbling along the best you can on your mismatched shoes. You could just take your shoes off and walk barefoot, you know. Or you could wait for him to glance back at you, see you struggling, and decide to pick you up and carry you the rest of the way.

That doesn’t sound too bad, you think.

Bam. Done. He stops to look at you, and then he calls past you to his guards: “What are you just standing around for? Get rid of that banana peel. And get her new shoes.” Then he scoops you up, bridal-style, and resumes walking down this massive hallway through this massive mansion to what will probably be a massive conservatory, because he is way too rich for his own good.

“Sorry,” you mumble, although you’re really not sorry about this. The man is hotness, money, and muscles personified.

“It’s fine. Look, while you’re here, we may as well talk business. Your company is hemorrhaging money, and if I don’t buy you out, you’ll end up bankrupt. Right?”

You don't know, but you also don’t want him to know how clueless you are. “Then why do you want to buy it?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

He shrugs. “Because it’s a company, and I want to buy it.”

“Even though it’s losing money?”

“It’ll start making money as soon as I buy it.”

“Okay, how will it fit in with the rest of your… portfolio?” you ask, wondering how to word this without a direct question about what your company does.

“It’s a company,” he repeats.

“Yes, but what do your companies do?” you persist. Maybe the answer to this question will tell you more about your own company.

He’s looking at you like you have two heads now. “They make money. Duh.”

Before you try again, let me just remind you of all those wonderful billionaire romance stories with all those rich men and all their successful companies. Do you know what those companies do? Sometimes. Do you care? Not at all. The rich, hot guy is the focus.

So, in other words, he owns generic companies that make him generic money, you think.

Exactly.

This seems like a cop-out on your part. You didn’t want to come up with a business.

Absolutely. But you’ve reached the conservatory now, which is convenient for me. He pushes the glass door open and steps into a miniature jungle. Through the canopy, you can see bits of a night sky lit up with stars. He sets you in a wicker lounge chair with a red velvet cushion, and suddenly, you want red velvet cake for dessert.

“Stay here,” he orders you, pointing a finger at the chair. “I’ll go tell the chef to make linguine.”

“And red velvet cake,” you say.

He shakes his head. “You’re really pushy, you know that? Fine. Red velvet cake.”

“And make sure my new shoes are red, too.” You don’t know why you said that; it just slipped out.

“What is with you and the color red?”

“I have to stay on brand.”

“Fine. Red shoes. Anything else, Your Highness?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. You’ve never seen sarcasm drops before. They look like raindrops appearing in the air in front of his mouth. If you tasted them, they would be bitter.

“No, that will be all.”

And then he leaves, and you breathe a long sigh of relief. You are now alone. It’s quiet and comfortable here. You’re surrounded by greenery, but not a single flower. You peer through the leaves at the star-studded sky. There must not be a full moon tonight, because your wolf isn’t taking over. Somewhere within the recesses of your mind, there’s a wolf curling up for a nap. And you don’t even own a dog in real life.

“Okay, let me get this straight. He and I are both werewolves.”

Yes.

“And CEOs.”

Yes. He’s a billionaire, and you’re a millionaire.

“And he’s a mafioso?”

You’re on a roll.

“And I’m… a vampire.” You frown. “Can I even eat linguine?”

You can eat regular food, but it won’t provide you nourishment.

“So, you’re forcing me to drink blood.”

Not necessarily. You have three options: blood, sweat, or tears.

Your mouth falls open. “What am I supposed to do, lick a sweaty person?”

Or a crying person. The jackpot for you would be a man who rushed straight from the gym to a blood drive held in memory of a recently departed loved one.

“You’re insane!”

Hey, now. The nice term is ‘neurodivergent.’

“Ugh, let me think.” You put your hand on your forehead and squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m in a story. A web novel. How do I get out of this? What’s the plot?”

Well, I’m a pantser, so I’m making this up as I go. You could ask the protagonists from my other stories for survival tips, but I’m not sure how much good that would do you. This story differs from anything else I’ve ever written. I usually write lengthy stories with heavy themes that earn an eighteen plus rating, even though there’s no explicit content, and I’m going for the complete opposite here. Light and fun. You should be grateful for that.

Oh, wait, I tried that once before. It turned into a lengthy story with heavy themes. Oops.

“I’m doomed,” you moan.

Not really. All my stories have happy endings. So far, anyway.

“Well, don’t break the mold on my account! I would like one happy ending with one return to reality, please.”

If that qualifies as a happy ending for you by the end of the story, sure. Anyway, BTS will be back soon, so let me give you a huge hint. You know about the Open Novella Contest, right? Where people write prompt-based novellas in a two-month period?

You groan. “Oh, no.”

Oh, yes. You’re in an ONC story. I’ll even let you peek behind the curtain a little more and give you the main prompt I’m using: ‘Two rivals discover they're the chosen heirs to a legendary weapon that will only activate if they work together.’

Does that help?

Hello? Y/n? Did I break you again?

“The food will be here soon,” BTS says as he walks through the door. He stops and stares at you, then waves a hand in front of your face. “Y/n? Is something wrong?”

You shake yourself back to reality—or rather, fiction. “Sorry, just thinking. Do you know of any legendary weapons around here?”

He works his mouth for a moment before he finds the right word: “What?”

“Never mind. Um, I’m looking forward to the linguine! Are you eating with me?” You smile at him, hoping he won’t ship you off to the nearest psychiatric hospital.

“Yeah… sure.” He sits in the lounge chair next to you, although he scoots the chair a few inches away and leans toward the side furthest from you. “Did you think about selling your company?”

No. “Oh, yeah, sure, you can have it. What was going on when you were meditating, then? Did you mean to set yourself on fire?”

“Forget you saw that,” he snaps. “It never happened. Got it?”

“But—”

“Nobody can know about that. It’s a matter of life and death.”

His sudden aggressiveness should concern you, but it fills your stomach with butterflies instead. All that growling in the last chapter, and now he’s snapping and snarling at you—how’s a werewolf-loving girl supposed to withstand that charm? And then there’s the ache in your chest again. It isn’t a stabbing pain anymore, so that’s a plus. It still hurts, though. Especially since he already rejected you as his mate. He’s oozing masculine canine pheromones, and it’s confusing you and waking up your inner wolf. Would it really be so bad to be his side dish?

What was he saying again?

“Dinner is served!” A man wearing a stereotypical white chef’s hat and coat with a bright red scarf around his neck bursts through the door, balancing two silver platters on his right hand and right arm. He sets them on a gold-plated wicker table that has appeared between you and BTS, and he removes the cloches with a flourish. The mouth-watering aroma of Alfredo sauce fills the air and strengthens your resolve. You will be nobody’s side dish, appetizer, or dessert. You are an entrée, and you are best served hot.

Now, where’s the fork?

BTS grabs your hand as you reach for your silverware. “Promise me you won’t tell.”

“Is it really that serious?” you ask.

“Yes, it’s that serious. If you don’t promise, I’ll have to kill you.”

You furrow your brow at this ridiculously attractive man who is spouting the most ridiculous statements. “Aren’t you supposed to be apologizing for your guards trying to kill me earlier?”

He groans. “Y/n, promise me.”

You shrug. “Fine, I promise. May I eat now?”

“I’ll be back with dessert!” the chef crows as he leaves.

You dig into your linguine. It tastes amazing. You wolf it down—pun intended—as BTS watches you. He’s eating at a much slower pace. When you finish your plate of food, you eye his plate, but let me remind you that will not make you feel full. The linguine or the plate. The delicious man sitting across from you, however, will fill you up. You remember how his sweat smelled in the sauna, all full of animal musk and dollar bills. You think of the definition in his trapezius muscles when he bent over the sink to wash his face.

You slap yourself. “What is wrong with me?”

“I’ve been wondering that this whole time,” he mutters.

“So, you do that every day?” you ask, needing to distract yourself. “Meditate?”

He frowns. “I told you not to talk about it.”

“No, you told me not to tell anyone about it. There’s a big difference. Although, if you don’t want to talk about it…”

“Well…” He glances around the conservatory, as if someone will leap out from behind a potted plant at any moment. “I guess you already know about it…”

You scoot toward the edge of your seat. “Yes?”

He hesitates. “You’re too eager.”

“Oh, come on!” You roll your eyes, and he cracks a smile. It’s the first time you’ve seen him do that. Even though it’s dark, and the only lighting is the meager starlight trickling through the plants, his smile is blinding. It’s beautiful. It’s blindingly beautiful.

Whoops. Now you can’t see.

“What just…” You rub your eyes and open them again, but nothing. Everything is black.

“Time for dessert!” you hear the chef call out as he returns. “Red velvet cake à la mode.”

Yum, that smells delicious. Too bad you can’t see it.

“Um, Y/n? Don’t you want some?” BTS asks.

What a loaded question. He smells as good as the cake. Maybe better.

“I’m just giving my stomach a moment to settle,” you lie, hoping the blindness and bloodlust will pass soon. “Anyway, what were you going to say about meditating?”

“Not in front of anybody else,” he hisses. You can’t see it, but he’s glancing over his shoulder at the chef, who is twirling his stereotypical French handlebar mustache.

“Look at that!” the chef cries. “The first flower of spring! That’s a good omen.”

“Where? I can’t see it!” you exclaim.

“Maybe you need more light. I’ll get a candle.”

An intoxicating metallic aroma fills the air. You rise from your seat and follow it, drawn to the crimson flower you can’t see. As you reach for it, the chef creeps up behind you with a candlestick. BTS leaps to his feet.

“Y/n! Don’t touch that!”

It’s too late. Your fingers brush across the silken red petals. The chef raises the candlestick over your head.

“Deploying Plan C!”