Seven Years of Mismeasured Love

My step-brother twisted my love confession for his best friend, Elliott, branding me a manipulative social climber. For seven years, a glowing "Disgust Meter" above Elliott' s head confirmed his hatred, forcing me to flee New York.

When I returned, I woke up in his apartment to a shocking truth. He confessed the meter was a malfunctioning "Pure Love System"-the rising numbers had always been a measure of his love, not his disgust.

But just as hope bloomed, my step-brother sent me a screenshot from a group chat: "Elliott's Marriage Bet." His friends laughed about me being a "side quest," a pawn in a cruel game to get him to marry someone else.

My heart shattered. Was his confession just another lie? Was I nothing more than a toy to be broken for their amusement?

But when Elliott dropped to one knee in a Parisian boardroom, publicly declaring war on my brother and swearing his love was real, I knew the truth was far more complicated than I ever imagined.

Chapter 1

Alexia Chase POV

My step-brother Jarrod received my intimate confession for Elliott, his best friend, and used it to brand me a manipulative social climber, initiating seven years of deep-seated contempt.

Over Elliott's head, a glowing numerical display appeared the day he turned against me. I called it the "Disgust Meter"—a cruel, hovering number that seemed to measure his revulsion. But I never understood where it came from, or why only I could see it.

The number first appeared the night Elliott called me a gold-digger. A flickering red "37" above his head, pulsing like a heartbeat. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, but it wouldn't go away. I thought I was going insane.

As the years passed, I learned to live with it—my private torment, a digital judge confirming my unworthiness.

This digital torment drove me away from New York, from everything I had once hoped for.

My mother's remarriage to Jarrod's father had plunged me into a world of unimaginable wealth, a world I never fully belonged to. Jarrod, always arrogant and possessive, saw my mother and me as gold-digging intruders. He maliciously twisted my innocent draft message into a sick obsession with him, turning Elliott, the one person who had ever made me feel seen, against me. Elliott, the heir to a formidable real estate empire, became cold, his once kind gaze now holding a judgment that fueled the meter above his head. I fled to Chicago, burying myself in architecture, trying to build an identity free from their shadow. But the past had a way of pulling me back.

The memory of the phone vibrating in my hand, the screen displaying Jarrod's name, still brought a cold dread. I had spent hours crafting that message, pouring out my teenage heart to Elliott, too shy to send it directly. It was a draft, a safe place for my secret hopes. Somehow, it found its way to Jarrod. His furious call, his voice dripping with revulsion, shattered my world. He called me sick, twisted, a parasite. He threatened to expose me. He did not need to threaten. He already had. Elliott, hearing Jarrod's venomous account, simply looked at me with an expression that froze my blood. That was the day the meter appeared, a chilling red "37" above Elliott's head, stark against the opulent backdrop of the Hoffman mansion.

That number, at first, was a mere flicker. I saw it over his head, a bright, digital glow. I squinted, trying to make sense of it. Was it a trick of the light? The number was small, and it seemed to pulse with a faint energy. No one else ever reacted to it. It was mine alone—a private torment, and a mystery I could never solve.

I tried to research it online, found nothing. I considered seeing a psychiatrist, but fear stopped me. What if they thought I was crazy? What if the Hoffmans found out? So I kept silent, and the meter became my cross to bear.

The initial small number, flickering with an intriguing intensity, offered a sliver of hope. Perhaps it was a measure of his interest. My adolescent mind latched onto this possibility. I convinced myself it was a metric of positive attention. My heart swelled with a bittersweet, unfounded joy.

I responded with a flurry of small gestures. I baked cookies for the family and made sure Elliott received a plate. I left small, thoughtful notes on his desk. I offered to help him with his reports. I smiled at him more, a hopeful, eager smile. Each action was a tiny offering, fueled by the imagined warmth of that flickering number.

His responses were always the same: polite, distant, firm. "No, thank you, Alexia. I am fine." "Please stop. You are making things awkward." His words were like small, sharp cuts. The rejection was absolute.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The number above his head shifted. It grew, pulsed more brightly, and turned a deeper shade of angry red. It climbed from 37 to 58, then to 72. It wasn't a measure of affection. It was a measure of his revulsion. My heart plummeted. The small, hopeful flame inside me extinguished.

I packed my bags methodically. Moving to Chicago was an escape, a desperate attempt to create a void where I could heal. I promised myself I would never return.

On my last night in New York, I overheard Jarrod in his study, drunk and talking to himself. "She's not for you," he slurred, his voice cracking. "She never will be. So just... let her go." I didn't understand then. I thought he was gloating. But the pain in his voice was unmistakable—a clue I buried under years of resentment.

Seven years later, the city lights of New York blurred outside the taxi window. My firm had assigned me a major architectural project, bringing me back to the very place I had sworn to avoid. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach.

My mother, oblivious to my internal turmoil, had arranged a family dinner. I knew Elliott would be there. I prepared myself, rehearsing polite smiles, building my emotional defenses brick by painful brick.

During dinner, Jarrod leaned over, his voice a low sneer. "That Kira Stewart is marrying Elliott's brother, you know. Good family, old money. Unlike some people." His words confirmed what I had heard—Kira was engaged to Daniel, Elliott's older brother, not Elliott himself. But the way Jarrod said it, with that smirk, felt like a trap.

Later that night, alone in my apartment, I scrolled through social media. An anonymous Reddit post caught my eye. The title read: "My step-sister is obsessed with my best friend, but she thinks he's obsessed with her." My blood ran cold. The details were eerily precise. The writing style—dramatic, smug, dripping with condescension—was unmistakably Jarrod's. A sickening wave of nausea swept over me.

I looked up, my eyes drawn unwillingly to where Elliott sat across the table at the next family gathering. There it was again. The number. It hovered above his head, glowing a familiar, angry red. It was larger now—87. It pulsed with a steady, unwavering intensity. Seven years had passed, but nothing had changed. The disgust was still there, as potent as ever.

He spoke then, his voice cutting through the polite chatter. "Alexia, you are still here." His tone was flat, devoid of warmth. His eyes were cold, distant. He did not ask how I was. His words were a dismissal.

I tried to explain about my work project, but as I spoke, the number above his head flared. It jumped to 93. A brutal, undeniable feedback loop. My efforts only intensified his revulsion.

Jarrod interjected with a smug smile. "Alexia, enough. Go get the car. Elliott and Kira are leaving."

I nodded, my throat tight, and turned away. The familiar weight of resignation settled over me like a shroud.

As I walked out of the dining room, my phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number: "Don't believe everything you see, Alexia. The meter lies." My blood ran cold. I spun around, but the hallway was empty. Who sent this? And why now, after seven years of silence? The words echoed in my mind as I stepped into the cold night air—someone else knew about the meter. Someone else understood what I had been seeing. And that meant everything I believed about the numbers might be wrong.