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.

Alexia Chase POV

I remembered the day I first stepped into the Hoffman estate. I was fifteen, awkward and overwhelmed, a middle-class girl thrust into an opulent world. Everything was grander, colder, utterly unfamiliar.

Jarrod introduced me to his closest friends. Among them was Elliott Castro, even then, at seventeen, a towering presence. He carried himself with a quiet authority. He was Jarrod's best friend, and from the moment I saw him, I felt a strange pull.

Our initial interactions were brief, polite, almost formal. He would offer a curt nod, a brief smile. I watched him from a distance, observing his calm demeanor, his quick intelligence.

One evening, at a charity gala, a clumsy waiter tripped, sending a tray of drinks hurtling toward me. Before the liquid could drench my dress, Elliott was there. He stepped in front of me, shielding me. His expensive suit bore the brunt of the accident. He simply brushed off the splashes, offering a small smile. "Are you alright?" My face burned with gratitude.

At school, where I was often the target of subtle snubs, Elliott would sometimes intervene. Once, a group of girls cornered me in the hallway. Elliott appeared, his presence immediately silencing them. He walked me away, his hand lightly on my arm. "Don't pay attention to them," he said. "They are not worth your time."

The year I turned sixteen, my feelings for Elliott deepened into an aching love. I wrote it all down, a long, heartfelt draft in my phone, a private sanctuary for my forbidden emotions.

Then came the catastrophic mistake. The draft somehow found its way to Jarrod's phone. His call was immediate, his voice a furious roar. "What is this, Alexia? You're obsessed with me? With your own step-brother? You gold-digging freak!"

He marched into the living room where Elliott was visiting. "Look at this!" Jarrod thrust his phone into Elliott's hand. "She's been after me all along!" Elliott read the message, his expression shifting from confusion to cold betrayal. He looked at me, and that's when the meter appeared—a violent crimson "37" above his head.

I tried to explain. "No, Jarrod, it wasn't for you! It was for Elliott!" But my words were swallowed by their fury. Jarrod crumpled my printed confession and threw it into the fireplace. The flames consumed my fragile hope.

Elliott snapped. "Alexia! How could you? Is this what your mother taught you? To chase after money?" His words confirmed Jarrod's narrative. The meter pulsed brighter.

His anger reshaped my understanding of his past kindness. The protection, the gentle guidance—they were not born of affection. They were acts of pity. Every past gesture now felt like a cruel mockery.

In the days that followed, each attempt to explain was met with icy indifference. The number climbed—52, 64, 78.

The night before I left, I heard shouting from downstairs. Jarrod and Elliott. I crept to the top of the stairs. "You're being too harsh on her," Jarrod said, his voice strained. Elliott's reply was cold: "She made her choice, Jarrod. Leave it alone." There was a crash—a glass breaking. The next morning, Jarrod had a bandaged hand. He never explained it.

The ride to the airport was silent. Before I stepped out, I turned to Elliott. "I am leaving for good. I won't bother you anymore."

He simply nodded. No relief, no softening. Just emptiness.

He watched me walk away, then drove off. The sense of abandonment was absolute.

A profound ache settled in my heart. Despite everything, I still loved him. The feeling persisted, a stubborn, agonizing truth.

As the plane took off, I whispered a promise to myself: "Never again." But deep down, in a place I was too wounded to acknowledge, I knew I was lying. The meter had driven me away, but it had also tied me to him in a way I couldn't explain. And one day, I would have to come back to find out what the numbers truly meant.

Alexia Chase POV

The words of the Reddit post echoed in my mind. The anonymous author, unmistakably Jarrod given his signature blend of smugness and victimhood, painted a picture calculated to garner sympathy. But there was a new update, a fresh torment.

A strange empathy stirred within me. The author expressed a profound loneliness, mirroring my own isolated existence. It was a dangerous, seductive connection.

Curiosity won out. I clicked on the new update. The post rambled on, detailing the author's frustration with a particular person. The words were laced with aristocratic disdain.

The author complained about a girl he was being pushed to socialize with. "She's too loud, too… common. Always trying too hard to fit in."

Then, the author posted a photo. A candid shot of a man in a tailored charcoal suit, standing on a balcony. The detail that caught my breath was the man's hand—a subtle scar on the knuckle of his left index finger. I knew that scar. It was Elliott.

The comments exploded. "Who is that?! He's gorgeous!"

But then I noticed the username: "LonelyHeir88." Jarrod's go-to online alias from years ago. My stomach turned. He wasn't just mocking me—he was pretending to be Elliott, spinning a fake sob story.

The coincidence was too much. "No," I told myself. It had to be Jarrod, still playing his cruel games.

But another thought crept in. What if the "first love" mentioned in the previous posts was me? My heart pounded. Could the meter have been a trick?

I zoomed in on the photo. The curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head—it was all him. My mind replayed countless moments, searching for clues. The more I looked, the more confused I felt.

I typed out a careful message, my thumb hovering over send. My heart hammered.

My phone rang. Jarrod. The suddenness felt like sabotage.

"Alexia, Mother wants you home for dinner. Don't be late."

Then a woman's voice in the background. "Oh, Jarrod, is that Alexia? Tell her I said hello!" Kira Stewart.

"Jarrod, are you still making Alexia run errands for you?" Kira laughed. "Poor thing."

Jarrod chuckled. "She's family, Kira. She helps out."

"Oh, Jarrod, you're too much," Kira said. "But seriously, Elliott's brother Daniel and I were just talking about you both."

Daniel. Not Elliott. Kira was marrying Daniel. I had misunderstood all along. But the casual intimacy between Kira and Jarrod—that was real. And it still stung.

My heart seized. The fragile hope shattered. The world spun, then went blank.

Before I lost consciousness, I heard Jarrod's voice one last time: "Alexia? Alexia! Someone call an ambulance!" The last thing I saw was the red number above Elliott's head—flickering, then turning a brilliant, impossible gold. Then darkness swallowed me whole, and I didn't know if I would ever open my eyes again.