Refused to Be the Tragic Heroine

For as long as I can remember, the world has reeked of an invisible, clichéd script. Growing up, I read thousands of romance novels only to realize I was living inside a cliché myself—the kind where the toxic, powerful man torments the woman, only to spend a lifetime begging for forgiveness. I saw it everywhere: a divorced neighbor whose ex wept on her porch years later; a sweet graduate whose billionaire boyfriend used her as a cheap stand-in, then offered her his empire. Both women stared back with dead eyes and said they didn’t care. To avoid that fate, I avoided romance entirely—no angst, no toxic billionaires, no tragedy. But life has a sick sense of humor. When I was twenty-five, my healthy mother fell critically ill. The medical bills buried me in debt. While working a double shift, Manhattan’s richest tycoon approached me with an arrogant smirk. “Be my girl,” he said smoothly. “I’ll cover your mother’s bills.” His eyes sharpened.