The Scoring Sheet I Came to Loath

Ethan built me a "Relationship Assessment System." A hundred points a month. Below eighty, we break up. Above a hundred, he marries me.

I believed it. For five whole years.

For that one point, I changed my accent, threw out my work clothes, shut down the little restaurant my mother left me, and molded myself into whatever shape he wanted. But every time I scored ninety-nine, he said: "You're still a little short. Try harder."

The night of the charity gala, the head chef walked out. I called in suppliers, rewrote the menu, and saved the entire fundraiser. When the applause came, Madeleine stood there in champagne couture and accepted every word of praise as the project lead.

My proposal. My work. Brushed aside with one breezy line — "Claire helped me run some errands too."

That night, Ethan opened his tablet and gave me points.

Ninety-nine.

Still ninety-nine.

It wasn't until late at night, when I hacked into the backend, that I saw the directive set to "Auto-Execute":

Ensure the overall score cannot exceed 100.

Created: five years ago. The first day we became a couple.

There had never been a "just work harder and you'll pass." Only a fraud with its ending written in stone.

The next morning, he deducted twenty-two points. The reason: I hadn't handed over my mother's little restaurant as a stepping stone for his hotel project.

This time, I won't agree.

 ——

Chapter 1

The light landed with surgical precision on the clutch in Madeleine's hand.

That was my proposal.

"Give that document back to me, Madeleine." I kept my voice low, trying to avoid drawing attention.

Madeleine adjusted the Hermès scarf at her neck with unhurried grace, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

An Ivy League graduate from a distinguished family — everything in life seemed to come effortlessly to her.

"Claire, darling," Madeleine's voice was tender, as though soothing an unreasonable child. But the executives and servers around us, making final preparations for the event, all turned to look. "This community kitchen fundraiser project is wonderful. But this is, after all, the Whitmore family's charity gala. The foundation needs a face that makes people feel 'warm' and 'approachable' leading it. So — my apologies."

"I spent three months developing that proposal myself!" I reached out, pressing my hand firmly on the document. "You can't even tell the difference between sustainable agriculture and supermarket clearance produce, and now you want to sign your name to the project lead position? I absolutely refuse."

Just as I was about to yank the proposal back.

I turned around — and saw Ethan.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit, his tie knotted with meticulous precision.

At thirty-one, as the heir to the Whitmore family's wealth management firm, he carried with him an always-suffocating air of control and rationality.

But it was also him — when I was sixteen, isolated by the scandal of my mother being a wealthy man's mistress — who had taken my hand in public, and shielded me from every vicious word.

From that moment on, he had become the only life preserver in my world.

Only, as the years went by.

He had changed a great deal.

Like right now — those icy blue eyes held not a flicker of partiality.

"What's going on here?" Ethan's voice was placid, unreadable.

Before I could speak, Madeleine had already slipped into an expression of wounded magnanimity. "Ethan, Claire is being a bit overly protective of her initial concept. I merely suggested incorporating the proposal into the foundation's core catalogue. She seems to think I'm stealing her credit."

"This isn't just an initial concept — it's the complete execution plan. She wants to take credit for my work." I looked at Ethan urgently, a flicker of instinctive hope igniting in my chest. "Ethan, you saw this design at home yesterday. You know this is my work."

Ethan didn't look at me.

He didn't even show a trace of impatience.

He simply pulled out his custom tablet with practiced ease.

"Claire, you disappoint me." His long fingers pressed the screen without a trace of emotion.

The next second, words appeared on the tablet.

【Whitmore Relationship Assessment System】

At the center of the screen, a line of text pulsed clearly:

Penalty Point Generated: 12 points deducted.

Reason: Displaying emotional instability in public, disregarding family decorum, and undermining team cooperation.

Immediately after, the progress bar representing my score for the month slid down in a straight line from 【91】 — halting at a jarring number: 【79】.

A system alert sounded, and bold text exploded across the edge of the screen:

【WARNING: Score below 80.】

Ethan's silent gaze seemed to say: it's already below eighty.

According to what we'd agreed, he would issue the breakup warning.

My breath froze instantly.

In the past five years, this was not the first time I had fallen below 80.

In this "assessment system" Ethan had custom-built for me, my clothing, my accent, my career — even my attitude toward my mother's inheritance — were all assigned a price tag.

Every month started at 100. Dropping below 80 meant breakup.

I remembered the last time my score fell to 78 — three consecutive nights of insomnia. I canceled every appointment on my calendar.

I cried as I wrote him lengthy apology emails, desperately promising I would curb my temper, enroll in etiquette classes, and erase every trace of the "unrefined class" I came from.

Every drop below 80 was its own kind of slow execution.

Except.

I had always obeyed.

Always done exactly what he envisioned.

"Is this what you call preparation for becoming Mrs. Whitmore — making a scene in front of everyone?" Ethan lifted his gaze, as though appraising a regrettably defective piece of merchandise.

Humiliation churned in my stomach like poison. I glanced at Madeleine, who stood nearby barely containing her satisfaction. Then I looked at that vivid, glaring 79.

"Apologize to Madeleine." Ethan closed the tablet. "Now. In front of everyone."

I bit down hard on my lip, my nails sinking deep into my palms.

"Also," Ethan glanced at his watch and continued, "the gala's head chef just stormed out — a dispute with the hotel over the menu. I know you've kept contacts with a few backup suppliers from your catering days. Go clean up the mess in the kitchen. Tonight isn't just a fundraiser; it's the face of the family's reputation."

He took a step forward, lowered his voice, and added in a tone only the two of us could hear: "If you save this gala, I'll give you more than enough bonus points. There's still hope for you to break 100 this month, Claire. You know what that means."

The system didn't only punish. It also rewarded.

Once I exceeded 100.

Ethan had promised to marry me.

I slowly lifted my head.

I had been so terrified of losing that one piece of driftwood that I had forgotten what I originally looked like.

But this might be my only — and best — answer.

I drew a deep breath and released my grip on the proposal.

"All right," I heard my own hoarse, obedient voice. "I'll handle the kitchen."