The Paid Companion

My name is Owen Lloyd. For three years, I was Gwendolyn Sharpe's devoted follower—a total simp—not out of love, but for a hefty monthly payment of 200,000. Three years ago, when Gwendolyn found me, I had just failed at my startup and was drowning in debt. She wore a haute couture gown, standing at the door of my leaky rental room like a rose blooming in the mud. "Owen Lloyd, you'll be my devoted follower for three years, always on call, fulfilling all my reasonable demands." Her voice carried an innate arrogance, yet was wrapped in an irresistible temptation I couldn't refuse. "Two hundred thousand per month, with the last month paid in a lump sum after three years, plus a bonus of five hundred thousand." I agreed almost without hesitation. For me back then, two million four hundred thousand a year, 7.7 million over three years, was enough to pay off my debts and start over. As for the label of being a "simp", I didn't care. Dignity is nothing in the face of survival. For three years, I was Gwendolyn Sharpe's most devoted follower. I queued up at dawn to grab the limited-edition bags she wanted. I drove hundreds of kilometers to get the exotic snacks she craved, making sure they were still warm. When she was in a bad mood, I was her punching bag. At her friends' gatherings, I served as her personal waiter—pouring tea, refilling water, always on call. Everyone thought I was hopelessly in love with Gwendolyn, to the point of losing myself—including Gwendolyn herself. Only I know that my heart is utterly calm. Everything I've done has been just a transaction. Today is the day our three-year pact expires—and also Gwendolyn Sharpe's 25th birthday. She hosted a lavish birthday party at her luxurious villa. As always, I wore the black suit she chose and stood in a corner of the banquet hall, ready to take her orders at any moment. The party was alive with clinking glasses and the scent of fine perfume. Gwendolyn Sharpe was unmistakably the center of attention, surrounded and adored by a crowd. She laughed wildly, downing glass after glass of red wine. I could tell she was already drunk—her eyes glazed over and her steps wobbly. At last, she slipped and almost fell. I instinctively rushed over and caught her arm. "Be careful." I whispered a warning. Before Gwendolyn could react, a few of her friends nearby started sneering. "Hey, Owen, looks like you love stealing the spotlight," they mocked. The speaker was Daisy, a wealthy girl who often tagged along with Gwendolyn Sharpe. "Seriously, when has Gwendolyn ever needed you to go out of your way for her?" Another guy, Hans, joined in with agreement. "You're nothing but a dog Gwendolyn keeps, yet you actually think you're something special?" Daisy's words grew harsher and harsher. My expression darkened, and a surge of anger rose inside me. But I held it in. Just one more day to hang on, then the deal would be over. I couldn't afford to mess it up now. Gwendolyn Sharpe pushed my hand away, frowning as she looked at me. There wasn't a trace of gratitude in her eyes, only impatience. "Don't touch me." Her tone was cold. I pulled back my hand and silently stepped back. "Go make me a bowl of hangover soup." Gwendolyn Sharpe ordered. "And deliver millet porridge to my room at 7 a.m. tomorrow. Make sure it's cooked soft and mushy." She paused, saying nothing about renewing the payment or settling the last month's fee. I sneered coldly inside. As expected, she was already used to my efforts and even took them for granted. "Okay." I replied softly. Daisy and the others nearby kept mocking me, saying I was born to be a servant. On the surface, I looked frustrated and angry, my fists clenched tightly. That was just an act for their benefit. In reality, their verbal insults were like a breeze to me. I didn't care at all. All I cared about was whether I could smoothly get the last 200,000 this month, plus the 500,000 bonus.