The Billionaire's Rejected Simp

Mila Pruitt wore a smile of triumphant satisfaction.

I, on the other hand, felt a complicated mix of emotions churn in my chest.

Three years of playing the professional sycophant had taught me a harsh truth: Mila's psyche was twisted, perhaps even a little perverse. She thrived on the humiliation of others.

But did that matter to me? Hardly.

As long as the monthly two hundred thousand dollars hit my bank account on time, I would happily remain her most loyal doormat.

Mila finished the hangover soup I had simmered for her, wiped her mouth, and issued her next command. "I want millet porridge tomorrow to settle my stomach. Have it here before six in the morning."

She didn't wait for a response. "Good. Now get lost."

I contorted my face into a mask of bitterness. Under the mocking gazes of Finn Mason and his entourage, I slumped my shoulders and trudged out of the Pruitt family's luxury mansion, the very picture of a heartbroken man.

The moment I stepped past the estate gates, the misery vanished. A grin stretched across my face.

Today marked the final day of the three-year agreement I had signed with Mila.

For thirty-six months, I had provided her with perfect emotional validation and ego-stroking services. Surely, she would renew the contract. And given the quality of my work, I wondered if the two hundred thousand monthly salary might see a bump?

I was genuinely looking forward to the negotiation.

I climbed onto my battered electric scooter and headed toward the urban village. The wind whipped past me, and I was calculating my potential raise when the roar of an engine surged from behind.

A motorcycle screamed up beside me.

Before I could react, the passenger swung a heavy iron rod directly at my head.

Adrenaline spiked. I jerked the handlebars, barely dodging the lethal blow, but the metal pipe slammed into my shoulder and arm with a sickening thud. The force sent me flying. I hit the pavement hard, my scooter skidding away in a shower of sparks.

Pain exploded through my arm, radiating down to my fingertips.

The motorcycle didn't circle back for a second hit. Instead, the rider slowed just enough for the passenger to shout a warning.

"Stay away from Mila Pruitt! Consider this a small lesson. Next time, we take your life!"

With a roar of the throttle, they sped off into the night.

I sat on the asphalt, clutching my throbbing arm, and watched their taillights fade. My brow furrowed.

Was Mila's suitor so insecure he couldn't hold back?

Finn's smug, sneering face immediately flashed in my mind.

Great. Since when did being a paid simp come with occupational hazards?

If Mila wanted to renew the contract tomorrow, she was definitely paying for my medical bills. I needed hazard pay.

Early the next morning, I arrived at the gates of the Pruitt mansion.

My shoulder and arm were swollen, pulsing with a dull ache. Fortunately, nothing felt broken. A few days of rest would clear it up.

I hadn't slept a wink the night before.

It wasn't the pain from the attack that kept me awake, nor fear of the thugs. It was the fact that Mila hadn't transferred my money.

For three years, Mila had never been late.

Yesterday was the final day of our agreement. By the terms of the contract, the funds should have cleared before midnight. I had stared at my phone all night, waiting for a notification that never came.

So, this morning's millet porridge delivery had a dual purpose: breakfast and debt collection.

I pressed the doorbell and waited. Minutes ticked by.

Finally, the heavy oak door swung open.

But it wasn't Mila standing there. It was Finn.

My stomach dropped. He had stayed the night?

Did this mean Mila had finally accepted his advances? Were they officially a couple now?

This was a disaster.

If Finn had secured his position, my services as a placeholder and ego-boost would no longer be required. My career as a high-paid admirer was about to crash and burn.

My expression soured instantly.

In this economy, finding a job that paid two hundred grand a month—without requiring me to sell my body—was nearly impossible. Losing this gig would be catastrophic.

Finn, however, completely misinterpreted my look of financial panic.

He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at me with arrogant disdain. A cold sneer played on his lips.

"In the end, you're nothing more than a bootlicking dog, Gilbert. Did you really think you could compete with me?"

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "Was last night's lesson not enough? You actually have the nerve to show your face here today?"