Chapter 2: Ghosting the Heroine
The Metropolitan Museum of Art's grand hall was a glittering spectacle, a microcosm of New York's elite flexing their wealth and influence under the guise of charity. Crystal chandeliers cast prisms across the marble floors, and a string quartet played Vivaldi in a corner, barely audible over the hum of self-important chatter. Charlie Lawson stood near the bar, a glass of bourbon in hand, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was no longer just a Brooklyn nobody but a key player in a fictional world he'd once mocked online. The weight of it all—penthouse, billions, this absurd gala—felt like a fever dream. But the stakes were real, and tonight was his first chance to derail the trainwreck plot of Empire of Hearts.
Across the room, Summer Quinn held court like a queen bee. Her scarlet gown hugged every curve, and her platinum-blonde hair caught the light just right, as if the universe itself had a crush on her. A gaggle of admirers orbited her: a hedge fund bro in a velvet blazer, a pro basketball player towering over the crowd, and some slick-haired Hollywood type who looked like he'd stepped out of a cologne ad. Charlie recognized them all from the novel—Summer's harem of suitors, each destined to clash with the original Charlie in increasingly stupid ways. In the book, he'd have tripped over himself to join that circus, showering Summer with compliments and vowing to outshine the others. The result? Drama, debt, and a one-way ticket to Loserville.
"Not tonight," Charlie muttered under his breath, sipping his bourbon. The burn steadied him. He'd already texted his assistant, Carla, to scrub any Summer-related plans from his schedule. Step one: Ghost the heroine. Step two: Pivot to Lindsay Vaughn, the so-called villainess who deserved better than the book's lazy smear campaign. He scanned the crowd again, locking onto her.
Lindsay stood alone near a display of ancient Greek statues, her emerald dress a stark contrast to the room's ostentatious reds and golds. She held a glass of red wine, her posture relaxed but alert, like a chess player waiting for her opponent's next move. Her dark hair was swept into a low bun, a few strands framing her sharp cheekbones. Those green eyes—piercing, analytical—darted across the room, taking in everything. In Empire of Hearts, she was written as a cartoonish schemer, sabotaging Summer out of "jealousy." But Charlie knew the truth: Lindsay was a survivor, orphaned at sixteen, who'd clawed her way to the top of Silicon Valley's tech scene with nothing but grit and a brilliant mind for AI. The book had done her dirty, and he was here to fix that.
He straightened his tuxedo jacket, smoothed his tie, and approached, weaving through clusters of socialites. His heart thumped—not nerves, exactly, but the thrill of going off-script. "Ms. Vaughn?" he said, offering a smile that was half-genuine, half-calculated charm. "Charlie Lawson. Pleasure to meet you."
Lindsay's eyes flicked up, sizing him up in a millisecond. "Mr. Lawson," she replied, her voice cool but not unfriendly. "I've heard of your family. Wall Street royalty, right? What brings you my way?" Her tone carried a hint of skepticism, like she was used to fending off opportunists.
Charlie leaned casually against the bar, keeping his body language open. "Business, mostly. And maybe a bit of admiration for your work in AI ethics. That paper you published last year on neural network transparency? Game-changer. Blew my mind."
That caught her off guard. Her lips twitched, almost a smile. "You read my paper?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Most people here would rather talk stock prices or yacht parties."
"I'm not most people," Charlie said, meeting her gaze. "Your work's got potential to shift how we handle data privacy. Lawson Investments is looking to diversify, and I think Vaughn Tech could be a smart move. Plus, I'm allergic to boring small talk."
Lindsay's smirk grew, a crack in her icy facade. "Intriguing. You're not what I expected, Lawson." She took a sip of wine, studying him. "So, what's your angle? You want a piece of my company, or is this just a networking stunt?"
Charlie chuckled, liking her directness. "No stunt. I'm pitching a partnership, not a takeover. Your AI could complement our financial models—better risk assessment, fraud detection, you name it. I've got ideas, but I'd rather hear yours."
She tilted her head, considering. "Bold move, coming to me instead of the usual suspects." Her eyes flicked toward Summer's entourage, a subtle jab. "Most guys here are too busy chasing… other priorities."
Charlie caught the dig and grinned. "Yeah, well, I'm not big on chasing dead ends." He lowered his voice, conspiratorial. "Let's just say I'd rather bet on someone who's building something real."
For a moment, Lindsay's guard dropped, her expression softening. "Careful, Lawson. Flattery might get you a meeting, but I don't trust easily."
"Good," Charlie shot back. "You shouldn't. But I'm betting we can make something work. Coffee tomorrow? Somewhere less…" He gestured at the glittering chaos around them. "This."
Lindsay's lips curled into a full smile now, sharp and a little dangerous. "You've got my attention. Lead the way."
Before Charlie could respond, a saccharine voice cut through the air. "Mr. Lawson! Oh my gosh, I've been dying to meet you!" Summer Quinn glided toward them, her red dress trailing like a warning flag. Her posse trailed behind, eyeing Charlie like hawks. Up close, she was every bit the novel's perfect heroine: flawless skin, doe eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. But Charlie saw the calculation behind it—the way she angled her body for maximum attention, the practiced tilt of her head.
"Summer Quinn," she said, extending a manicured hand. "I've heard so much about you. Your family's empire is, like, legendary." Her voice dripped with honey, and the novel's script echoed in Charlie's head: This was the moment he was supposed to fall for her, to stammer and offer her a drink, maybe invite her to his family's Hamptons estate.
Instead, he gave her hand a brief shake, polite but detached. "Nice to meet you, Miss Quinn. But I'm in the middle of a conversation here." He nodded toward Lindsay, who watched the exchange with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
Summer's smile faltered, just for a split second. "Oh, of course! I didn't mean to interrupt." She laughed, a tinkling sound that felt rehearsed. "I just thought, since we're both young and ambitious, we could… connect. Maybe over dinner sometime?"
Charlie felt the book's pull—like an invisible force nudging him to say yes, to follow the plot. But he'd read enough isekai manga to know better than to trust narrative inertia. "Appreciate the offer," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "But I'm swamped with work. Maybe some other time." He turned back to Lindsay, deliberately shutting Summer out. "So, about that coffee—SoHo, maybe? There's a spot with killer espresso."
Lindsay's eyes sparkled with something like approval. "I know the one. Nine AM work for you?"
"Perfect," Charlie said, ignoring the faint huff from Summer behind him. He could feel her staring daggers, but he didn't care. Step one—ghost the heroine—was a success.
Summer lingered a moment longer, clearly unused to being brushed off. "Well, I'll let you two get back to… whatever this is," she said, her voice laced with just enough venom to stay polite. She spun on her heel, her entourage following like loyal dogs. Charlie caught the basketball player muttering something about "Lawson's loss" as they retreated.
"Wow," Lindsay said, her tone dry. "You just blew off Summer Quinn. That's a first."
Charlie shrugged, sipping his bourbon to hide his grin. "She'll survive. I'm more interested in people who don't need a spotlight to shine."
Lindsay raised her glass in a mock toast. "To bad decisions, then. Yours and mine."
They clinked glasses, and Charlie felt a rush of adrenaline. This was it—the first real deviation from the plot. In the novel, he'd have been halfway to proposing to Summer by now, setting himself up for ruin. Instead, he was here, vibing with the one character who actually had depth. But a nagging thought lingered: The book's world didn't like being messed with. Summer's quick irritation was a warning sign. If he kept this up, the plot might fight back—glitches, contrived coincidences, or worse.
As the gala wore on, Charlie and Lindsay moved to a quieter corner, talking tech and strategy. She was sharp, throwing out ideas about AI-driven investing that meshed perfectly with his real-world knowledge. For the first time since waking up in this bizarre reality, Charlie felt like he was in control. But across the room, Summer's eyes kept drifting his way, her smile now a calculated mask. Her suitors whispered among themselves, and Charlie caught fragments of their words: "Lawson… Vaughn… trouble."
He ignored them, focusing on Lindsay's laugh—a rare, genuine sound that made the whole gala feel less suffocating. But deep down, he knew: This was just the opening act. The real fight—against Summer, her allies, and the very rules of this world—was coming.