CHAPTER 434: CHAPTER 434: REASSIGN

Harmony Mall glowed like a palace of glass and chrome, its lights reflecting in slick ribbons across the polished floors.

Eleanor walked with unhurried elegance, her heels tapping a confident rhythm that echoed down the corridor.

Mateo trailed behind her.

Eleanor stopped at the entrance of a luxury bag boutique.

The interior was a quiet kingdom of velvet displays and spotlit shelves, each handbag perched like a prize.

She glided inside, gaze drifting from one piece to another, and her lips tilted with a private smile.

In the original "wife-chasing" arc, Mateo bought anything I glanced at. One look and... poof... paid in full.

’Let’s see if the script still obeys me.’

She "accidentally" lingered on a structured leather tote.

Then, as if bored, she looked away. She peeked at a second bag, a luminous taupe satchel, and then at a third, a limited edition crossbody with a rare finish. Each time she drifted on, as though indifferent.

Mateo watched with growing dread. His soul practically rattled in his bones when he spotted the price tag on the tote: $5,000.

That was nearly a tenth of his entire monthly allowance.

’How am I supposed to survive the month if I buy that?’ His stomach twisted.

But the panic wrestled with another thought: ’Eleanor is from a wealthy family. If I invest a little in her now, I’ll reap the returns later. That’s how this works, right?’

He straightened, marched to the saleswoman, and pointed. "That one. I’ll take it."

The saleswoman’s smile widened professionally. She lifted the glass with a practiced flourish, set the bag on velvet, and began a patient, silken spiel about artisanal stitching and hand-dyed leather. Mateo waved her off, eager and flushed.

"She’s my girlfriend," he announced, jerking his chin toward Eleanor. "Please pack it and give it to her."

The saleswoman glanced at Eleanor... elegant posture, expensive perfume, a face that said I don’t chase anything; things chase me and nodded, immediately understanding the dynamic.

"Of course," she said, and subtly signaled for her colleague to bring out more pieces.

Eleanor watched out of the corner of her eye as the bag disappeared into tissue paper.

She smirked internally. Good.

She drifted to another display. A crocodile-embossed piece with a tiny, inlaid clasp caught her eye $10,000.

She glanced, then moved on. Another bag gleamed like a slick pool of night, $20,000. One more... rare, collector-grade... sat serenely with a $40,000 tag.

Mateo felt his heart hemorrhaging cash. He hesitated, swallowed, and did the math of his ruin.

’Ten thousand more... I could maybe stretch to that. Not twenty, definitely not forty.’

He steeled himself and bought the $10,000 one, managing a smile that looked more like a grimace.

He handed over his card with a bravery that would have impressed anyone who didn’t know the remaining balance in his account.

The saleswoman, however, had been born for the battlefield of luxury sales.

She leaned in, voice a whisper threaded with persuasion.

"Sir, she also looked at those two," she said, gesturing to the $20,000 and the $40,000 showpieces. "They’d complement what you’ve chosen perfectly."

Mateo’s jaw tightened. "I know my girlfriend," he said with a tight laugh. "She... she wasn’t interested."

The saleswoman blinked, expression politely perplexed. "But she did look," she murmured, puzzled.

She wasn’t wrong. Eleanor had looked.

But Mateo wasn’t refusing out of ignorance... he was refusing out of poverty.

He wanted to shout it: ’I saw! I saw her look! I just can’t afford it!’

Instead, he nodded, felt shame crawl up his neck, and, against his better judgment and maybe against sanity, bought both bags too.

When the transaction went through, Mateo stared at the number on the terminal as if it might sprout claws and drag him into the abyss.

He had the ridiculous impulse to cry. Instead, he inhaled slowly, took the stack of branded bags, and forced his mouth into something like composure.

Eleanor drifted out of the store with an air of satisfied calm.

’At least he’s useful,’ she thought, amused. ’If the supposed "male lead" can’t afford to spend money on his female leads, I’d ask the system for a full replacement.’

They crossed into a jewelry boutique next, sleek counters, lit from within. Diamonds lay on velvet like stars.

Eleanor paused before a tray of intricate pieces and gave subtle looks. This time, Mateo pretended not to see.

’Too subtle?’ Eleanor wondered. She decided to be merciful and leaned forward.

"Could you show me these?" she asked the saleswoman. "And these. And...oh, that set as well."

The saleswoman glanced at Mateo’s armload of luxury bags and instantly dialed up her enthusiasm.

Trays appeared. Rings glittered. A necklace caught Eleanor’s eye like a sliver of moonlight... delicate, breathtaking, and ruinously priced. She looked, she weighed, she tested the hang at her collarbone. Then she waited.

Mateo was sweating bullets. Every item she admired hovered between $20,000 and $30,000.

’If she wants all this, I’m done for. I’ll be taking the bus home for the next decade.’

But Eleanor’s eyes had that familiar shine, the one that told him she expected a grand gesture.

He swallowed, squared his shoulders, and approached the saleswoman.

"Pack... everything," he said, sounding like a martyr. "I’ll pay."

Eleanor turned instantly, voice soft and perfectly contradictory. "I don’t want your gifts."

Her lips, however, betrayed her with the tiniest upward curve.

The saleswoman’s smile dazzled. She began to gather the pieces until Mateo seized the escape route thrown at him like a life raft.

"Oh, she doesn’t want them? Then I won’t... yes, I won’t buy after all."

He retreated a step, inwardly grateful and outwardly relieved.

’Bless you, common sense, Eleanor. You saved me from bankruptcy.’ He nodded to himself. ’See? She’s not unreasonable.’

Both Eleanor and the saleswoman froze.

He stopped? Mid-gesture? Eleanor’s jaw tightened.

In what universe did a "wife-chasing" male lead take "I don’t want it" at face value? Had he read no romance scripts? Was this his first day as a cliché?

The saleswoman’s eyes flickered with sympathy for Eleanor.

Eleanor set the necklace down with careful dignity and stood. When she spoke, her voice was cool.

"I’ll buy everything myself," she said. "I don’t need a man to purchase my gifts. Especially not a man whose heart belongs elsewhere. I refuse anything from him."

Mateo flinched. The words landed sharp, true. He realized, a beat too late, how thoughtless his retreat had looked. Guilt ghosted across his features.

"I’ll buy them," he blurted to the saleswoman. "All of them."

But Eleanor held up a hand. "No. I said I’ll pay."

A silence settled. Then Mateo, mind lashing around for something, anything, to win back control, turned to her and said the one sentence that detonated the room.

"Eleanor, you can’t afford it," he announced. "You are from a poor background."

The world went very still.

Eleanor stared at him, stunned. The saleswoman’s expression shifted... admiration cooling into faint disdain.

A second ago, she had assumed Eleanor was a refined woman courted by a rich, clumsy boyfriend.

Now a different picture formed: gold digger. Pretender. She wanted him to buy it because she couldn’t.

Eleanor’s cheeks burned, not with shame, but with a rage so bright it steadied her.

She closed her eyes for a heartbeat.

’He revealed my background just to save a few dollars.’

The humiliation wasn’t that he called her poor...it was that he stripped away her privacy in public, weaponizing it to dodge a bill.

She turned on her heel and walked out without a word.

"Sir, should I hold these aside?" the saleswoman asked Mateo, half out of habit, half out of hope.

Mateo glanced at the jewel cases, then at Eleanor’s retreating figure, and shook his head.

"It seems my girlfriend doesn’t want them," he said, voice thin. Then he fled the counter, terrified the saleswoman might ring up the sale anyway.

"Unbelievable," the saleswoman muttered, turning to tidy the pieces, mouth twisted in a frown. "If they don’t intend to buy, why stage a performance?"

Eleanor’s steps were clipped and furious as she cut through the crowd to the parking lot.

She reached her car, yanked open the door, and sat, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles whitened. Her breath trembled.

"How could that bastard expose my background in public?" she hissed. "Are you seeing this, system? Is your male lead out of his mind?"

The system, for once, did not argue. Its voice was quiet, almost chastened.

[His behavior was unacceptable. Publicly exposing a future partner’s vulnerability is... immature. If I didn’t know the context, I might assume he was acting out of spite.]

"Might?" Eleanor pressed her fingers to her temple, the beginnings of a headache curling behind her eyes. "Listen carefully: I don’t want this male lead. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever."

A long pause.

Then the system spoke again, carefully.

[I have submitted an appeal to the admin. The admin agrees that Mateo’s suitability as a male lead is questionable. A conditional change is being considered. If Mateo disappoints you three more times, clearly and demonstrably, the male lead will be reassigned to Theodore.]