NTR: The live-in-husband gets a perverted heart system

The System’s interface appeared the moment Sienna’s footsteps fully disappeared outside, halting Tom’s miserable thoughts and longing for what had never been his.

```

[PRIMARY MISSION – HAREM INITIATION]

Stella Marchetti is now your first official target.

Lose your virginity to her.

She must be the one to take it.

[DEADLINE: 24 hours]

[REWARD: One luxury car of Host’s choice]

[FAILURE: $50,000 debt with $5,000 hourly interest]

```

Tom stared at the glowing text, the words sinking in slowly. Losing his virgin within 24 hours was already a big thing but to who? That would be another extra trouble.

"Stella Marchetti?" he said aloud.

"The actress? Why her first? Davina would be easier. I already have her number. She is already interested."

[Incorrect assessment.] The System’s voice was calm, almost casual. Tom furrowed his brows.

Then to help him out of his confusion, the system continued explaining;

[Stella Marchetti was the one behind the hotel. She arranged the car, the suite, the women, and the cameras. She watched every second of your reactions. That is why she is first. The groundwork is already done. Conquering her will be faster than starting from zero with anyone else.]

Tom’s blood ran cold.

He sat completely still as the information landed and he processed it slowly - so it was Stella Marchetti that was behind the disguised delivery and everything that had come after it. The way everything had stopped the moment he started giving orders. All of it had been her.

"She... watched me?" His voice came out quieter than he intended.

[Correct. From her phone. In real time.] The system decided to be dramatic with its response.

A short, disbelieving breath left him. Heat crawled up his neck at the memory of what she had seen - his cock hard, his mouth on another woman’s breast, the filthy orders he had given while cuffed to a chair. She had organised the entire thing and then sat back to study him.

Tom dragged both hands down his face as he remembered something.

"I dismissed her PA," he muttered. "She was downstairs waiting and I closed the door in her face."

"How do I reach her now?"

[Host cannot change the past. Host can only act now. Twenty-four hours is the deadline and time is ticking down already.]

[Think of a way. Get to work]

Tom exhaled then picked up his phone. That reward wasn’t something he could give up. A luxury car? Even if he wanted to endure the penalty, that luxury car of his choice wasn’t something he could play with.

"Okay, let me check Instagram... She should be accessible there." He muttered, opening the app.

His account on the app was there, just occupying space and packing dust.

Finding a way to reach her was harder than he expected. Official website. Managed social media. Agency contact forms that required credentials he didn’t have. Fan pages that led nowhere useful. He was checking everything and everywhere.

Sweat gathered at the back of his neck as the minutes stretched. Every polished barrier felt designed to keep people like him out.

After nearly fifty minutes he finally found a public Gmail address listed under her management for "serious professional inquiries."

"Well, my virginity is a serious deal too..."

"Though, can’t say if it’s professional." Tom mumbled under his breath.

[Host, please! Get to work.] The system chimed in. Tom grunted but didn’t protest. He actually got to work. Literally.

He opened a new email and tried himself first.

Subject: Meeting request

Miss Marchetti,

My name is Tom Harlow. I believe we have a mutual connection through Sienna Kensington. I would like to speak with you privately if possible. As soon as possible, please.

[Host. What’s that?]

"An email obviously..." Tom pointed out with furrowed brows.

[Not appropriate. Definitely not.]

[Delete it. Try again. Be direct.] The system maintained firmly.

Tom deleted it though his jaw was tight, and tried again. This time he forced himself to be more direct.

Subject: About the other day

Miss Marchetti,

This is Tom Harlow. I think you know who I am. We should talk.

[Still no. That message contains nothing that would make her stop scrolling. She has already seen you at your most exposed. A bland request will be ignored.]

Tom’s ears burned. "Then what am I supposed to write?"

[Something that matches the situation. Must I teach you everything?] The system paused then after a moment, it added;

[Well, I’m willing to help.]

Immediately after, the new window opened beside the empty draft. Lines appeared one after another - sharper, more provocative, and far more dangerous than anything Tom would have risked on his own. He read them twice, his face hot, then slowly transferred the words into the email, changing only a few phrases until they felt like they could have come from his own mouth.

The final version sat on the screen:

**Subject:** You already watched the whole show

Miss Marchetti,

You went through the trouble of sending a car, locking me in a suite, and having two women grind on me while you watched from your phone. Then you had me dropped back home like the performance was over.

If you wanted a better seat, you should have come upstairs when your PA knocked on my door.

I’m free now.

You already know what I look like when I’m hard and restrained.

If you want to see what I’m like when I’m not, you know how to reach me.

-Tom Harlow

Tom’s thumb hovered over the send button. His heart slammed against his ribs. The words were bolder than anything he had ever put in writing. Part of him wanted to delete the entire thing and go back to the safe version.

[Send it, Host. The deadline is already running or you would rather face the consequences of failing the mission?.] The system urged him sharply.

He exhaled once, sharp and controlled, he couldn’t bear that penalty. He would rather try everything to reach Stella Marchetti.

He didn’t think anymore, he hit send.

The email left his outbox with a soft whoosh.

Tom set the phone down on the table and leaned back. His palms were damp. Somewhere across the city the message was already sitting in an inbox connected to Stella Marchetti. Whether she opened it, whether she recognised the name, whether she decided to answer...

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