It starts with a spreadsheet. It always starts with a spreadsheet. Thousands of tiny, obedient numbers marching in perfect little rows, doing what they’re told. That’s how it’s supposed to be. But somewhere in column E, row 347, there’s a rebellion. A rogue figure, slightly off, wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, whistles nonchalantly as it slips out the back door of the balance sheet.

At first, it’s just a rounding error. A “clerical oversight.” But errors don’t buy designer heels and velvet chokers. Errors don’t post photos on Instagram captioned ‘A gift from my favourite little paypig’.

The financial advisor—let’s not name him, because you can already picture him—expensive suit, nervous smile, a man whose entire personality could be described as a “mid-level LinkedIn post”—is sweating. Proper sweating. Not just his forehead glistening, but full Niagara Falls pouring down his back.

Because one of his clients, an elderly billionaire who looks like he’s been carved out of antique mahogany, has noticed. Just a question, really: “Why does my quarterly report have a footnote about ‘miscellaneous wire transfers’ to someone called Goddess Lila?”

Now, Goddess Lila isn’t unreasonable. She’s not cruel. Well, she is cruel, but not in a wasteful way. When the advisor begs her to ease up on the tributes—just for a month, just until things stabilise—she smiles. It’s a smile that should come with a warning label.

“Oh darling,” she purrs, scrolling through her phone, “you didn’t think this was optional, did you?”

And just like that, the spreadsheets become his enemy. Every client is a ticking time bomb. Every board meeting is an interrogation room. He starts double-checking his work at midnight, hunched over his laptop in boxer shorts, whispering apologies to pie charts.

But Lila doesn’t stop. The photos keep coming. The demands keep escalating. And one night, as he’s drafting yet another frantic email promising ‘just one more week, please’, she sends a voice note.

“Listen carefully,” she says, her voice silk-wrapped steel. “I know. I know where the money’s coming from. I know what you’ve done. And you’re going to send me every last penny you have—or I’ll make sure your clients know too.”

He stares at his screen. His inbox is full of unread messages with subject lines like ‘Urgent: Financial Irregularities’ and ‘Need Clarification ASAP’. His phone buzzes with another notification: Goddess Lila just posted a new photo.

It’s her, wearing a necklace he paid for, in a penthouse suite he’ll never step foot in. The caption reads: ‘Know your place. Or lose it all.’

And just like that, the rebellion in column E, row 347, turns into a full-scale coup.

The email arrives at dawn. Subject: “Your clients deserve the truth, don’t you think?” Attached: every transfer, every falsified document, every damning detail.

By noon, he’s out—escorted from his office, cardboard box in hand. The billionaire client doesn’t speak; he doesn’t need to. The headlines follow soon after. Fraud. Embezzlement. Ruin.

But Goddess Lila isn’t done with him.

Weeks later, he gets a message: “I’m not finished with you yet. You’ll keep paying. You’ll always keep paying.”

And he does. With the scraps left from selling his car, his suits, his watch. Each payment is followed by silence.

In the end, he’s in a crumbling bedsit, staring at her latest demand on his cracked phone screen. No way out. No forgiveness. Just the endless, unshakable weight of her voice in his head:

“Good boy. Now, send more.”

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