In the small Buddha hall of the Yongxin Marquis Manor, candlelight wavered, throwing flickering shadows across the memorial tablet on the shrine.

The tablet read: Lady of the Yongxin Marquis, Lady Chuchu of the Shen clan.

Frostine Whitmore knelt on the prayer mat. Under her plain robes, her skin was as pale as paper, drained of all color. Yet on her beautiful cheeks, two faint, unnatural patches of red burned—she was clearly running a fever.

Still, she kept her back straight, kneeling without a tremor, quietly staring at her cousin’s memorial tablet. Her eyes were dull, her vision gradually blurring.

Then, out of nowhere, a line of golden text drifted across her sight.

[What the—? Isn’t this the script I burned ages ago? How did they even turn it into a drama? And who’s this actress? She took this kind of messed‑up role? Are they forcing this fairy to become a professional hater in the bullet comments?]

Frostine froze. A hallucination?

She blinked hard, but another line floated past.

[Yeah, I know the plot, but it still makes my heart hurt. Why is she so clueless? She’s sick from taking care of her stepson and still kneeling? Is she trying to torture herself? But this actress’s looks and acting—wow, perfect for the character.]

This time, Frostine was truly stunned, staring wide‑eyed.

She reached out in disbelief, but her fingers passed straight through the golden words.

A tremor of fear rippled through her chest. Had she gone mad? Or was she witnessing some divine sign?

Or… was she simply collapsing under the pressure of being the Marquis’s second wife and trapped in some bizarre dream?

But if it was a dream, it felt much too real.

[Why are her eyes glazing over? Oh—right. She’s about to faint. How original. So dramatic. Just another excuse to torment the heroine.]

Frostine thought weakly that she really might faint—and maybe if she did, everything would reset to normal.

[Don’t you dare faint! That scumbag is about to walk in and ask, “Do you know your mistake?” If you pass out now, you won’t get a chance to figure out why you’re being punished!]

Scum… scumbag? Was that referring to the Marquis?

Figure out the reason? Yes—she still had no idea why the Old Madam had sent her to kneel here again.

Though moments like this had long become routine in her past three years of life…

"If you wait until you wake up and ask again, and the reason they give is just ‘you chopped a tree,’ you’ll be furious."

Frostine Whitmore shuddered all over. Because of… a tree?!

But that tree…

"By the time you explain you had no idea it was planted by your cousin with her own hands, they still won’t admit they wronged you."

Frostine sucked in a tight breath, lips trembling uncontrollably.

At last, she understood why she’d suddenly been punished.

"Ugh, just thinking of this plot makes me mad. Frostine, hold on!"

"If you faint now and wait days before clearing things up, they’ll only say you won’t let it go, that you’re petty!"

"Damn it! They’re clearly the ones at fault! How do they have the nerve to act like you’re the unreasonable one for bringing it up again?!"

A cold heaviness pressed through Frostine’s heart; she could picture the scene too easily.

Her fingers curled tight, nails digging harshly into her palms.

The pain barely held her drifting mind together.

Suddenly, with a soft creak, the door was pushed open.

"Huh? Made it in time?"

Frostine jolted and snapped her head around.

A tall, straight figure stood against the dying light, the warm orange glow sliding over his dark hair and broad shoulders without softening the chill around him.

Her husband. Once her cousin’s husband. The Yongxin Marquis, Xavier Ashford.

"Ugh, this scumbag! Sure enough, a good-looking face on rotten bones!"

She couldn’t understand the exact words, but she could feel those golden lines radiating pure disgust for Xavier.

Just like that, the heaviness in her chest twisted into something completely different.

Xavier Ashford strode over, stopping right in front of Frostine Whitmore, looking down at her from above.

“Frostine Whitmore, do you admit your fault?”

His voice was as cold as winter water, every word clipped and distant. Whenever he spoke to her, it was always the same tone—scolding, dismissive, dripping with impatience and superiority.

Frostine felt her gaze shatter bit by bit, her breath tightening as though someone were pressing hard against her chest.

It was exactly the same as those golden words.

Seeing her remain silent, Xavier assumed she was putting on a temper. His expression grew darker.

“I thought you were sensible. Keep kneeling until you remember your place.”

With that, he turned away without a moment’s pause.

[Ughhhh, “sensible” your foot! What place? She's the poor woman you people shoved into that so‑called ‘secondary wife’ position!]

The line flashed before Frostine’s eyes, snapping her back to herself. Something in her gaze dimmed and hardened.

“My lord, what fault has this concubine committed? Please, enlighten me.”

Her voice, normally soft and light, came out roughened from hours of kneeling.

Xavier halted. He spun around, irritation flaring in his cold eyes—only to find that at some point, Frostine had already risen to her feet.

Her features were still breathtaking, but now coated with a thin layer of frost—an expression rarely seen in the marquis’s household, one that shouted her anger loud and clear.

Anger? She dared to be angry?

“You feel wronged?” Xavier looked genuinely stunned.

Before, whenever he used that tone, Frostine would shrink in on herself, wishing she could vanish on the spot.

But now, she stood perfectly still, unmoving, watching the excited golden words drift past her vision.

[Yes, question him!]

[Wronged? Of course she’s wronged!]

"Come on, Frostine Whitmore!"

As if someone had lit a fire under her, Frostine stared straight at Xavier Ashford.

"Please speak clearly."

Her sudden stubbornness was so unfamiliar that Xavier’s brows tightened. "The willow trees Claudia planted for the children… they were the kids’ keepsakes. You shouldn’t have touched them."

So it really was this.

Frostine let out a soft, mocking laugh, her eyes turning cold.

"The Third Young Master fell ill."

Xavier clearly disliked the look she was giving him now.

"Then all the more reason you should be by Jie's side, not chasing after some nonsense rumors outside—"

"Dr. Montgomery said he’s allergic to willow fluff. The source had to be dealt with immediately. I had the tree in his courtyard cut down. How is that wrong?"

Xavier froze for a moment, stunned at being cut off—something she had never done before.

"Yes! That’s it! Finally she’s not swallowing everything in silence! Look at that jerk’s face—serves him right!"

Frostine’s vision wavered, dark spots dancing before her eyes. Still, she forced herself to read the glowing words, the corner of her mouth lifting just a little. A warm surge of gratitude rose in her chest.

She had no idea what this strange thing was—but it was helping her.

"If only she had known the truth earlier… better than wasting her whole life in that house, getting trampled by them. That whole family is trash, picking on the heroine just because they can."

Frostine: What?

Her mind spun with questions she didn’t have time to untangle. Her consciousness slipped away completely, and she collapsed in a fevered faint.

*

In a bright, simple bedroom, Celeste Hartley lay sprawled on her bed, one leg crossed over the other, phone plugged into its charger.

On the screen, Xavier Ashford hurriedly scooped Frostine up in his arms and rushed off, clearly panicked. Celeste curled her lip, utterly unimpressed.

She didn’t need to see that scumbag pretending to be softhearted.

“It really has been changed. This isn’t the same script I read before.”

Celeste Hartley still had no clue who mailed her that script of The Marquis Manor’s Second Wife.

She might not have many roles to film these days, but there was no way she’d ever accept something so twisted and depressing.

The heroine worked herself to the bone for that household.

She never got a single word of thanks—not even after she died.

All she ever received was neglect, disdain, and constant belittling.

Only when she died—when she was gone for good—did everyone suddenly realize how good she’d been to them.

And then, in the comfort of their promoted ranks and wealthy lives, they cried and regretted it all.

The heroine was dead.

But her husband, her mother‑in‑law, her stepchildren?

Oh, they regretted it plenty.

“Ugh! They’re like dung beetles wearing masks—disgusting and shameless!”

Celeste cursed under her breath, but halfway through, something felt off.

She backed out of the video and glanced at her phone screen.

Weird. It was some standalone video app.

When did she even download this?

And just now, she noticed something stranger—

It seemed like she was the only viewer.

The only one sending comments.

Surely she couldn’t be the only audience member… right?

She was still puzzling over it when a knock on the door broke her thoughts.

“Miss Celeste, supper is ready.”

It was Mrs. Chapman calling her downstairs.

Celeste’s good mood from watching the altered plot vanished instantly. Irritation surged up.

“I’m not eating. I’ll eat later by myself.”

She’d just been set up by Josephine Hartley today—why would she force herself to sit at the same table with that family?

“I wish I could be like just now… a comment‑throwing gremlin free of moral restraints, just once, in real life.”

She muttered to herself, then paused.

Why couldn’t she?

She thought of how she had praised Frostine Whitmore just now—

even a drawn character could crack her set persona and stop being a doormat.

So why should she be the one feeling sickened?

Shouldn’t it be the other way around—she ought to be the one giving those annoying people a headache.

Right then, Celeste Hartley suddenly figured it out.

By the doorway, Mrs. Chapman let out a quiet sigh after hearing Celeste’s reply.

She had worked in the Hartley household for years and always felt Miss Celeste was truly pitiful.

A mother gone too early, a father remarried, and the stepmother bringing along a stepdaughter to take root in the Hartley home.

In the end, both father and brother somehow began leaning toward the stepdaughter, forgetting the girl they once spoiled like a treasure. Conflicts just kept piling up between Celeste and the rest of the family.

So not going downstairs today might actually spare her another scolding.

Mrs. Chapman had just reached the staircase when she saw Josephine Hartley walking up in a white dress, her delicate little face full of worry.

“Sister doesn’t want to come down for dinner?”

From downstairs came several impatient voices almost instantly.

Mr. Hartley snapped, “What is she throwing a fit about now?”

Julian Hartley let out a cold laugh. “She lost the movie role to Josephine. Probably sulking.”

Mrs. Chapman’s face stiffened. She was just about to help explain when a door on the second floor suddenly opened.

Then came the soft slap of slippers on the floor—

And strangely enough, the sound was… lighthearted.

Josephine looked up. Celeste appeared, hair carelessly tied in a messy bun, face bare of makeup.

She wore loose home clothes, plain and casual, yet on her stunning figure and that naturally striking face, the outfit somehow looked like something straight off a high-fashion runway.

That effortless advantage in her features made Josephine, with her soft, bland, harmless-little-flower looks, feel a bitter pang of jealousy in her chest.

Josephine forced a gentle smile. “Sister.”

Celeste rolled her eyes without hesitation.

She started down the stairs, walking right past Josephine.

But Josephine just couldn’t hold back. She spoke up deliberately, “Sister, I didn’t mean to take the role from you. If you’re upset, I can withdraw and let you have it. I’m sure Brother Lysander would prefer to work with you anyway.”

Celeste let out a sharp, amused breath, leaning in a little.

“I’m not a straw boat. Don’t try to shoot your arrows into me.”