Reborn as the capitalist young miss in a period drama? And still the cannon-fodder sickly girl?
Vivian Hartwell skimmed the plotline and laughed.
Golden finger snatched by her stepsister, innocence ruined after being sent down, dying miserably in a foreign land—she knew this script by heart.
But sorry, she’d already bonded the spatial pocket first; when others came to confiscate, she emptied the house in one move.
Someone tried to poison her? She fainted on cue.
Her stepsister thought she’d seized the upper hand and reached for Vivian's golden finger only to fish around and come up empty.
“Where’s your golden finger?”
“Locked it.”
“Your family fortune?”
“Donated it.”
“How...how can you still smile?!”
Sprawled on a soft mat, crunching an apple, Vivian blinked. “I'm smiling because you’re running yourself ragged while I—”
She tilted her head toward the window. Beyond the cowshed, a lean man with striking presence was looking straight at her.
“I'm planning to start a romance with my untouchable flower. I'm done playing with you.”
