The moment she opened her eyes, Clara Whitfield found herself transmigrated into a period novel as the cannon fodder capitalist young lady being leeched dry by her entire family. She arrived right when her scumbag father was packaging her off to be sold as a wife to some greasy man in his thirties.
Her cousin wiped away fake tears: "Sister, he might be a bit older, but he doesn't mind your status..."
She splashed the teacup right back: "If he's so wonderful, why don't you marry him instead?"
The next day, she helped her cousin get that marriage certificate with the greasy man—naturally, the dowry stayed with her.
Her aunt slammed the table cursing her lack of conscience. Clara Whitfield leaned against the doorframe picking her teeth: "Auntie, should I air out that business between you and my father in public?"
Her aunt's face turned green on the spot.
Within a week, her scumbag father went bankrupt, his mistress (her little aunt) left with nothing but the clothes on her back, and their illegitimate daughters were being chased down by debt collectors.
Clara Whitfield dusted off nonexistent dirt from her hands, counted through the neatly stacked gold bars and property deeds in her spatial storage, and set off quite satisfied to find her relatives in the countryside.
A few days later, she pushed open a creaking wooden door and put on an obedient smile: "Grandpa! Your granddaughter has brought you billions in assets to take care of you!"
