Rosalind Mercer transmigrated into a period novel, becoming the pitiful foil in a contrast setup.
Parents dead, grandparents indifferent, uncle and aunt oppressive—the whole village waited to watch her get trampled into the mud by the female lead.
She glanced at the script. Then she tore it to pieces.
She reclaimed her spiritual spring space, sent her rotten grandparents to the hospital with rage, reported her scumbag uncle for his misdeeds, and snatched every opportunity meant for the female lead.
Along the way, she befriended several future big shots—moving herself from "the foil" straight into "don't mess with" territory.
Almost forgot—she still had a cheap husband: Nathaniel Holt, the military district commander barely mentioned in passing in the book.
Rumor had it this man was notoriously fierce. One word from him could make an entire company cry. Punishment drills could break a platoon's spirit.
On their wedding night, Rosalind Mercer shrank back slightly. "You're so scary..."
The man glanced at her. "You want a divorce?"
She shook her head.
He withdrew his gaze, voice going rough. "With you—I'm only fierce in bed."
