"Evangeline Ashworth! I’m telling you plain and simple—this marriage is happening whether you want it or not!"

"The thirty yuan from the Holloway family and the twenty jin of coarse grain coupons are already in my pocket! You dare stir up trouble, and I’ll break your legs, you hear me?"

That shrill voice drilled straight into Evangeline’s skull and made it ring.

She struggled to force her eyes open, still not understanding what was going on, when a hard slap landed square across her cheek.

"You little money-losing wretch! I’m talking to you, so why are you pretending you’re deaf?!"

Evangeline was completely stunned.

Wasn’t she just in her own seaside villa a moment ago, sipping champagne while checking the latest supermarket delivery?

How had she, in the blink of an eye, ended up in a hellhole like this?

Mud-plastered walls, a battered wooden window, and under the dim yellow glow of a kerosene lamp stood a middle-aged woman with high cheekbones and a mean, pinched face, hands on her hips, nearly spitting in Evangeline’s face as she yelled.

Then a flood of unfamiliar memories came crashing into her head like a burst dam, hurting so bad she nearly threw up.

She had transmigrated into a book.

And not just any role—she had become the cannon-fodder side character in a period novel, a girl with the exact same name as her.

A miserable soul worked like an ox by the whole family, sold off like goods by her own parents, and in the end beaten to death by her no-good thug of a husband.

And that furious middle-aged woman glaring at her right now was the original owner’s own mother, Harriet Caldwell.

"Mom, lower your voice a little. Don’t scare my sister."

A syrupy voice floated in from outside. A young woman in a floral indeedacron blouse walked in, looping herself around Harriet Caldwell’s arm like she was being affectionate, but her eyes glittered with naked amusement as they flicked toward Evangeline on the bed.

So this was that dear little sister of hers—Cordelia Ashworth.

And, at the same time, the heroine of the novel. A first-rate white lotus. She had stepped on her own sister’s life to take her sister’s place at college, and later married a high-ranking official, turning herself into somebody far above everybody else.

"Scare her? I’d rather shut her up for good!"

Harriet Caldwell was still fuming. She jabbed a finger at Evangeline and snapped, "Marrying her off to Victor Holloway in the next village—that’s a blessing she ought to thank heaven for!"

"Victor Holloway may be a bit lazy, sure, but his family lives in a brick house with a tiled roof! A useless girl like you, who can't even do proper work, still thinks she gets to be picky?"

Victor Holloway?

Evangeline Ashworth felt her head explode with a buzz.

That man was the village's known scoundrel. He loafed around all day, never did honest work, and was good at every dirty trick there was—stealing, cheating, sneaking about. He drank too, and once he got drunk, he'd smash things and beat his wife. Everyone knew his first wife had died under his fists.

Harriet Caldwell was plainly trying to send her to her death.

"I'm not marrying him!"

Evangeline's throat was raw, but every word came out sharp and clear.

She stared straight at Harriet Caldwell. The cold look in her eyes was so fierce that even this woman, who was usually loud and rough with everyone, felt a chill run down her spine.

"Y-you dead girl, how dare you talk back?" Harriet Caldwell finally snapped out of it and stamped her foot in anger. "We've already taken the bride price! The grain's already been poured into our jar! You think you can just say you're not marrying and that's that? Since when is that your call?

"I'm telling you, Evangeline Ashworth, tomorrow Victor Holloway is coming to fetch you. Whether you agree or not, you're going. If I have to tie you up and send you there, I will!"

"Whoever took the money can marry him herself!" Evangeline pushed herself upright and sat up, looking coldly at these so-called family members in front of her. "Either you go, or send Cordelia Ashworth."

The man who had stayed silent the whole time, crouched by the wall and smoking dry tobacco—Reginald Ashworth, the original girl's father—finally spoke in a dull voice. "Evangeline, how can you talk to your mother like that? We're doing this for your own good."

"For my own good?" Evangeline almost laughed from sheer anger. "Sending me into a house with a man whose name stinks all over the village—that's for my own good?"