The day I became the heroine of a wealthy-family melodrama, the System told me I could go home once I’d finished the kidney-removal and blood-vomiting plotline.
I immediately yanked the oxygen tube from the critically ill male lead. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go straight to the finale.”
The next day, the male lead came after me in a wheelchair, while his grandfather, the richest man in the world, waved a DNA report and cried, “My precious granddaughter, you’ve got the comeback script!”
I stared at my bank balance, lost in thought. Is it too late to change the plot now?
