After my elder sister died, I finally became the mistress of the Marquis’s household, just as I’d wished.
After ten years of scheming, my husband finally ascended the throne, only for me to drink the poisoned wine he handed me himself.
When I opened my eyes again, I was fifteen. My younger half-sister, the one who used to weave flower garlands for me, was sweetly calling me “Sister.”
This time, I smiled and handed her rouge laced with poison. “You try it first, little sister.”
She was overjoyed. I watched coldly.
But why did the cold-faced general I’d avoided at all costs in my previous life keep “happening” to pass by whenever I disciplined my half-sister?
He even leaned close and asked, “Need help getting rid of the body?”
