After I Transmigrate Into a Book, I Wait Every Day for My Husband to Poison Me

The moment I open my eyes, I find myself the wicked heroine in a melodramatic tragedy, walking in on the male lead and his first love kissing passionately. According to the script, I’m supposed to scream and throw a fit. No way! I instantly become the head of the cheering squad, clapping and shouting, “That’s a great kiss! You’re perfect together! One more!” No unrequited love, no mad jealousy. None of that! I just want to die in the most creative ways, hitting every one of the male lead’s sore spots and dancing all over his limits. Why am I trying so hard? I just want him to get so fed up that he hands me a cup of poison! But not only do I fail to die, I also discover that the male lead’s gaze has shifted from disgust to curiosity, and even a little hurt. He grips my chin, his voice dangerous. “Do you want to die that badly? Do you want to leave me that much?” Help! That’s not what the script says!