I wake up to find I’ve become the cannon-fodder female supporting character who keeps courting death in a CEO romance.
In the original story, I try to throw acid on the heroine, but the male lead drags me off to prison, where I spend my days operating a sewing machine until sparks fly.
Looking at the ultimate villain before me, his gaze dark and supposedly capable of splitting someone’s skull with his bare hands, I tremble and splash the grape juice I’m pretending is acid all over myself.
I throw myself at his leg and cry, “Big bro! I’m with you from now on! I’ll serve your tea, pour your water, scrub your back, and massage your shoulders. I’ll do it all properly!”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Even if that means spending all my money?”
Later, I diligently carry out my duties as a spendthrift: buying diamonds by the pound, collecting sports cars in every color of the rainbow, and even buying him a little island so he can pick out his grave in advance.
Until one day, he holds up his empty wallet and calls the male lead with a deadpan expression. “Give me half your shares, or I’ll let her show up at your place for meals every day.”
The male lead breaks down on the other end of the phone. “…Keep her in line! Yesterday she said she was going to perform a graveyard dance for me!”
I raise my hand obediently. “Today I want to try drifting in a hearse.”
Both big shots turn dark-faced at once. “…Which one of us are you with?!”
I look to the left, then to the right, and ask sincerely, “Um… could I serve both of you in rotation?”
