My best friend and I ended up inside the same novel.
She was the scheming second male lead’s hopeless admirer.
I was the obsessive villain’s substitute lover.
In public, we pined for men who didn’t love us.
In private, we spent their money like there was no tomorrow.
After three years of living it up, the heroine—the woman they supposedly truly loved—came back.
Once we learned that both men would lose their minds over her, my best friend packed a little bag and knocked on my door late at night.
“I’ve saved enough.
Have you?”
“Not quite,” I said.
“But I can spend yours.”
So we faked our deaths and ran away together.
Three years later, she had the misfortune to run into her ex-husband.
“I’ll cover for you!”
I told her.
“Run!”
Then I turned around and walked straight into a solid chest.
The obsessive villain calmly undid his tie and bound my hands.
“Try getting away yourself first.”
