When I transmigrated into the role of the true heiress, a universally disliked person, the story had already reached its end.
The fake heiress, doted on by all, had won everyone’s affection, leaving me to be cast out onto the streets. Destitute and adrift, I still clutched a half-eaten meat bun made from lymph node meat in my hand.
Such a miserable script gave me not a shred of will to live.
I lifted my head to look at the clear blue sky, my expression serene and relaxed. I was fully prepared to give up, contemplating whether to follow the original owner into the afterlife and elegantly choosing between a car crash or jumping off a building as the more dignified demise.
Just then, a passing gang of robbers dragged me into a car.
They pressed sharp knives to my throat, grinning ferociously:
“Don’t move! This is a robbery! Call your family right now and have them send five million in ransom.”
“If you dare make a sound, I’ll send you straight to hell!”
As expected, heaven has its own plans.
I nodded contentedly with a smile, tossed the bun aside, and screamed at the top of my lungs:
“Help!”
